THE OLD KEG OF RUM 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.”) I’ll sing to you a fine new song, made by my blessed mate, Of a fine Australian squatter who had a fine estate, Who swore by right pre-emptive at a sanguinary rate That by his rams, his ewes, his lambs, Australia was made great— Like a fine Australian squatter, one of the olden time. His hut around was hung with guns, whips, spurs, and boots and shoes, And kettles and tin pannikins to hold the tea he brews; And here his worship lolls at ease and takes his smoke and snooze, And quaffs his cup of hysouskin, the beverage old chums choose— Like a fine Australian squatter, one of the olden time. And when shearing time approaches he opens hut to all, And though ten thousand are his flocks, he featly shears them all, Even to the scabby wanderer you’d think no good at all; For while he fattens all the great, he boils down all the small— Like a fine old Murray squatter, one of the olden time. And when his worship comes to town his agents for to see, His wool to ship, his beasts to sell, he lives right merrily; The club his place of residence, as becomes a bush J.P., He darkly hints that Thompson’s run from scab is scarcely free— This fine old Murray settler, one of the olden time. And now his fortune he has made to England straight goes he, But finds with grief he’s not received as he had hoped to be. His friends declare his habits queer, his language much too free, And are somewhat apt to cross the street when him they chance to see— This fine Australian squatter, the boy of the olden time. THE STOCKMAN’S LAST BED Be ye stockmen or no, to my story give ear. Alas! for poor Jack, no more shall we hear The crack of his stockwhip, his steed’s lively trot, His clear “Go ahead, boys,” his jingling quart pot. Chorus For we laid him where wattles their sweet fragrance shed, And the tall gum trees shadow the stockman’s last bed. Whilst drafting one day he was horned by a cow. “Alas!” cried poor Jack, “it’s all up with me now, For I never again shall my saddle regain, Nor bound like a wallaby over the plain.” His whip it is silent, his dogs they do mourn, His steed looks in vain for his master’s return; No friend to bemoan him, unheeded he dies; Save Australia’s dark sons, few know where he lies. Now, stockman, if ever on some future day After the wild mob you happen to stray, Tread softly where wattles their sweet fragrance spread, Where alone and neglected poor Jack’s bones are laid. MUSTERING SONG (Air: “So Early in the Morning.”) The boss last night in the hut did say— “We start to muster at break of day; So be up first thing, and don’t be slow; Saddle your horses and off you go.” Chorus So early in the morning, so early in the morning, So early in the morning, before the break of day. Such a night in the yard there never was seen (The horses were fat and the grass was green); Bursting of girths and slipping of packs As the stockmen saddled the fastest hacks. Chorus: So early in the morning, &c. Across the plain we jog along Over gully, swamp, and billabong; We drop on a mob pretty lively, too We round ’em up and give ’em a slue. Chorus: So early in the morning, &c. Now the scrub grows thick and the cattle are wild, A regular caution to this ’ere child— A new chum man on an old chum horse, Who sails through the scrub as a matter of course. Chorus: So early in the morning, &c. I was close up stuck in a rotten bog; I got a buster jumping a log; I found this scouting rather hot, So I joined the niggers with the lot we’d got. Chorus: So early in the morning, &c. A long-haired shepherd we chanced to meet With a water bag, billy, and dog complete; He came too close to a knocked up steer, Who up a sapling made him clear. Chorus: So early in the morning, &c. Now on every side we faintly hear The crack of the stockwhip drawing near; To the camp the cattle soon converge, As from the thick scrub they emerge. Chorus: So early in the morning, &c. We hastily comfort the inner man With the warm contents of the billy can; The beef and damper are passed about Before we tackle the cutting out. Chorus: So early in the morning, &c. We’re at it now—that bally calf Would surely make a sick man laugh; The silly fool can’t take a joke; I hope some day in the drought he’ll croak. Chorus: So early in the morning, &c. We’ve ’em now—the cows and calves (Things here are never done by halves); Strangers, workers, and milkers, too, Of scrubbers also not a few. Chorus: So early in the morning, &c. It’s getting late, we’d better push; ’Tis a good long way across the bush, And the mob to drive are middling hard; I do not think we’ll reach the yard. Chorus: So early in the morning, &c. THE AUSTRALIAN STOCKMAN The sun peers o’er you wooded ridge and thro’ the forest dense, Its golden edge o’er the mountain ledge looks down on the stockyard fence, Looks down, looks down, looks down on the stockyard fence; And dark creeks rush thro’ the tangled brush, when their shuddering