Chapter 4
Chorus: Who true bushmen are, Who true bushmen are, So him alone we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are!
When the soldier lies down, his mind is full of thought O’er seeking that promotion which so long he has sought; He fain would gain repose for mortal wound or scar, So him also we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are.
Chorus: Who true bushmen are, &c.
When the sailor lies down, his mind he must prepare To rouse out in a minute if the wind should prove unfair. His voyage may be stopped for the want of a spar, So him also we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are.
Chorus: Who true bushmen are, &c.
When the bushman lies down, his mind is free from care, He knows his stock will furnish him with meat, wear and tear. Should all commerce be ended in the event of a war, Then bread and beef won’t fail us boys, who true bushmen are.
Chorus: Who true bushmen are, &c.
Then fill, fill your glasses, a toast I’ll give you, then, To you who call yourselves true-hearted men. Here’s a health to the soldier and e’en the jolly tar, And may they always meet as good friends as we bushmen are.
Chorus: Who true bushmen are, Who true bushmen are,
And may they always meet as good friends as we bushmen are.
HAWKING
(Air: “Bow, Wow, Wow.”)
Now, shut your mouths, you loafers all, You vex me with your twaddle, You own a nag or big or small, A bridle and a saddle; I you advise at once be wise And waste no time in talking, Procure some bags of damaged rags And make your fortune hawking.
Chorus
Hawk, hawk, hawk. Our bread to win, we’ll all begin To hawk, hawk, hawk.
The stockmen and the bushmen and The shepherds leave the station, And the hardy bullock-punchers throw Aside their occupation;
While some have horses, some have drays, And some on foot are stalking; We surely must conclude it pays When all are going hawking.
Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c.
A life it is so full of bliss ’Twould suit the very niggers, And lads I know a-hawking go Who scarce can make the figures But penmanship’s no requisite, Keep matters square by chalking With pencil or with ruddle, that’s Exact enough for hawking.
Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c.
The hawker’s gay for half the day, While others work he’s spelling, Though he may stay upon the way, His purse is always swelling; With work his back is never bent His hardest toil is talking; Three hundred is the rate per cent. Of profit when a-hawking.
Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c.
Since pedlaring yields more delight Than ever digging gold did, And since to fortune’s envied height The path I have unfolded, We’ll fling our moleskins to the dogs And don tweeds without joking, And honest men as well as rogues We’ll scour the country hawking.
Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c.
COLONIAL EXPERIENCE
[By A New Chum]
(Air: “So Early in the Morning.”)
When first I came to Sydney Cove And up and down the streets did rove, I thought such sights I ne’er did see Since first I learnt my A, B, C.
Chorus
Oh! it’s broiling in the morning, It’s toiling in the morning, It’s broiling in the morning, It’s toiling all day long.
Into the park I took a stroll— I felt just like a buttered roll. A pretty name “The Sunny South!” A better one “The Land of Drouth!”
Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &c.
Next day into the bush I went, On wild adventure I was bent, Dame Nature’s wonders I’d explore, All thought of danger would ignore.
Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &c.
The mosquitoes and bull-dog ants Assailed me even through my pants. It nearly took my breath away To hear the jackass laugh so gay!
Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &c.
This lovely country, I’ve been told, Abounds in silver and in gold. You may pick it up all day, Just as leaves in autumn lay!
Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &c.
Marines will chance this yarn believe, But bluejackets you can’t deceive. Such pretty stories will not fit, Nor can I their truth admit.
Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &c.
Some say there’s lots of work to do. Well, yes, but then, ’twixt me and you, A man may toil and broil all day— The big, fat man gets all the pay,
Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &c.
Mayhap such good things there may be, But you may have them all, for me, Instead of roaming foreign parts I wish I’d studied the Fine Arts!
Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &c.
THE STOCKMEN OF AUSTRALIA
The stockmen of Australia, what rowdy boys are they, They will curse and swear an hurricane if you come in their way. They dash along the forest on black, bay, brown, or grey, And the stockmen of Australia, hard-riding boys are they.
Chorus: And the stockmen, &c.
By constant feats of horsemanship, they procure for us our grub, And supply us with the fattest beef by hard work in the scrub. To muster up the cattle they cease not night nor day, And the stockmen of Australia, hard-riding boys are they.
Chorus: And the stockmen, &c.
Just mark him as he jogs along, his stockwhip on his knee, His white mole pants and polished boots and jaunty cabbage- tree. His horsey-pattern Crimean shirt of colours bright and gay, And the stockmen of Australia, what dressy boys are they.
