Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

Long ago the Gladiators, When the call to combat came, Marching past the massed spectators,

The long day passes with its load of sorrow: In slumber deep I lay me down to rest until tomorrow,

It was over at Coolgardie that a mining speculator, Who was going down the township just to make a bit o' chink, Went off to hire a camel from a camel propagator,

Australia takes her pen in hand To write a line to you, To let you fellows understand

The railway rattled and roared and swung With jolting and bumping trucks. The sun, like a billiard red ball, hung

Roses ruddy and roses white, What are the joys that my heart discloses? Sitting alone in the fading light

On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few, And men of religion are scanty, On a road never cross'd 'cept by folk that are lost,

When Ironbark the turtle came to Anthony's lagoon The hills were hid behind a mist of equinoctal rain, The ripple of the rivulets was like a cheerful tune

I'm traveling down the Castlereagh, and I'm a station-hand, I'm handy with the ropin' pole, I'm handy with the brand, And I can ride a rowdy colt, or swing the axe all day,

Now the new chum loaded his three-nought-three, It's a small-bore gun, but his hopes were big. "I am fed to the teeth with old ewe," said he,

You see, the thing was this way, there was me, That rode Panopply, the Splendor mare, And Ikey Chambers on the Iron Dook,

In Doggerel Verse He had drifted in among us as a straw drifts with the tide, He was just a wand'ring mongrel from the weary world outside;

Bring me a quart of colonial beer And some doughy damper to make good cheer, I must make a heavy dinner;

Oh, it's dreadful to think in a country like this With its chances for work, and enjoyment That a man like McGuinness was certain to miss

Into her presence he gaily pranced, A very fat spark, and a bit advanced. With a Samson tread on the earth he trod,

I bought a run a while ago On country rough and ridgy, Where wallaroos and wombats grow,

Dark over the face of Nature sublime! Reign'd tyranny, warfare, and every crime; The world a desert'no oasis green

We read in the press that Lord Northcote is here To take up Lord Tennyson's mission. 'Tis pleasant to find they have sent us a Peer,

Come all ye bold trainers attend to my song, It's a rule of the A.J.C. You mustn't train ponies, for that's very wrong

There is a waving of grass in the breeze And a song in the air, And a murmur of myriad bees

Not for the love of women toil we, we of the craft, Not for the people's praise; Only because our goddess made us her own and laughed,

(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'

Of all the sickly forms of verse, Commend me to the triolet. It makes bad writers somewhat worse:

I thought, in the days of the droving, Of steps I might hope to retrace, To be done with the bush and the roving

The sun strikes down with a blinding glare; The skies are blue and the plains are wide, The saltbush plains that are burnt and bare

I am the maid of the lustrous eyes Of great fruition, Whom the sons of men that are over-wise

Well, I've waited mighty patient while they all came rolling in, Mister Lawson, Mister Dyson, and the others of their kin, With their dreadful, dismal stories of the Overlander's camp,

West of Dubbo the west begins The land of leisure and hope and trust, Where the black man stalks with his dogs and gins

It was while we held our races, Hurdles, sprints and steplechases, Up in Dandaloo,

On Western plains, where shade is not, 'Neath summer skies of cloudless blue, Where all is dry and all is hot,

(Air: 'Little Low Log Cabin in the Lane.') The weather had been sultry for a fortnight's time or more, And the shearers had been driving might and main,

Out in the wastes of the West countrie, Out where the white stars shine, Grim and silent as such men be,

All of us play our very best game, Any other time. Golf or billiards, it's all the same,

"Will you love me, sweet, when my hair is grey And my cheeks shall have lost their hue? When the charms of youth shall have passed away

There's a sunny Southern land, And it's there that I would be Where the big hills stand,

They came from the lower levels Deep down in the Brilliant mine; From the wastes where the whirlwind revels,

The Mountains A land of sombre, silent hills, where mountain cattle go By twisted tracks, on sidelings deep, where giant gum trees grow

There came a stranger to Walgett town, To Walgett town when the sun was low, And he carried a thirst that was worth a crown,

The actor struts his little hour, Between the limelight and the band; The public feel the actor's power,

If you walk in the bush at night, In the wonderful silence deep, By the flickering lantern light

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,

No soft-skinned Durham steers are they, No Devons plump and red, But brindled, black, and iron-grey

As I lie at rest on a patch of clover In the Western Park when the day is done, I watch as the wild black swans fly over