shadows throng Until they chime in the rude rough rhyme of the wild goburra’s song. Chorus Till they chime, ha! ha! till they chime, ha! ha! in the wild goburra’s song; Till they chime, ha! ha! till they chime, ha! ha! in the wild goburra’s song. The night owl to her home hath fled, to shun the glorious pomp Of golden day she speeds away to her nest in the tea-tree swamp; Away, away to her nest in the tea-tree swamp. The dingo looks with a timid stare as he stealthily prowls along, And his pattering feet in concert beat with the wild goburra’s song. Chorus: And they beat, ha! ha! &c. Oh! let them boast their city’s wealth, who toil in a dusty town; Give me the beam on the mountain stream, and the range’s dark-faced frown— The stream, the stream, and the range’s dark-faced frown. When our steed shall pass o’er the quiv’ring grass, and the crack of the sounding thong Shall bid the startled echoes join the wild goburra’s song. Chorus: And they join, ha! ha! &c. THE SHEPHERD (Air: “She Wore a Wreath of Roses.”) He wore an old blue shirt the night that first we met, An old and tattered cabbage-tree concealed his locks of jet; His footsteps had a languor, his voice a husky tone; Both man and dog were spent with toil as they slowly wandered home. Chorus I saw him but a moment—yet methinks I see him now— While his sheep were gently feeding ’neath the rugged mountain brow. When next we met, the old blue shirt and cabbage-tree were gone; A brand new suit of tweed and “Doctor Dod” he had put on; Arm in arm with him was one who strove, and not in vain, To ease his pockets of their load by drinking real champagne. I saw him but a moment, and he was going a pace, Shouting nobbler after nobbler, with a smile upon his face. When next again I saw that man his suit of tweed was gone, The old blue shirt and cabbage-tree once more he had put on; Slowly he trudged along the road and took the well-known track From the station he so lately left with a swag upon his back. I saw him but a moment as he was walking by With two black eyes and broken nose and a tear-drop in his eye. THE OVERLANDER There’s a trade you all know well— It’s bringing cattle over— I’ll tell you all about the time When I became a drover. I made up my mind to try the spec, To the Clarence I did wander, And bought a mob of duffers there To begin as an overlander. Chorus Pass the wine cup round, my boys; Don’t let the bottle stand there, For to-night we’ll drink the health Of every overlander. Next morning counted the cattle Saw the outfit ready to start, Saw all the lads well mounted, And their swags put in a cart. All kinds of men I had From France, Germany, and Flanders; Lawyers, doctors, good and bad, In the mob of overlanders. Next morning I set out When the grass was green and young; And they swore they’d break my snout If I did not move along. I said, “You’re very hard; Take care, don’t raise my dander, For I’m a regular knowing card, The Queensland overlander.” ’Tis true we pay no license, And our run is rather large; ’Tis not often they can catch us, So they cannot make a charge. They think we live on store beef, But no, I’m not a gander; When a good fat stranger joins the mob, “He’ll do,” says the overlander. One day a squatter rode up. Says he, “You’re on my run; I’ve got two boys as witnesses. Consider your stock in pound.” I tried to coax, then bounce him, But my tin I had to squander, For he put threepence a head On the mob of the overlander. The pretty girls in Brisbane Were hanging out their duds. I wished to have a chat with them, So steered straight for the tubs. Some dirty urchins saw me, And soon they raised my dander, Crying, “Mother, quick! take in the clothes, Here comes an overlander!” In town we drain the wine cup, And go to see the play, And never think to be hard up For how to pass the day. Each has a sweetheart there, Dressed out in all her grandeur— Dark eyes and jet black flowing hair. “She’s a plum,” says the overlander. A THOUSAND MILES AWAY (Air: “Ten Thousand Miles Away.”) Hurrah for the Roma railway! Hurrah for Cobb and Co., And oh! for a good fat horse or two to carry me Westward Ho— To carry me Westward Ho! my boys, that’s where the cattle stray On the far Barcoo, where they eat nardoo, a thousand miles away. Chorus Then give your horses rein across the open plain, We’ll ship our meat both sound and sweet, nor care what some folks say; And frozen we’ll send home the cattle that now roam On the far Barcoo and the Flinders too, a thousand miles away. Knee-deep in grass we’ve got to pass—for the truth I’m bound to tell— Where in three weeks the cattle get as fat as they can swell— As fat as they can swell, my boys; a thousand pounds they weigh, On the far Barcoo, where they eat nardoo, a thousand miles away. Chorus: Then give your horses rein, &c. No Yankee hide e’er grew outside such beef as we can freeze; No Yankee pastures make such steers as we send o’er the seas— As we send o’er the seas, my boys, a thousand pounds