Chorus: And the stockmen, &c.
If you should chance to lose yourself and drop upon his camp, He’s there reclining on the ground, be it dry or be it damp. He’ll give you hearty welcome, and a stunning pot of tea, For the stockmen of Australia, good-natured boys are they.
Chorus: For the stockmen, &c.
If down to Sydney you should go, and there a stockman meet, Remark the sly looks cast on him as he roams through the street. From the shade of lovely bonnets steal forth those glances gay, For the stockmen of Australia, the ladies’ pets are they.
Chorus: For the stockmen, &c.
Whatever fun is going on, the stockman will be there, Be it theatre or concert, or dance or fancy fair. To join in the amusements be sure he won’t delay, For the stockmen of Australia, light-hearted boys are they.
Chorus: For the stockmen, &c.
Then here’s a health to every lass, and let the toast go round, To as jolly a set of fellows as ever yet were found. And all good luck be with them, for ever and to-day, Here’s to the stockmen of Australia—hip, hip, hooray!
Chorus: Here’s to the stockmen, &c.
IT’S ONLY A WAY HE’S GOT
(As sung by the camp fire.)
No doubt the saying’s all abroad, And rattling through the land. We hear it at the mangle, too, With “What are you going to stand?” I’m sure I don’t know which to choose, There’s really such a lot— But I hope my song you’ll not refuse, For it’s only a way I’ve got.
Chorus: Tol, lol, litter, tol, lol. Tol, lol, the rol, lay.
In Sydney town a gal I met, Her dress was rather gay, I think the place, it was Pitt Street, Or somewhere near that way. Says she, “The night is very cold, Pray, stand a drop of Hot. I hope my freedom you’ll excuse, For it’s only a way I’ve got.”
Chorus: Tol, lol, &c.
The drink we soon put out of sight, And off for home did walk, When a fellow came up and quite polite To her began to talk. He drew my ticker from my fob, And bolted like a shot. Says she, “Oh, take no notice, Bob, It’s only a way he’s got.”
Chorus: Tol, lol, &c.
Says I, “I’ll soon catch you, my chap,” And arter him I flies, When another stepped up and knocked my hat Completely o’er my eyes. He from my pocket drew my purse, And off with it did trot; Says she, “It’s well it is no worse, But it’s only a way he’s got.”
Chorus: Tol, lol, &c.
A little further on we went. I had got rather shy. Then a butcher ran his tray Right bang into my eye. The fellow said it was my fault, Called me a drunken sot. Then, like a thief, he slunk away, ’Twas only a way he’d got!
Chorus: Tol, lol, &c.
Now, as we walked along the street, A lot of chaps we met. I saw they on a game were bent; Says they, “How fat you get!” I got from them some ugly pokes, They made me a regular Scot. They said, “Oh, never mind our jokes, It’s only a way we’ve got!”
Chorus: Tol, lol, &c.
I have grown tired of Sydney town Since I’ve lost all my cash, And so will up the country go, And tell them of my smash. Oh, then we’ll have such lots of fun, I’ll court Miss Polly Scott; And if she asks me what I mean I’ll tell her it’s a way I’ve got.
Chorus: Tol, lol, &c.
THE LOAFERS’ CLUB
A club there is established here, whose name they say is Legion From Melbourne to the Billabong, they’re known in every region. They do not like the cockatoos, but mostly stick to stations, Where they keep themselves from starving by cadging shepherds’ rations.
The rules and regulations, they’re not difficult of learning, They are to live upon the cash which others have been earning. To never let a chance go by of being in a shout, sir, And if they see a slant to turn your pockets inside out, sir.
They’ll cadge your baccy, knife, and pipe, and tell a tale of sorrow Of how they cannot get a job, but mean to start to-morrow. But that to-morrow never comes, until they see quite plainly That it’s completely up the spout with Messrs. Scrase and Ainley.
If, feeling thirsty, you should go to take a little suction, I’ll swear they’ll not be long before they’ll force an introduction. One knew you here, one knew you there, all love you like a brother, And if one plan will not succeed, they’ll quickly try another.
I knew one poor, unhappy wight, having a little ready, Entered a Smeaton public-house, determined to keep steady. A celebrated loafer there determined upon showing him That he once had the pleasure and the privilege of knowing him.