In Dublin town I was brought up, in that city of great fame' My decent friends and parents, they will tell to you the same. It was for the sake of five hundred pounds I was sent across the main,

We've travelled per Joe Gardiner, a humping of our swag In the country of the Gidgee and Belar. We've swum the Di'mantina with our raiment in a bag,

I ain't the kind of bloke as takes to any steady job; I drives me bottle cart around the town; A bloke what keeps 'is eyes about can always make a bob,

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,

Shadows of the twilight falling On the mountain's brow, To each other birds are calling,

It lies beyond the Western Pines Beneath the sinking sun, And not a survey mark defines,

Out where the grey streams glide, Sullen and deep and slow, And the alligators slide

Far to the Northward there lies a land, A wonderful land that the winds blow over, And none may fathom or understand

Beside the bare and beaten track of travelling flocks and herds The woodpecker went tapping on, the postman of the birds, "I've got a letter here," he said, "that no one's understood,

Here lies a bloke who's just gone West, A Number One Australian; He took his gun and did his best

I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago, He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him,

[By A New Chum] (Air: 'So Early in the Morning.') When first I came to Sydney Cove

As I pondered very weary o'er a volume long and dreary, For the plot was void of interest; 'twas the Postal Guide, in fact, There I learnt the true location, distance, size and population

Our hero was a Tommy with a conscience free from care, And such an open countenance that when he breathed the air He mopped up all the atmosphere, so little went to spare

This was the way of it, don't you know, Ryan was "wanted" for stealing sheep, And never a trooper, high or low,

The daylight is dying Away in the west, The wild birds are flying

Do they know? At the turn to the straight Where the favourites fail, And every last atom of weight

'Twas Driver Smith of Battery A was anxious to see a fight; He thought of the Transvaal all the day, he thought of it all the night, "Well, if the battery's left behind, I'll go to the war," says he,

Dwell, not with me, For you'll never see More than a 'possum or a kangaroo,

And wherefore have they come, this warlike band, That o'er the ocean many a weary day Have tossed; and now beside Suakim's Bay,

'Twas the horse thief, Andy Regan, that was hunted like a dog By the troopers of the upper Murray side, They had searched in every gully, they had looked in every log,

I ain't a timid man at all, I'm just as brave as most, I'll take my chance in open fight and die beside my post; But riding round the 'ole day long as target for a Krupp,

I've shore at Burrabogie, and I've shore at Toganmain, I've shore at big Willandra and upon the old Coleraine, But before the shearin' was over I've wished myself back, again

On the rugged water shed At the top of the bridle track Where years ago, as the old men say,

The chorus frogs in the big lagoon Would sing their songs to the silvery moon. Tenor singers were out of place,

Scene: On Monaro. Dramatis Personae Shock-headed blackfellow,

The emus formed a football team Up Walgett way; Their dark-brown sweaters were a dream

Oh, Mr Gilhooley he turned up his toes, As most of you know, soon or late; And Jones was a lawyer, as everyone knows,

To the voters of Glen Innes 'twas O'Sullivan that went, To secure the country vote for Mister Hay. So he told 'em what he'd borrowed, and he told 'em what he'd spent,

I left the course, and by my side There walked a ruined tout, A hungry creature, evil-eyed,

The grey gull sat on a floating whale, On a floating whale sat he, And he told his tale of the storm and the gale,

(Air: 'Bow, Wow, Wow.') Now, shut your mouths, you loafers all, You vex me with your twaddle,

"You come and see me, boys," he said; "You'll find a welcome and a bed And whiskey any time you call;

'Twas the dingo pup to his dam that said, "It's time I worked for my daily bread. Out in the world I intend to go,

There's never a stone at the sleeper's head, There's never a fence beside, And the wandering stock on the grave may tread

Let us cease our idle chatter, Let the tears bedew our cheek, For a man from Tallangatta

"Aye," said the boozer, "I tell you it's true, sir, I once was a punter with plenty of pelf, But gone is my glory, I'll tell you the story

[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.] (Air: 'Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.') Now Jordan's land of promise is the burden of my song.

