’Tis of a wild Colonial boy, Jack Doolan was his name,Of poor but honest parents he was born in Castlemaine.He was his father’s only hope, his mother’s only joy,And dearly did his parents love the wild Colonial boy.ChorusCome, all my hearties, we’ll roam the mountains high,Together we will plunder, together we will die.We’ll wander over valleys, and gallop over plains,And we’ll scorn to live in slavery, bound down with ironchains.He was scarcely sixteen years of age when he left his father’shome,And through Australia’s sunny clime a bushranger did roam.He robbed those wealthy squatters, their stock he diddestroy,And a terror to Australia was the wild Colonial boy.Chorus: Come, all my hearties, &c.In sixty-one this daring youth commenced his wild career,With a heart that knew no danger, no foeman did he fear.He stuck up the Beechworth mail coach, and robbed JudgeMacEvoy,Who trembled, and gave up his gold to the wild Colonial boy.Chorus: Come, all my hearties, &c.He bade the Judge “Good morning,” and told him to beware,That he’d never rob a hearty chap that acted on the square,And never to rob a mother of her son and only joy,Or else you may turn outlaw, like the wild Colonial boy.Chorus: Come, all my hearties, &c.One day as he was riding the mountain side along,A-listening to the little birds, their pleasant laughing song,Three mounted troopers rode along—Kelly, Davis, andFitzRoy.They thought that they would capture him—the wildColonial boy.Chorus: Come, all my hearties, &c.“Surrender now, Jack Doolan, you see there’s three to one.Surrender now, Jack Doolan, you daring highwayman.”He drew a pistol from his belt, and shook the little toy.“I’ll fight, but not surrender,” said the wild Colonial boy.Chorus: Come, all my hearties, &c.He fired at Trooper Kelly, and brought him to the ground,And in return from Davis received a mortal wound.All shattered through the jaws he lay still firing at FitzRoy,And that’s the way they captured him—the wild Colonialboy.Chorus: Come, all my hearties, &c.
It will be noticed that the same chorus is sung to both “The Wild Colonial Boy” and “Bold Jack Donahoo.” Several versions of both songs were sent in, but the same chorus was always made to do duty for both songs.
[He and his gang stuck up the township of Canowindra for two days in 1859.]
John Gilbert was a bushranger of terrible renown,For sticking lots of people up and shooting others down.John Gilbert said unto his pals, “Although they make abobberyAbout our tricks we have never done a tip-top thing inrobbery.“We have all of us a fancy for experiments in pillage,Yet never have we seized a town, or even sacked a village.”John Gilbert said unto his mates—“Though partners wehave beenIn all rascality, yet we no festal day have seen.”John Gilbert said he thought he saw no obstacle to hinder aPiratical descent upon the town of Canowindra.So into Canowindra town rode Gilbert and his men,And all the Canowindra folk subsided there and then.The Canowindra populace cried, “Here’s a lot of strangers!!!”But immediately recovered when they found they werebushrangers.And Johnny Gilbert said to them, “You need not be afraid.We are only old companions whom bushrangers you have made.”And Johnny Gilbert said, said he, “We’ll never hurt a hairOf men who bravely recognise that we are just all there.”The New South Welshmen said at once, not making anyfuss,That Johnny Gilbert, after all, was “Just but one of us.”So Johnny Gilbert took the town (including public houses),And treated all the “cockatoos” and shouted for theirspouses.And Miss O’Flanagan performed in manner quite gintaillyUpon the grand planner for the bushranger O’Meally.And every stranger passing by they took, and when they gothimThey robbed him of his money and occasionally shot him.And Johnny’s enigmatic feat admits of this solution,That bushranging in New South Wales is a favouredinstitution.So Johnny Gilbert ne’er allows an anxious thought to fetchhim,For well he knows the Government don’t really want toketch him.And if such practices should be to New South Welshmen dear,With not the least demurring word ought we to interfere.
[Mr. Jordan was sent to England by the Queensland Government in 1858, 1859, and 1860 to lecture on the advantages of immigration, and told the most extraordinary tales about the place.]