Through hills and dales, by lakes and streams, he close pursued his victim, Until the miserable man confessed that be quite licked him. In vain the quarry tried to turn, pursuit was far too strong, sir, The loafer followed up the scent and earthed him in Geelong, sir.
The noble art of lambing down they know in all its beauty, And if they do not squeeze you dry, they’ll think they’ve failed in duty. But, truth to say, they seldom fail to do that duty neatly, And very few escape their hands who’re not cleared out completely.
THE OLD KEG OF RUM
My name is old Jack Palmer, I’m a man of olden days, And so I wish to sing a song To you of olden praise. To tell of merry friends of old When we were gay and young; How we sat and sang together Round the Old Keg of Rum.
Chorus
Oh! the Old Keg of Rum! the Old Keg of Rum! How we sat and sang together Round the Old Keg of Rum.
There was I and Jack the plough-boy, Jem Moore and old Tom Hines, And poor old Tom the fiddler, Who now in glory shines;
And several more of our old chums, Who shine in Kingdom Come, We all associated round the Old Keg of Rum.
Chorus
Oh! the Old Keg of Rum! the Old Keg of Rum! We all associated round the Old Keg of Rum.
And when harvest time was over, And we’d get our harvest fee, We’d meet, and quickly rise the keg, And then we’d have a spree. We’d sit and sing together Till we got that blind and dumb That we couldn’t find the bunghole Of the Old Keg of Rum.
Chorus
Oh! the Old Keg of Rum! the Old Keg of Rum! That we couldn’t find the bunghole Of the Old Keg of Rum.
Its jovially together, boys— We’d laugh, we’d chat, we’d sing; Sometimes we’d have a little row Some argument would bring.
And oftimes in a scrimmage, boys, I’ve corked it with my thumb, To keep the life from leaking From the Old Keg of Rum.
Chorus
Oh! the Old Keg of Rum! the Old Keg of Rum! To keep the life from leaking From the Old Keg of Rum.
But when our spree was ended, boys, And waking from a snooze, For to give another drain The old keg would refuse. We’d rap it with our knuckles— If it sounded like a drum, We’d know the life and spirit Had left the Old Keg of Rum.
Chorus
Oh! the Old Keg of Rum! the Old Keg of Rum! We’d know the life and spirit Had left the Old Keg of Rum.
Those happy days have passed away, I’ve seen their pleasures fade; And many of our good old friends Have with old times decayed.
But still, when on my travels, boys, If I meet with an old chum, We will sigh, in conversation, Of the Grand Old Keg of Rum.
Chorus
Oh! the Old Keg of Rum! the Old Keg of Rum! We will sigh, in conversation, Of the Grand Old Keg of Rum.
So now, kind friends, I end my song, I hope we’ll meet again, And, as I’ve tried to please you all, I hope you won’t complain. You younger folks who learn my song, Will, perhaps, in years to come, Remember old Jack Palmer And the Old Rum Of Rum.
Chorus
Oh! the Old Keg of Rum! the Old Keg of Rum! Remember old Jack Palmer And the Old Keg of Rum.
THE MURRUMBIDGEE SHEARER
Come, all you jolly natives, and I’ll relate to you Some of my observations—adventures, too, a few. I’ve travelled about the country for miles, full many a score, And oft-times would have hungered, but for the cheek I bore.
I’ve coasted on the Barwon—low down the Darling, too, I’ve been on the Murrumbidgee, and out on the Paroo; I’ve been on all the diggings, boys, from famous Ballarat; I’ve loafed upon the Lachlan and fossicked Lambing Flat.
I went up to a squatter, and asked him for a feed, But the knowledge of my hunger was swallowed by his greed. He said I was a loafer and for work had no desire, And so, to do him justice, I set his shed on fire.
Oh, yes, I’ve touched the shepherd’s hut, of sugar, tea, and flour; And a tender bit of mutton I always could devour. I went up to a station, and there I got a job; Plunged in the store, and hooked it, with a very tidy lob.
Oh, yes, my jolly dandies, I’ve done it on the cross. Although I carry bluey now, I’ve sweated many a horse. I’ve helped to ease the escort of many’s the ounce of gold; The traps have often chased me, more times than can be told.
Oh, yes, the traps have chased me, been frightened of their stripes They never could have caught me, they feared my cure for gripes. And well they knew I carried it, which they had often seen A-glistening in my flipper, chaps, a patent pill machine.