So you're back from up the country, Mister Lawson, where you went, And you're cursing all the business in a bitter discontent; Well, we grieve to disappoint you, and it makes us sad to hear

We see it each day in the paper, And know that there's mischief in store; That some unprofessional caper

"Only a pound," said the auctioneer, "Only a pound; and I'm standing here Selling this animal, gain or loss,

What! you don't like him; well, maybe, we all have our fancies, of course: Brumby to look at, you reckon? Well, no; he's a thoroughbred horse; Sired by a son of old Panic, look at his ears and his head,

'Twas in scientific circles That the great Professor Brown Had a world-wide reputation

It's grand to be a squatter And sit upon a post, And watch your little ewes and lambs

(As sung by the camp fire.) No doubt the saying's all abroad, And rattling through the land.

Born of a thoroughbred English race, Well proportioned and closely knit, Neat, slim figure and handsome face,

A Political Ballad by our Bolshevik Bard There's a dashin' sort of boy Which they call his Party's Joy,

(Air: 'Wearing of the Green.') If you want a situation, I'll just tell you the plan To get on to a station, I am just your very man.

There's a soldier that's been doing of his share In the fighting up and down and round about. He's continually marching here and there,

[He and his gang stuck up the township of Canowindra for two days in 1859.] (Air: 'Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.') John Gilbert was a bushranger of terrible renown,

Men fight all shapes and sizes as the racing horses run, And no man knows his courage till he stands before a gun. At mixed-up fighting, hand to hand, and clawing men about

Down along the Snakebite River where the overlanders camp, Where the serpents are in millions, all of the most deadly stamp; Where the station-cook in terror, nearly every time he bakes,

Oh, the new-chum went to the backblock run, But he should have gone there last week. He tramped ten miles with a loaded gun,

"He ought to be home," said the old man, "without there's something amiss. He only went to the Two-mile, he ought to be back by this. He would ride the Reckless filly, he would have his willful way;

A Tragedy as Played at Ryde** Macbreath Mr Henley Macpuff Mr Terry

Morgan the drover explained, As he drank from his battered quart-pot, Many a slut I have trained;

In this war we're always moving, Moving on; When we make a friend another friend has gone;

'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught the cycling craze; He turned away the good old horse that served him many days; He dressed himself in cycling clothes, resplendent to be seen;

'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught the cycling craze; He turned away the good old horse that served him many days; He dressed himself in cycling clothes, resplendent to be seen;

Oh, Mulligan's bar was the deuce of a place To drink, and to fight, and to gamble and race; The height of choice spirits from near and from far

(Air: 'So Early in the Morning.') The boss last night in the hut did say' 'We start to muster at break of day;

That's his saddle on the tie-beam, And them's his spurs up there On the wall-plate over yonder'

Let Romanists all at the Confessional kneel, Let the Jew with disgust turn from it, Let the mighty Crown Prelate in Church pander zeal,

The new chum's polo pony was the smartest pony yet, The owner backed it for the Cup for all that he could get. The books were laying fives to one, in tenners; and you bet

Now listen to me and I'll tell you my views concerning the African war, And the man who upholds any different views, the same is a ritten Pro-Boer! (Though I'm getting a little bit doubtful myself, as it drags on week after week:

The London lights are far abeam Behind a bank of cloud, Along the shore the gaslights gleam,

Far from the trouble and toil of town, Where the reed beds sweep and shiver, Look at a fragment of velvet brown,

You never heard tell of the story? Well, now, I can hardly believe! Never heard of the honour and glory

Awake, of Muse, the echoes of a day Long past, the ghosts of mem'ries manifold, Youth's memories that once were green and gold

The roving breezes come and go On Kiley's Run, The sleepy river murmurs low,

Oh, we started down from Roto when the sheds had all cut out. We'd whips and whips of Rhino as we meant to push about, So we humped our blues serenely and made for Sydney town,

Oh, the weary, weary journey on the trek, day after day, With sun above and silent veldt below; And our hearts keep turning homeward to the youngsters far away,

Out in the grey cheerless chill of the morning light, Out on the track where the night shades still lurk, ere the first gleam of the sungod's returning light

The opening of the railway line' The Governor and all, With flags and banners down the street,

It came from the prison this morning, Close-twisted, neat-lettered, and flat; It lies the hall doorway adorning,

The boys had come back from the races All silent and down on their luck; They'd backed 'em, straight out and for places,

They mustered us up with a royal din, In wearisome weeks of drought. Ere ever half of the crops were in,

They held a polo meeting at a little country town, And all the local sportsmen came to win themselves renown. There came two strangers with a horse, and I am much afraid