Now Jordan’s land of promise is the burden of my song.Perhaps you’ve heard him lecture, and blow about it strong;To hear him talk you’d think it was a heaven upon earth,But listen and I’ll tell you now the plain unvarnished truth.Here mutton, beef, and damper are all you’ll get to eat,From Monday morn till Sunday night, all through theblessed week.And should the flour bag run short, then mutton, beef, andteaWill be your lot, and whether or not, ’twill have to do,you’ll see.Here snakes and all vile reptiles crawl around you as youwalk,But these you never hear about in Mr. Jordan’s talk;Mosquitoes, too, and sandflies, they will tease you all thenight,And until you get quite colonised you’ll be a pretty sight.Here are boundless plains where it seldom rains, and you’llmaybe die of thirst;But should you so dispose your bones, you’ll scarcely be thefirst,For there’s many a strong and stalwart man come out tomake his pile,Who never leaves the fatal shore of this thrice accursed isle.To sum it up in few short words, the place is only fitFor those who were sent out here, for from this they cannotflit.But any other men who come a living here to try,Will vegetate a little while and then lie down and die.
Come, all ye lads an’ list to me,That’s left your homes an’ crossed the sea,To try your fortune, bound or free,All in this golden land.For twelve long months I had to pace,Humping my swag with a cadging face,Sleeping in the bush, like the sable race,As in my song you’ll understand.Unto this country I did come,A regular out-and-out new chum.I then abhorred the sight of rum—Teetotal was my plan.But soon I learned to wet one eye—Misfortune oft-times made me sigh.To raise fresh funds I was forced to fly,And be a squatter’s man.Soon at a station I appeared.I saw the squatter with his beard,And up to him I boldly steered,With my swag and billy-can.I said, “Kind sir, I want a job!”Said he, “Do you know how to snobOr can you break in a bucking cob?”Whilst my figure he well did scan.“’Tis now I want a useful coveTo stop at home and not to rove.The scamps go about—a regular drove—I ’spose you’re one of the clan?But I’ll give ten—ten, sugar an’ tea;Ten bob a week, if you’ll suit me,And very soon I hope you’ll beA handy squatter’s man.“At daylight you must milk the cows,Make butter, cheese, an’ feed the sows,Put on the kettle, the cook arouse,And clean the family shoes.The stable an’ sheep yard clean out,And always answer when we shout,With ‘Yes, ma’am,’ and ‘No, sir,’ mind yourmouth;And my youngsters don’t abuse.“You must fetch wood an’ water, bake an’ boil,Act as butcher when we kill;The corn an’ taters you must hill,Keep the garden spick and span.You must not scruple in the rainTo take to market all the grain.Be sure you come sober back againTo be a squatter’s man.”He sent me to an old bark hut,Inhabited by a greyhound slut,Who put her fangs through my poor fut,And, snarling, off she ran.So once more I’m looking for a job,Without a copper in my fob.With Ben Hall or Gardiner I’d rather rob,Than be a squatter’s man.
“Do you know how to snob?”—A snob in English slang is a bootmaker, so the squatter wanted his man to do a bit of boot-repairing.
“I’ll give ten, ten, sugar and tea.”—The “ten, ten” refers to the amount—ten pounds weight—of flour and meat that made up the weekly ration on the stations.