I’ve been hunted like a panther into my mountain lair. Anxiety and misery my grim companions there. I’ve planted in the scrub, my boys, and fed on kangaroo, And wound up my avocations by ten years on Cockatoo.
So you can understand, my boys, just from this little rhyme, I’m a Murrumbidgee shearer, and one of the good old time.
THE SWAGMAN
Kind friends, pray give attention To this, my little song. Some rum things I will mention, And I’ll not detain you long. Up and down this country I travel, don’t you see, I’m a swagman on the wallaby, Oh! don’t you pity me. I’m a swagman on the wallaby, Oh! don’t you pity me.
At first I started shearing, And I bought a pair of shears. On my first sheep appearing, Why, I cut off both its ears. Then I nearly skinned the brute, As clean as clean could he. So I was kicked out of the shed, Oh! don’t you pity me, &c.
I started station loafing, Short stages and took my ease; So all day long till sundown I’d camp beneath the trees. Then I’d walk up to the station, The manager to see. “Boss, I’m hard up and I want a job, Oh! don’t you pity me,” &c.
Says the overseer: “Go to the hut. In the morning I’ll tell you If I’ve any work about I can find for you to do.” But at breakfast I cuts off enough For dinner, don’t you see. And then my name is Walker. Oh! don’t you pity me. I’m a swagman, &c.
And now, my friends, I’ll say good-bye, For I must go and camp. For if the Sergeant sees me He may take me for a tramp; But if there’s any covey here What’s got a cheque, d’ye see, I’ll stop and help him smash it. Oh! don’t you pity me. I’m a swagman on the wallaby, Oh! don’t you pity me.
“A Swagman on the Wallaby.”—A nomad following track of the wallaby, i.e., loafing aimlessly.
THE STOCKMAN
(Air: “A wet sheet and a flowing sea.”)
A bright sun and a loosened rein, A whip whose pealing sound Rings forth amid the forest trees As merrily forth we bound— As merrily forth we bound, my boys, And, by the dawn’s pale light, Speed fearless on our horses true From morn till starry night.
“Oh! for a tame and quiet herd,” I hear some crawler cry; But give to me the mountain mob With the flash of their tameless eye— With the flash of their tameless eye, my boys, As down the rugged spur Dash the wild children of the woods, And the horse that mocks at fear.
There’s mischief in you wide-horned steer, There’s danger in you cow; Then mount, my merry horsemen all, The wild mob’s bolting now— The wild mob’s bolting now, my boys, But ’twas never in their hides To show the way to the well-trained nags That are rattling by their sides.
Oh! ’tis jolly to follow the roving herd Through the long, long summer day, And camp at night by some lonely creek When dies the golden ray. Where the jackass laughs in the old gum tree, And our quart-pot tea we sip; The saddle was our childhood’s home, Our heritage the whip.
THE MARANOA DROVERS
(Air: “Little Sally Waters.”)
The night is dark and stormy, and the sky is clouded o’er; Our horses we will mount and ride away, To watch the squatters’ cattle through the darkness of the night, And we’ll keep them on the camp till break of day.
Chorus
For we’re going, going, going to Gunnedah so far, And we’ll soon be into sunny New South Wales; We shall bid farewell to Queensland, with its swampy coolibah— Happy drovers from the sandy Maranoa.
When the fires are burning bright through the darkness of the night, And the cattle camping quiet, well, I’m sure That I wish for two o’clock when I call the other watch— This is droving from the sandy Maranoa.
Our beds made on the ground, we are sleeping all so sound When we’re wakened by the distant thunder’s roar, And the lightning’s vivid flash, followed by an awful crash- It’s rough on drovers from the sandy Maranoa.
We are up at break of day, and we’re all soon on the way, For we always have to go ten miles or more; It don’t do to loaf about, or the squatter will come out— He’s strict on drovers from the sandy Maranoa.
We shall soon be on the Moonie, and we’ll cross the Barwon, too; Then we’ll be out upon the rolling plains once more; We’ll shout “Hurrah! for old Queensland, with its swampy coolibah, And the cattle that come off the Maranoa.”
RIVER BEND
(Air: “Belle Mahone.”)
At River Bend, in New South Wales, All alone among the whales, Busting up some post and rails, Sweet Belle Mahone. In the blazing sun we stand, Cabbage-tree hat, black velvet band, Moleskins stiff with sweat and sand, Sweet Belle Mahone.
Chorus: Sweet Belle Mahone, &c.