Little bush maiden, wondering-eyed, Playing alone in the creek-bed dry, In the small green flat on every side

Och! my name's Pat Malone, and I'm from Tipperary. Sure, I don't know it now I'm so bothered, Ohone! And the gals that I danced with, light-hearted and airy,

I've had all sorts of luck, sometimes bad, sometimes better, But now I have somebody's luck and my own, For I stooped in the street and I picked up a letter,

They came of bold and roving stock that would not fixed abide; They were the sons of field and flock since e'er they learnt to ride, We may not hope to see such men in these degenerate years

Air: "Widow McGrath" To Policeman G. the Inspector said: "When you pass the 'shops' you must turn your head;

I have gathered these stories afar In the wind and the rain, In the land where the cattle-camps are,

So, the bank has bust it's boiler! And in six or seven year It will pay me all my money back, of course! But the horse will perish waiting while the grass is germinating,

There's some that ride the Robbo style, and bump at every stride; While others sit a long way back, to get a longer ride. There's some that ride as sailors do, with legs, and arms, and teeth;

"Where 'ave you been this week or more, 'Aven't seen you about the war'? Thought perhaps you was at the rear

Now this was what Macpherson told While waiting in the stand; A reckless rider, over-bold,

(Air: 'Belle Mahone.') At River Bend, in New South Wales, All alone among the whales,

Now is the law of the Overland that all in the West obey, A man must cover with traveling sheep a six-mile stage a day; But this is the law which the drovers make, right easily understood,

Come all you little rouseabouts and climb upon my knee; Today, you see, is Christmas Day, and so it's up to me To give you some instruction like, a kind of Christmas tale,

'Twas Saltbush Bill, with his traveling sheep, was making his way to town; He crossed them over the Hard Times Run, and he came to the Take 'Em Down; He counted through at the boundary gate, and camped at the drafting yard:

The news came down on the Castlereagh, and went to the world at large, That twenty thousand traveling sheep, with Saltbush Bill in charge, Were drifting down from a dried-out run to ravage the Castlereagh;

Beyond the land where Leichhardt went, Beyond Sturt's Western track, The rolling tide of change has sent

(Air: 'Ben Bolt.') Oh! don't you remember Black Alice, Sam Holt' Black Alice, so dusky and dark,

"Halt! Who goes there?" the sentry's call Rose on the midnight air Above the noises of the camp,

It chanced out back at the Christmas time, When the wheat was ripe and tall, A stranger rode to the farmer's gate,

An Unpublished Drama A Winter's Turf Tale As the public have "stood" uncomplainingly the publication of a portrait of the Supreme Being, they may accept the following drama as the work of William Shakespeare.

The bell is set a-ringing, and the engine gives a toot, There's five-and-thirty shearers here a-shearing for the loot, So stir yourselves, you penners-up, and shove the sheep along,

The track that led to Carmody's is choked and overgrown, The suckers of the stringybark have made the place their own; The mountain rains have cut the track that once we used to know

Now the stock have started dying, for the Lord has sent a drought; But we're sick of prayers and Providence, we're going to do without; With the derricks up above us and the solid earth below,

As the nations sat together, grimly waiting, The fierce and ancient nations battle-scarred, Grown grey in their lusting and their hating,

'Tis strange that in a land so strong So strong and bold in mighty youth, We have no poet's voice of truth

[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;

We have sung the song of the droving days, Of the march of the travelling sheep, How by silent stages and lonely ways

We often hear men boast about the land which gave them birth, And each one thinks his native land the fairest spot on earth; In beauty, riches, power, no land can his surpass;

Grey dawn on the sand-hills, the night wind has drifted All night from the rollers a scent of the sea; With the dawn the grey fog his battalions has lifted,

Said the soldier to the Surgeon, "I've got noises in me head And a kind o' filled up feeling after every time I'm fed; I can sleep all night on picket, but I can't sleep in my bed".

Of course they say if this Bobadil starts He'll settle 'em all in a flash: For the pace he can go will be breaking their hearts,

Across the Queensland border line The mobs of cattle go; They travel down in sun and shine

Oh! the circus swooped down On the Narrabri town, For the Narrabri populace moneyed are;

A Tale of the Territory The run of Billabong-go-dry Is just beyond Lime Burner's Gap;

'Twas in the days of front attack; This glorious truth we'd yet to learn it, That every "front" has got a back.