I’m a broken-hearted miner, who loves his cup to drain,Which often times has caused me to lie in frost and rain.Roaming about the country, looking for some work to do,I got a job of reaping off a stringy-bark cockatoo.ChorusOh, the stringy-bark cockatoo,Oh, the stringy-bark cockatoo,I got a job of reaping off a stringy-bark cockatoo.Ten bob an acre was his price—with promise of fairishboard.He said his crops were very light, ’twas all he could afford.He drove me out in a bullock dray, and his piggery met myview.Oh, the pigs and geese were in the wheat of the stringy-barkcockatoo.Chorus: Oh, the stringy-bark, &c.The hut was made of the surface mud, the roof of a reedythatch.The doors and windows open flew without a bolt or latch.The pigs and geese were in the hut, the hen on the tableflew,And she laid an egg in the old tin plate for the stringy-barkcockatoo.Chorus: Oh, the stringy-bark, &c.For breakfast we had pollard, boys, it tasted like cobbler’spaste.To help it down we had to eat brown bread with vinegartaste.The tea was made of the native hops, which out on theranges grew;’Twas sweetened with honey bees and wax for the stringy-barkcockatoo.Chorus: Oh, the stringy-bark, &c.For dinner we had goanna hash, we thought it mightyhard;They wouldn’t give us butter, so we forced down bread andlard.Quondong duff, paddy-melon pie, and wallaby Irish stewWe used to eat while reaping for the stringy-bark cockatoo.Chorus: Oh, the stringy-bark, &c.When we started to cut the rust and smut was just beginningto shed,And all we had to sleep on was a dog and sheep-skin bed.The bugs and fleas tormented me, they made me scratch andscrew;I lost my rest while reaping for the stringy-bark cockatoo.Chorus: Oh, the stringy-bark, &c.At night when work was over I’d nurse the youngest child,And when I’d say a joking word, the mother would laugh andsmile.The old cocky, he grew jealous, and he thumped me blackand blue,And he drove me off without a rap—the stringy-barkcockatoo.Chorus: Oh, the stringy-bark, &c.
[For note on this song, see Introduction.]
There’s a happy little valley on the Eumerella shore,Where I’ve lingered many happy hours away,On my little free selection I have acres by the score,Where I unyoke the bullocks from the dray.ChorusTo my bullocks then I sayNo matter where you stray,You will never be impounded any more;For you’re running, running, running on the duffer’spiece of land,Free selected on the Eumerella shore.When the moon has climbed the mountains and the stars areshining bright,Then we saddle up our horses and away,And we yard the squatters’ cattle in the darkness of thenight,And we have the calves all branded by the day.ChorusOh, my pretty little calf,At the squatter you may laugh,For he’ll never be your owner any more;For you’re running, running, running on the duffer’spiece of land,Free selected on the Eumerella shore.If we find a mob of horses when the paddock rails are down,Although before they’re never known to stray,Oh, quickly will we drive them to some distant inland town,And sell them into slav’ry far away.ChorusTo Jack Robertson we’ll sayYou’ve been leading us astray,And we’ll never go a-farming any more;For it’s easier duffing cattle on the little piece of landFree selected on the Eumerella shore.
If you want a situation, I’ll just tell you the planTo get on to a station, I am just your very man.Pack up the old portmanteau, and label it Paroo,With a name aristocratic—Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.When you get on to the station, of small things you’ll makea fuss,And in speaking of the station, mind, it’s we, and ours, andus.Boast of your grand connections and your rich relations, tooAnd your own great expectations, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.They will send you out on horseback, the boundaries to rideBut run down a marsupial and rob him of his hide,His scalp will fetch a shilling and his hide another two,Which will help to fill your pockets, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.Yes, to fill your empty pockets, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.When the boss wants information, on the men you’ll do asneak,And don a paper collar on your fifteen bob a week.Then at the lamb-marking a boss they’ll make of you.Now that’s the way to get on, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.A squatter in the future I’ve no doubt you may be,But if the banks once get you, they’ll put you up a tree.To see you humping bluey, I know, would never do,’Twould mean good-bye to our new chum, Jimmy Sago,Jackaroo.Yes, good-bye to our new chum, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.
A “Jackaroo” is a young man who comes to a station to get experience. He occupies a position much like that of an apprentice on a ship, and has to work with the men though supposed to be above them in social status. Hence these sneers at the Jackaroo.