they weigh— From the far Barcoo, where they eat nardoo, a thousand miles away. Chorus: Then give your horses rein, &c. THE FREEHOLD ON THE PLAIN (Air: “The Little Old Log Cabin in the Lane.”) I’m a broken-down old squatter, my cash it is all gone, Of troubles and bad seasons I complain; My cattle are all mortgaged, of horses I have none, And I’ve lost that little freehold on the plain. Chorus The stockyard’s broken down, and the woolshed’s tumbling in; I’ve written to the mortgagees in vain; My wool it is all damaged and it is not worth a pin, And I’ve lost that little freehold on the plain. I commenced life as a squatter some twenty years ago, When fortune followed in my train; But I speculated heavy and I’d have you all to know That I’ve lost that little freehold on the plain. Chorus: The stockyard’s broken down, &c. I built myself a mansion, and chose myself a wife; Of her I have no reason to complain; For I thought I had sufficient to last me all my life, But I’ve lost that little freehold on the plain. Chorus: The stockyard’s broken down, &c. And now I am compelled to take a drover’s life, To drive cattle through the sunshine and the rain, And to leave her behind me, my own dear loving wife— We were happy on that freehold on the plain. Chorus: The stockyard’s broken down, &c. THE WALLABY BRIGADE You often have been told of regiments brave and bold, But we are the bravest in the land; We’re called the Tag-rag Band, and we rally in Queensland, We are members of the Wallaby Brigade. Chorus Tramp, tramp, tramp across the borders, The swagmen are rolling up, I see. When the shearing’s at an end we’ll go fishing in a bend. Then hurrah! for the Wallaby Brigade. When you are leaving camp, you must ask some brother tramp If there are any jobs to be had, Or what sort of a shop that station is to stop For a member of the Wallaby Brigade. Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &c. You ask me if they want men, you ask for rations then, If they don’t stump up a warning should be made; To teach them better sense—why, “Set fire to their fence” Is the war cry of the Wallaby Brigade. Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &c. The squatters thought us done when they fenced in all their run, But a prettier mistake they never made; You’ve only to sport your dover and knock a monkey over— There’s cheap mutton for the Wallaby Brigade. Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &c. Now when the shearing’s in our harvest will begin, Our swags for a spell down will be laid; But when our cheques are drank we will join the Tag-rag rank, Limeburners in the Wallaby Brigade. Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &c. To knock a monkey over is to kill a sheep, monkey being slang for sheep in many parts of the bush. MY RELIGION Let Romanists all at the Confessional kneel, Let the Jew with disgust turn from it, Let the mighty Crown Prelate in Church pander zeal, Let the Mussulman worship Mahomet. From all these I differ—truly wise is my plan, With my doctrine, perhaps, you’ll agree, To be upright and downright and act like a man, That’s the religion for me. I will go to no Church and to no house of Prayer To see a white shirt on a preacher. And in no Courthouse on a book will I swear To injure a poor fellow-creature. For parsons and preachers are all a mere joke, Their hands must be greased by a fee; But with the poor toiler to share your last “toke”* That’s the religion for me. [Footnote: “Toke” is a slang word for bread.] Let Psalm-singing Churchmen and Lutheran sing, They can’t deceive God with their blarney; They might just as well dance the Highland Fling, Or sing the fair fame of Kate Kearney. But let man unto man like brethren act, My doctrine this suits to a T, The heart that can feel for the woes of another, Oh, that’s the religion for me. BOURKE’S DREAM Lonely and sadly one night in November I laid down my weary head in search of repose On my wallet of straw, which I long shall remember, Tired and weary I fell into a doze. Tired from working hard Down in the labour yard, Night brought relief to my sad, aching brain. Locked in my prison cell, Surely an earthly hell, I fell asleep and began for to dream. I dreamt that I stood on the green fields of Erin, In joyous meditation that victory was won. Surrounded by comrades, no enemy fearing. “Stand,” was the cry, “every man to his gun.” On came the Saxons then, Fighting our Fenian men, Soon they’ll reel back from our piked volunteers. Loud was the fight and shrill, Wexford and Vinegar Hill, Three cheers for Father Murphy and the bold cavaliers. I dreamt that I saw our gallant commander Seated on his charger in gorgeous array. He wore green trimmed with gold and a bright shining sabre On which sunbeams of Liberty shone brightly that day. “On,” was the battle cry, “Conquer this day or die, Sons of Hibernia, fight for Liberty! Show neither fear nor dread, Strike at the foeman’s head, Cut down horse, foot, and artillery!” I dreamt