He came from "further out", That land of fear and drought And dust and gravel.

Him goin' to ride for us! Him, with the pants and the eyeglass and all. Amateur! don't he just look it, it's twenty to one on a fall. Boss must be gone off his head to be sending out steeplechase crack

An angel stood beside the bed Where lay the living and the dead. He gave the mother, her who died,

The big white English swan, escaped from captivity, found himself swimming in an Australian waterhole fringed with giant gum trees. In one of the lower forks of a gum tree sat a placid ound-eyed elderly gentleman apparently thinking of nothing whatever, in other words, a native bear. "Excuse me, sir," said the swan, "can you tell me where I am?" "Why, you're here," said the bear.

Oh the airman's game is a showman's game, for we all of us watch him go With his roaring soaring aeroplane and his bombs for the blokes below, Over the railways and over the dumps, over the Hun and the Turk,

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;

Of all the docks upon the blue There was no dockyard, old or new, To touch the dock at Cockatoo.

This is the story of G.R.D., Who went on a mission across the sea To borrow some money for you and me.

The Honourable M. T. Nutt About the bush did jog. Till, passing by a settler's hut,

The shades of night had fallen at last, When through the house a shadow passed, That once had been the Genial Dan,

By the far Samoan shore, Where the league-long rollers pour All the wash of the Pacific on the coral-guarded bay,

"The political season being upon us, the following ballad may be appropriate." Ho! Darkies, don't you hear dose voters cryin' Pack dat carpet bag!

All you on emigration bent, With home and England discontent, Come, listen to my sad lament,

Come all ye lads of the droving days, ye gentlemen unafraid, I'll tell you all of the greatest trip that ever a drover made, For we rolled our swags, and we packed our bags, and taking our lives in hand,

Did you ever hear tell of Chili? I was readin' the other day Of President Balmaceda and of how he was sent away. It seems that he didn't suit 'em, they thought that they'd like a change,

(Air: 'It's a fine hunting day.') Come, Stumpy, old man, we must shift while we can; All our mates in the paddock are dead.

'Twas on the famous Empire run, Whose sun does never set, Whose grass and water, so they say,

(Air: 'Wearing of the Green.') When the merchant lies down, he can scarce go to sleep For thinking of his merchandise upon the fatal deep;

The stranger came from Narromine and made his little joke-- "They say we folks in Narromine are narrow-minded folk. But all the smartest men down here are puzzled to define

I dreamt a dream at the midnight deep, When fancies come and go To vex a man in his soothing sleep

This is the dam that Keele built. This is the stream that brought the water to fill the dam that Keele built; This is the Water and Sewer Brigade,

Chris Watson, of the Parliament, By his Caucus Gods he swore That the great Labor Party

The daylight is dying Away in the west, The wild birds are flying

It was the lunatic poet escaped from the local asylum, Loudly he twanged on his banjo and sang with his voice like a saw-mill, While as with fervour he sang there was borne o'er the shuddering wildwood,

Bristling Billy the porcupine, A person that nobody liked, Sinking a shaft on an ant-bed mine,

Oh, some folk think vice-royalty is festive and hilarious, The duties of an A.D.C. are manifold and various, So listen, whilst I tell in song

(Air: 'The Old Stable Jacket.') A strapping young stockman lay dying, His saddle supporting his head;

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,

Now 'urry, Mrs New South Wales, and come along of us, We're all a-goin' ridin' in the Federation 'bus. A fam'ly party, don't you know, yes, Queenslans's comin', too,

"The opening of the railway line!, the Governor and all! With flags and banners down the street, a banquet and a ball. Hark to 'em at the station now! They're raising cheer on cheer!

With Apologies to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow ("The Village Blacksmith") Under the spreading deficit, The Fitzroy Smithy stands;

I served my time, in the days gone by, In the railway's clash and clang, And I worked my way to the end, and I

(A Song of 1861.) Ye sons of industry, to you I belong, And to you I would dedicate a verse or a song,

(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;

It was somewhere up the country, in a land of rock and scrub, That they formed an institution called the Geebung Polo Club. There were long and wiry natives from the rugged mountain side,

My horse had been lamed in the foot In the rocks at the back of the run, So I camped at the Murderer's Hut,

MacFierce'un came to Whiskeyhurst When summer days were hot, And bided there wi' Jock MacThirst,

Oh, there's some that breeds the Devon that's as solid as a stone, And there's some that breeds the brindle which they call the "Goulburn Roan"; But amongst the breeds of cattle there are very, very few

A man once read with mind surprised Of the way that people were "hypnotised"; By waving hands you produced, forsooth,

Scene: Federal Political Arena A darkened cave. In the middle, a cauldron, boiling. Enter the three witches.