I have come to tell you of the glorious news you’ll all beglad to bear,Of the pleasant alterations that are taking place this year.So kindly pay attention, and I’ll pass the whisper round,The squatters of their own free will this year will pay thepound.For this is a year of great prosperity, that everybody knows,We’ll take no top knots off this year, nor trim them to thetoes,But a level cut for a level pound, and the rations thrownin free.That’s how the squatters say they’ll keep their Sovereign’sJubilee.And kind Providence once more has sent the sweet, refreshingrains.The trefoil and the barley grass wave high upon the plains,The tanks all overflowing and the saltbush fresh and green,It’s a pleasure for to ramble o’er the plains of Riverine.Once more upon the rippling lake the wild swan flaps herwing.Out in the lignum swamps once more frogs croak and cricketssing.Once more the wild fowl, sporting midst the crab-holes, maybe seen,For prosperity is hovering o’er the plains of Riverine.Yes, ’twill be a year of full and plenty for those back-blockpioneers,Though behind each scrub and saltbush you can spot thebunny’s ears;And although the price for scalps is not so high as it has been,Yet the bunny snappers they will thrive on the plains ofRiverine.You should see the jolly teamsters how with joy their facesbeam,As they talk about the crowfoot, carrots, crab-holes, andtheir team.They tell you that this year they do intend to steer sixteen.They’ll show the “cookies” how to plough the plains ofRiverine.Yes, in more respects than one it is a year of joy and glee,And the news of our prosperity has crossed the briny sea.Once more the Maorilander and the Tassey will be seenCooking Johnny cakes and jimmies on the plains of Riverine.They will gather like a regiment to the beating of the drum,But it matters not to us from whence our future penmatescome.From New Zealand’s snow-clad summits or Tasmania’smeadows green,We’ll always make them welcome on the plains of Riverine.Down from her rocky peaks Monaro will send her championsbold;Victoria will send her “cockies,” too, her honour to uphold.They’ll be here from Cunnamulla, and the rolling downsbetween,For this is the real convincing ground, these plains ofRiverine.I have a message to deliver now, before I say farewell,Some news which all the squatters have commissioned me totell;Your backs well bent, bows long and clean, that’s what theywant to see,That your tallies may do you credit in this year of Jubilee.
“This year will pay the pound.”—A pound a hundred is the price for shearing sheep, and several bitterly fought-out strikes have taken place about it.
“We’ll take no topknots off this year nor trim them to the toes.”—Owing to the amiability of the squatters and the excellence of the season, the shearers intend to leave some of the wool on the sheep, i.e., the topknots on the head and wool down on the legs.
“To steer sixteen”—sixteen horses in the team.
Come now, ye sighing washers all,Join in my doleful lay,Mourn for the times none can recall,With hearts to grief a prey.We’ll mourn the washer’s sad downfallIn our regretful strain,Lamenting on the days gone byNe’er to return again.When first I went a-washing sheepThe year was sixty-one,The master was a worker then,The servant was a man;But now the squatters, puffed with pride,They treat us with disdain;Lament the days that are gone byNe’er to return again.From sixty-one to sixty-six,The bushman, stout and strong,Would smoke his pipe and whistle his tune,And sing his cheerful song,As wanton as the kangarooThat bounds across the plain.Lament the days that are gone byNe’er to return again.Supplies of food unstinted, good,No squatter did withhold.With plenty grog to cheer our hearts,We feared nor heat nor cold.With six-and-six per man per dayWe sought not to complain.Lament the days that are gone byNe’er to return again.With perfect health, a mine of wealth,Our days seemed short and sweet,On pleasure bent our evenings spent,Enjoyment was complete.But now we toil from morn till night,Though much against the grain,Lamenting on the days gone by,Ne’er to return again.I once could boast two noble steeds,To bear me on my way,My good revolver in my belt,I never knew dismay.But lonely now I hump my drumIn sunshine and in rain,Lamenting on the days gone byNe’er to return again.A worthy cheque I always earned,And spent it like a lord.My dress a prince’s form would grace.And spells I could afford.But now in tattered rags arrayed,My limbs they ache with pain,Lamenting on the days gone by,Ne’er to return again.May bushmen all in unityCombine with heart and hand,May cursed cringing povertyBe banished from the land.In Queensland may prosperityIn regal glory reign,And washers in the time to comeTheir vanished rights regain.