that the night was quickly advancing, I saw the dead and dying on the green crimson plain. Comrades I once knew well in death’s sleep reposing, Friends that I once loved but shall ne’er see again. The green flag was waving high, Under the bright blue sky, And each man was singing most gloriously. “Come from your prison, Bourke, We Irishmen have done our work, God has been with us, and old Ireland is free.” I dreamt I was homeward, back over the mountain track, With joy my mother fainted and gave a loud scream. With the shock I awoke, just as the day had broke, And found myself an exile, and ’twas all but a dream. BILLY BARLOW IN AUSTRALIA When I was at home I was down on my luck, And I earned a poor living by drawing a truck; But old aunt died, and left me a thousand—“Oh, oh, I’ll start on my travels,” said Billy Barlow. Oh dear, lackaday, oh, So off to Australia came Billy Barlow. When to Sydney I got, there a merchant I met, Who said he would teach me a fortune to get; He’d cattle and sheep past the colony’s bounds, Which he sold with the station for my thousand pounds. Oh dear, lackaday, oh, He gammon’d the cash out of Billy Barlow. When the bargain was struck, and the money was paid, He said, “My dear fellow, your fortune is made; I can furnish supplies for the station, you know, And your bill is sufficient, good Mr. Barlow.” Oh dear, lackaday, oh, A gentleman settler was Billy Barlow. So I got my supplies, and I gave him my bill, And for New England started, my pockets to fill; But by bushrangers met, with my traps they made free, Took my horse and left Billy bailed to a tree. Oh dear, lackaday, oh, “I shall die of starvation,” thought Billy Barlow. At last I got loose, and I walked on my way; A constable came up, and to me did say, “Are you free?” Says I, “Yes, to be sure; don’t you know?” And I handed my card, “Mr. William Barlow.” Oh dear, lackaday, oh, He said, “That’s all gammon,” to Billy Barlow. Then he put on the handcuffs, and brought me away Right back down to Maitland, before Mr. Day. When I said I was free, why the J.P. replied, “I must send you down to be i—dentified.” Oh dear, lackaday, oh, So to Sydney once more went poor Billy Barlow. They at last let me go, and I then did repair For my station once more, and at length I got there; But a few days before, the blacks, you must know, Had spear’d all the cattle of Billy Barlow. Oh dear, lackaday, oh, “It’s a beautiful country,” said Billy Barlow. And for nine months before no rain there had been, So the devil a blade of grass could be seen; And one-third of my wethers the scab they had got, And the other two-thirds had just died of the rot. Oh dear, lackaday, oh, “I shall soon be a settler,” said Billy Barlow. And the matter to mend, now my bill was near due, So I wrote to my friend, and just asked to renew; He replied he was sorry he couldn’t, because The bill had passed into a usurer’s claws. Oh dear, lackaday, oh, “But perhaps he’ll renew it,” said Billy Barlow. I applied; to renew he was quite content, If secured, and allowed just three hundred per cent.; But as I couldn’t do, Barr, Rodgers, and Co. Soon sent up a summons for Billy Barlow. Oh dear, lackaday, oh, They soon settled the business of Billy Barlow. For a month or six weeks I stewed over my loss, And a tall man rode up one day on a black horse; He asked, “Don’t you know me?” I answered him “No.” “Why,” said he, “my name’s Kinsmill; how are you, Barlow?” Oh dear, lackaday, oh, He’d got a fi. fa. for poor Billy Barlow. What I’d left of my sheep and my traps he did seize, And he said, “They won’t pay all the costs and my fees;” Then he sold off the lot, and I’m sure ’twas a sin, At sixpence a head, and the station giv’n in. Oh dear, lackaday, oh, “I’ll go back to England,” said Billy Barlow. My sheep being sold, and my money all gone, Oh, I wandered about then quite sad and forlorn; How I managed to live it would shock you to know, And as thin as a lath got poor Billy Barlow. Oh dear, lackaday, oh, Quite down on his luck was poor Billy Barlow. And in a few weeks more, the sheriff, you see, Sent the tall man on horseback once more unto me; Having got all he could by the writ of fi. fa. , By way of a change he’d brought up a ca. sa. Oh dear, lackaday, oh, He seized on the body of Billy Barlow. He took me to Sydney, and there they did lock Poor unfortunate Billy fast “under the clock;” And to get myself out I was forced, you must know The schedule to file of poor Billy Barlow. Oh dear, lackaday, oh, In the list of insolvents was Billy Barlow. Then once more I got free, but in poverty’s toil; I’ve no “cattle for salting,” no “sheep for to boil;” I can’t get a job—though to any I’d stoop, If it was only the making of portable soup.” Oh dear, lackaday, oh, Pray give some employment to Billy Barlow. *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OLD BUSH SONGS *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. 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