With never a sound of trumpet, With never a flag displayed, The last of the old campaigners

"You led the trump," the old man said With fury in his eye, "And yet you hope my girl to wed!

We're away! and the wind whistles shrewd In our whiskers and teeth; And the granite-like grey of the road

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,

I had spent the night in the watch-house, My head was the size of three, So I went and asked the chemist

Another search for Leichhard's tomb, Though fifty years have fled Since Leichhardt vanished in the gloom,

The Honorable Ardleigh Wyse Was every fisherman's despair; He caught his fish on floating flies,

I This is the sunburnt bushman who Came down from Goondiwindi, Q.

It was the man from Ironbark who struck the Sydney town, He wandered over street and park, he wandered up and down. He loitered here, he loitered there, till he was like to drop,

There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around That the colt from Old Regret had got away, And had joined the wild bush horses, he was worth a thousand pound,

The widow sought the lawyer's room with children three in tow, She told the lawyer man her tale in tones of deepest woe. She said, "My husband took to drink for pains in his inside,

In distant New Zealand, whose tresses of gold The billows are ceaselessly combing, Away in a village all tranquil and old

The Maoris are a mighty race, the finest ever known; Before the missionaries came they worshipped wood and stone; They went to war and fought like fiends, and when the war was done

(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,

I wooed her with a steeplechase, I won her with a fall, I made her heartstrings quiver on the flat When the pony missed his take-off, and we crashed into the wall;

Here in my mountain home, On rugged hills and steep, I sit and watch you come,

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,

By the winding Wollondilly where the weeping willows weep, And the shepherd, with his billy, half awake and half asleed, Folds his fleecy flocks that linger homewards in the setting sun

The London lights are far abeam Behind a bank of cloud, Along the shore the gaslights gleam,

Oh, my name is Bob the Swagman, before you all I stand, And I've had many ups and downs while travelling through the land. I once was well-to-do, my boys, but now I am stumped up,

Oh! the shearing is all over, And the wool is coming down, And I mean to get a wife, boys,

My name is old Jack Palmer, I'm a man of olden days, And so I wish to sing a song

Our money's all spent, to the deuce went it! The landlord, he looks glum, On the tap-room wall, in a very bad scrawl,

The sheep were shorn and the wool went down At the time of our local racing; And I'd earned a spell, I was burnt and brown,

In the good old days when the Army's ways were simple and unrefined, With a stock to keep their chins in front, and a pigtail down behind, When the only light in the barracks at night was a candle of grease or fat,

I had ridden over hurdles up the country once or twice, By the side of Snowy River with a horse they called "The Ace". And we brought him down to Sydney, and our rider, Jimmy Rice,

There's a trade you all know well' It's bringing cattle over' I'll tell you all about the time

There's nothing here sublime, But just a roving rhyme, Run off to pass the time,

"I'll introduce a friend!" he said, "And if you've got a vacant pen You'd better take him in the shed

Kanzo Makame, the diver, sturdy and small Japanee, Seeker of pearls and of pearl-shell down in the depths of the sea, Trudged o'er the bed of the ocean, searching industriously.

A land, as far as the eye can see, where the waving grasses grow Or the plains are blackened and burnt and bare, where the false mirages go Like shifting symbols of hope deferred, land where you never know.

I have come to tell you of the glorious news you'll all be glad to bear, Of the pleasant alterations that are taking place this year. So kindly pay attention, and I'll pass the whisper round,

The Premier and the Socialist Were walking through the State: They wept to see the Savings Bank

I say 'e isn't Remorse! 'Ow do I know? Saw 'im on Riccarton course

O west of all that a man holds dear, on the edge of the Kingdom Come, Where carriage is far too high for beer, and the pubs keep only rum, On the sunburnt ways of the Outer Back, on the plains of the darkening scrub,

Trumpets of the Lancer Corps Sound a loud reveille; Sound it over Sydney shore,

I'd reckon his weight as eight-stun-eight, And his height as five-foot-two, With a face as plain as an eight-day clock

Pro Bono Publico Went out the streets to scan, And marching to and fro

Now look, you see, it's this way like, You cross the broken bridge And run the crick down, till you strike

The fields of youth are filled with flowers, The wine of youth is strong: What need have we to count the hours?