Come, Stumpy, old man, we must shift while we can;All our mates in the paddock are dead.Let us wave our farewells to Glen Eva’s sweet dellsAnd the hills where your lordship was bred;Together to roam from our drought-stricken home—It seems hard that such things have to be,And its hard on a “hogs” when he’s nought for a bossBut a broken-down squatter like me!ChorusFor the banks are all broken, they say,And the merchants are all up a tree.When the bigwigs are brought to the Bankruptcy Court,What chance for a squatter like me.No more shall we muster the river for fats,Or spiel on the Fifteen-mile plain,Or rip through the scrub by the light of the moon,Or see the old stockyard again.Leave the slip-panels down, it won’t matter much now,There are none but the crows left to see,Perching gaunt in yon pine, as though longing to dineOn a broken-down squatter like me.Chorus: For the banks, &c.When the country was cursed with the drought at its worst,And the cattle were dying in scores,Though down on my luck, I kept up my pluck,Thinking justice might temper the laws.But the farce has been played, and the Government aidAin’t extended to squatters, old son;When my dollars were spent they doubled the rent,And resumed the best half of the run.Chorus: For the banks, &c.’Twas done without reason, for leaving the seasonNo squatter could stand such a rub;For it’s useless to squat when the rents are so hotThat one can’t save the price of one’s grub;And there’s not much to choose ’twixt the banks and the JewsOnce a fellow gets put up a tree;No odds what I feel, there’s no court of appealFor a broken-down squatter like me.Chorus: For the banks, &c.
Ye sons of industry, to you I belong,And to you I would dedicate a verse or a song,Rejoicing o’er the victory John Robertson has wonNow the Land Bill has passed and the good time has comeNow the Land Bill, &c.No more with our swags through the bush need we roamFor to ask of another there to give us a home,Now the land is unfettered and we may resideIn a home of our own by some clear waterside.In a home of our own, &c.On some fertile spot which we may call our own,Where the rich verdure grows, we will build up a home.There industry will flourish and content will smile,While our children rejoicing will share in our toil.While our children, &c.We will plant our garden and sow our own field,And eat from the fruits which industry will yield,And be independent, what we long for have strived,Though those that have ruled us the right long denied.Though those that have ruled us, &c.
Dark over the face of Nature sublime!Reign’d tyranny, warfare, and every crime;The world a desert—no oasis greenA man-loving soul on its surface had seen;Then mercy above a mandate sent forthAn Eden to form—a refuge for worth.From the ocean it came, with halo so bright,Want, strife, and oppression were lost in its sight.ChorusFirst isle of the sea—brightest gem of the earthIn thee every virtue and joy shall have birth.A land of the just, the brave, and the free,Australia the happy, thou ever shalt be.So earth in the flood no place for rest gave,At length a green isle arose from the wave;The dove o’er the waters the olive branch bore,To show that one spot was cover’d no more;Australia thus shall be sounded by fame,And Europe shall echo the glorious name;The brave, wise, and good, wherever oppress’d,Shall fly to thy shores as a haven of rest.Chorus: First isle of the sea, &c.Land of the orange, fig, olive, and vine;’Midst earth’s fairest daughters the chaplet is thine;No sick’ning vapours are borne on thy air,But fragrance and melody twine sweetly there;Thy ever-green fields proclaim plenty and peace,If man doth his part, heaven sends the increase;No customs to fetter, no enemy near,Independence thy sons for ever must cheer.Chorus: First isle of the sea, &c.
We often hear men boast about the land which gave thembirth,And each one thinks his native land the fairest spot onearth;In beauty, riches, power, no land can his surpass;To his, all other lands on earth cannot even hold a glass.Now, if other people have their boasts, then, say, why shouldnot we,For we can drink our jovial toast and sing with three timesthree;For there’s not a country in the world where all that’s fairprevailsAs here it does in this our land, our sunny New SouthWales.ChorusThen toast with me our happy land,Where all that’s fair prevails,Our colour’s blue and our hearts are true,In sunny New South Wales.Now let us take a passing glance at all that we possess.That ours is such a wealthy land no stranger e’er would guess.Why, we’ve land in store, indeed far more than ever we shallrequire,And trees grow thick on every side in spite of axe and fire.Our sheep and cattle millions count, our wool is classed A1;In beef and mutton our fair land is not to be outdone.Why, we’ve lately seen old England, who boasts her stockne’er fails,Has had to send for wholsome meat preserved in New SouthWales.Chorus: Then toast with me, &c.In childhood California was to us a land of gold,And people said its riches were so vast, immense, untold.But time has proved that mineral wealth exists not therealone,For New South Wales possesses gold in many, many a stone.And when the gold is taken from out its quartzy veinsA heap of silver, copper, tin, as a residue remains.In fact we are a mass of wealth in all our hills and dales.There’s not a country half as rich as sunny New SouthWales.Chorus: Then toast with me, &c.Our climate’s good, that all admit, our flowers are sweet andrare;And scenes abound on every hand so marvellously fair.Shame on the men who went away and of us wrote suchlies.Why, when Anthony Trollope came out here he nearly losthis eyes.Our native girls are fair and good, their hearts are pure andtrue;And to their colour stick like bricks, the bright Australianblue.Some never loved a roving life, nor blest the ocean’s gales;But they bless the breeze that blew them to a life in NewSouth Wales.Chorus: Then toast with me, &c.