In the burning sand we pine, No one asks us to have a wine, ’Tis a jolly crooked line, Sweet Belle Mahone. When I am sitting on a log, Looking like a great big frog, Waiting for a Murray cod, Sweet Belle Mahone.
Land of snakes and cockatoos, Native bears and big emus, Ugly blacks and kangaroos, Sweet Belle Mahone. Paddymelons by the score, Wild bulls, you should hear them roar, They all belong to Johnny Dore, Sweet Belle Mahone.
“River Bend.”—This song certainly cannot boast of antiquity, as it is a parody on a recent sentimental song, but so many correspondents sent it in that it was decided to include it. Perhaps it is to its obvious sincerity of sentiment that it owes its popularity.
SONG OF THE SQUATTER
[The subjoined is one of the “Songs of the Squatters,” written by the Hon. Robert Lowe (afterwards Viscount Sherbrooke), while resident in New South Wales.]
The Commissioner bet me a pony—I won; So he cut off exactly two-thirds of my run; For he said I was making a fortune too fast, And profit gained slower the longer would last.
He remarked as devouring my mutton he sat, That I suffered my sheep to grow sadly too fat; That they wasted waste land, did prerogative brown, And rebelliously nibbled the droits of the Crown;—
That the creek that divided my station in two Showed that Nature designed that two fees should be due. Mr. Riddle assured me ’twas paid but for show; But he kept it and spent it; that’s all that I know.
The Commissioner fined me because I forgot To return an old ewe that was ill of the rot, And a poor wry-necked lamb that we kept for a pet; And he said it was treason such things to forget.
The Commissioner pounded my cattle because They had mumbled the scrub with their famishing jaws On the part of the run he had taken away; And he sold them by auction the costs to defray.
The Border Police they were out all the day To look for some thieves who had ransacked my dray; But the thieves they continued in quiet and peace, For they’d robbed it themselves—had the Border Police!
When the white thieves had left me the black thieves appeared, My shepherds they waddied, my cattle they speared; But for fear of my licence I said not a word, For I knew it was gone if the Government heard.
The Commissioner’s bosom with anger was filled Against me because my poor shepherd was killed; So he straight took away the last third of my run, And got it transferred to the name of his son.
The son had from Cambridge been lately expelled, And his licence for preaching most justly withheld! But this is no cause, the Commissioner says, Why he should not be fit for a licence to graze.
The cattle that had not been sold at the pound He took with the run at five shillings all round; And the sheep the blacks left me at sixpence a head— “A very good price,” the Commissioner said.
The Governor told me I justly was served, That Commissioners never from duty had swerved; But that if I’d a fancy for any more land For one pound an acre he’d plenty on hand.
I’m not very proud! I can dig in a bog, Feed pigs or for firewood can split up a log, Clean shoes, riddle cinders, or help to boil down— Or whatever you please, but graze lands of the Crown.
WALLABI JOE
(Air: “The Mistletoe Bough.”)
The saddle was hung on the stockyard rail, And the poor old horse stood whisking his tail, For there never was seen such a regular screw As Wallabi Joe, of Bunnagaroo; Whilst the shearers all said, as they say, of course, That Wallabi Joe’s a fine lump of a horse; But the stockmen said, as they laughed aside, He’d barely do for a Sunday’s ride.
Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe. O—oh! poor Wallabi Joe.
“I’m weary of galloping now,” he cried, “I wish I were killed for my hide, my hide; For my eyes are dim, and my back is sore, And I feel that my legs won’t stand much more.”
Now stockman Bill, who took care of his nag, Put under the saddle a soojee bag, And off he rode with a whip in his hand To look for a mob of the R.J. brand.
Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe, &c.
Now stockman Bill camped out that night, And he hobbled his horse in a sheltered bight; Next day of old Joe he found not a track, So he had to trudge home with his swag on his back. He searched up and down every gully he knew, But he found not a hair of his poor old screw, And the stockmen all said as they laughed at his woe, “Would you sell us the chance of old Wallabi Joe.”
Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe, &c.
Now as years sped by, and as Bill grew old, It came into his head to go poking for gold; So away he went with a spade in his fist, To hunt for a nugget among the schist. One day as a gully he chanced to cross, He came on the bones of his poor old horse; The hobbles being jammed in a root below Had occasioned the death of poor Wallabi Joe.
Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe, &c.
THE SQUATTER OF THE OLDEN TIME
(Air: “A fine old English gentleman.”)