Shadows of the twilight fallingOn the mountain’s brow,To each other birds are calling,In the leafy bough.Where the daisies are a-springing,And the cattle bells are ringing,Comes my Mary, gaily singing,Bringing home the cows.By a bush the pathway skirted,Room for two allows.All the cornfields are deserted,Idle are the ploughs.Striving for wealth’s spoil and booty,Farmer boys have finished duty,When I meet my little beauty,Bringing home the cows.Tender words and kind addresses,Most polite of bows,Rosy cheeks and wavy tressesDo my passions rouseDress so natty and so cleanly,Air so modest and so queenly.Oh! so haughty, yet serenely,Bringing home the cows.Arm-in-arm together walking,While the cattle browse,Earnestly together talking,Plighting lovers’ vows.Where the daisies are a-springing,Wedding bells will soon be ringing,Then we’ll watch our servant bringingMine and Mary’s cows.
A strapping young stockman lay dying,His saddle supporting his head;His two mates around him were crying,As he rose on his pillow and said:Chorus“Wrap me up with my stockwhip and blanket,And bury me deep down below,Where the dingoes and crows can’t molest me,In the shade where the coolibahs grow.“Oh! had I the flight of the bronzewing,Far o’er the plains would I fly,Straight to the land of my childhood,And there would I lay down and die.Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.“Then cut down a couple of saplings,Place one at my head and my toe,Carve on them cross, stockwhip, and saddle,To show there’s a stockman below.Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.“Hark! there’s the wail of a dingo,Watchful and weird—I must go,For it tolls the death-knell of the stockmanFrom the gloom of the scrub down below.Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.“There’s tea in the battered old billy;Place the pannikins out in a row,And we’ll drink to the next merry meeting,In the place where all good fellows go.Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.“And oft in the shades of the twilight,When the soft winds are whispering low,And the dark’ning shadows are falling,Sometimes think of the stockman below.”Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.
That’s his saddle on the tie-beam,And them’s his spurs up thereOn the wall-plate over yonder—You ken see they ain’t a pair.For the daddy of all the stockmenAs ever come mustering hereWas killed in the flaming mulga,A-yarding a bald-faced steer.They say as he’s gone to heaven,And shook off all worldly caresBut I can’t sight Bill in a haloSet up on three blinded hairs.In heaven! what next I wonder,For strike me pink and blue,If I see whatever in thunderThey’ll find for Bill to do.He’d never make one of them angels,With faces as white as chalk,All wool to the toes like hoggets,And wings like an eagle-hawk.He couldn’t ’arp for apples,His voice had tones as jarred,And he’d no more ear than a bald-faced steer,Or calves in a branding yard.He could sit on a bucking brumbieLike a nob in an easy chair,And chop his name with a greenhide fallOn the flank of a flying steer.He could show them saints in gloryThe way that a fall should drop,But sit on a throne—not William,Unless they could make it prop.He mightn’t freeze to the seraphs,Or chum with the cherubim,But if ever them seraph johnniesGet a-poking it like at him—Well! if there’s hide in heaven,And silk for to make a lash,He’ll yard ’em all in the Jasper LakeIn a blinded lightning flash.If the heavenly hosts get boxed now,As mobs most always will,Who’ll cut ’em out like William,Or draft on a camp like Bill?An ’orseman would find it awkwardAt first with a push that flew,But blame my cats if I know what elseThey’ll find for Bill to do.It’s hard if there ain’t no cattle,And perhaps they’ll let him sleep,And wake him up at the judgmentTo draft those goats and sheep.It’s playing it low on William,But perhaps he’ll buckle to,To show them high-toned seraphsWhat a Mulga man can do.If they saddles a big-boned angel,With a turn of speed, of course,As can spiel like a four-year brumbie,And prop like an old camp horse,And puts Bill up with a snaffle,A four or five inch spur,And eighteen foot of greenhideTo chop the blinded fur—He’ll yard them blamed AngorasIn a way that it’s safe to swearWill make them tony seraphsSit back on their thrones and stare.
Oh! don’t you remember Black Alice, Sam Holt—Black Alice, so dusky and dark,The Warrego gin, with the straw through her nose,And teeth like a Moreton Bay shark.The terrible sheepwash tobacco she smokedIn the gunyah down there by the lake,And the grubs that she roasted, and the lizards she stewed,And the damper you taught her to bake.Oh! don’t you remember the moon’s silver sheen,And the Warrego sand-ridges white?And don’t you remember those big bull-dog antsWe caught in our blankets at night?Oh! don’t you remember the creepers, Sam Holt,That scattered their fragrance around?And don’t you remember that broken-down coltYou sold me, and swore he was sound?And don’t you remember that fiver, Sam Holt,You borrowed so frank and so free,When the publican landed your fifty-pound chequeAt Tambo your very last spree?Luck changes some natures, but yours, Sammy Holt,Was a grand one as ever I see,And I fancy I’ll whistle a good many tunesEre you think of that fiver or me.Oh! don’t you remember the cattle you duffed,And your luck at the Sandy Creek rush,And the poker you played, and the bluffs that you bluffed,And your habits of holding a flush?And don’t you remember the pasting you gotBy the boys down in Callaghan’s store,When Tim Hooligan found a fifth ace in his hand,And you holding his pile upon four?You were not the cleanest potato, Sam Holt,You had not the cleanest of fins.But you made your pile on the Towers, Sam Holt,And that covers the most of your sins.They say you’ve ten thousand per annum, Sam Holt,In England, a park and a drag;Perhaps you forget you were six months agoIn Queensland a-humping your swag.But who’d think to see you now dining in stateWith a lord and the devil knows who,You were flashing your dover, six short months ago,In a lambing camp on the Barcoo.When’s my time coming? Perhaps never, I think,And it’s likely enough your old mateWill be humping his drum on the Hughenden-roadTo the end of the chapter of fate.
When the merchant lies down, he can scarce go to sleepFor thinking of his merchandise upon the fatal deep;His ships may be cast away or taken in a war,So him alone we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are.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 thoughtO’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 prepareTo 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.
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 wiseAnd waste no time in talking,Procure some bags of damaged ragsAnd make your fortune hawking.ChorusHawk, hawk, hawk.Our bread to win, we’ll all beginTo hawk, hawk, hawk.The stockmen and the bushmen andThe shepherds leave the station,And the hardy bullock-punchers throwAside their occupation;While some have horses, some have drays,And some on foot are stalking;We surely must conclude it paysWhen 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 goWho scarce can make the figuresBut penmanship’s no requisite,Keep matters square by chalkingWith pencil or with ruddle, that’sExact 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 bentHis 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 delightThan ever digging gold did,And since to fortune’s envied heightThe path I have unfolded,We’ll fling our moleskins to the dogsAnd don tweeds without joking,And honest men as well as roguesWe’ll scour the country hawking.Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c.
[By A New Chum]
When first I came to Sydney CoveAnd up and down the streets did rove,I thought such sights I ne’er did seeSince first I learnt my A, B, C.ChorusOh! 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 antsAssailed me even through my pants.It nearly took my breath awayTo 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 partsI wish I’d studied the Fine Arts!Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &c.
The stockmen of Australia, what rowdy boys are they,They will curse and swear an hurricane if you come in theirway.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 ourgrub,And supply us with the fattest beef by hard work in thescrub.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 stockmanmeet,Remark the sly looks cast on him as he roams through thestreet.From the shade of lovely bonnets steal forth those glancesgay,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.
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 politeTo 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 hatCompletely 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 trayRight 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 townSince 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 meanI’ll tell her it’s a way I’ve got.Chorus: Tol, lol, &c.