The mountain road goes up and down From Gundagai to Tumut Town And, branching off, there runs a track

Come all ye bold trainers attend to my song, It's a rule of the A.J.C. You mustn't train ponies, for that's very wrong

Now ye gallant Sydney boys, who have left your household joys To march across the sea in search of glory, I am very much afraid that you do not love parade,

Our fathers, brave men were and strong, And whiskey was their daily liquor; They used to move the world along

We have all of us read how the Israelites fled From Egypt with Pharaoh in eager pursuit of 'em, And Pharaoh's fierce troop were all put "in the soup"

The Scorcher and the Howling Swell were riding through the land; They wept like anything to see the hills on every hand; "If these were only leveled down," they said, "it would be grand."

With eyes that searched in the dark, Peering along the line, Stood the grim Scotsman, Hector Clark,

Parliament's a stage, And all the Politicians merely players! They have their exits and entrances,

(Air: 'The Bonnie Irish Boy.') Come now, ye sighing washers all, Join in my doleful lay,

(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;

Weary and listless, sad and slow, Without any conversation, Was a man that worked on The Overflow,

(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,

Come, all ye lads an' list to me, That's left your homes an' crossed the sea, To try your fortune, bound or free,

(Air: 'A wet sheet and a flowing sea.') A bright sun and a loosened rein, A whip whose pealing sound

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,

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,

This is the story the stockman told On the cattle-camp, when the stars were bright; The moon rose up like a globe of gold

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,

Kind friends, pray give attention To this, my little song. Some rum things I will mention,

We buried old Bob where the bloodwoods wave At the foot of the Eaglehawk; We fashioned a cross on the old man's grave

The roving breezes come and go, the reed beds sweep pand sway, The sleepy river murmurs low, and loiters on its way, It is the land of lots o' time along the Castlereagh.

It was shearing time at the Myall Lake, And then rose the sound through the livelong day Of the constant clash that the shear-blades make

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,

Wargeilah town is very small, There's no cathedral nor a club, In fact the township, all in all,

Ow can it rain.' the old man said, 'with things the way they are? You've got to learn off ant and bee, and jackaroo and galah; And no man never saw it rain, for fifty years at least,

'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,

There came a whisper down the Bland between the dawn and dark, Above the tossing of the pines, above the river's flow; It stirred the boughs of giant gums and stalwart ironbark;

It was the Bondi golfing man Drove off from the golf house tee, And he had taken his little daughter

When you're lying in your hammock, sleeping soft and sleeping sound, Without a care or trouble on your mind, And there's nothing to disturb you but the engines going round,

The shearers sat in the firelight, hearty and hale and strong, After the hard day's shearing, passing the joke along: The "ringer" that shore a hundred, as they never were shorn before,

Who never drinks and never bets, But loves his wife and pays his debts And feels content with what he gets?

You talk of riders on the flat, of nerve and pluck and pace, Not one in fifty has the nerve to ride a steeplechase. It's right enough, while horses pull and take their faces strong,

I Korindabria, korindabria, bogarona, bogarona. Iwariniang iwaringdo, iwariniang, iwaringdo, iwariniang, iwaringdo,

The Editor wrote his political screed In ink that was fainter and fainter; He rose to the call of his country's need,

My Uncle Bill! My Uncle Bill! How doth my heart with anguish thrill! For he, our chief, our Robin Hood,

This is the place where they all were bred; Some of the rafters are standing still; Now they are scattered and lost and dead,

(Air: 'The Mistletoe Bough.') The saddle was hung on the stockyard rail, And the poor old horse stood whisking his tail,

Oh! there once was a swagman camped in a Billabong, Under the shade of a Coolabah tree; And he sang as he looked at his old billy boiling,

The strongest creature for his size But least equipped for combat That dwells beneath Australian skies

What have the cavalry done? Cantered and trotted about, Routin' the enemy out,

'Twas to a small, up-country town, When we were boys at school, There came a circus with a clown,

Now the autumn maize is growing, Now the corn-cob fills, Where the Little River flowing

Why, oh why was Kater lifted From the darkness, where he drifted All unknown, and raised to honour,

The Boastful Crow and the Laughing Jack Were telling tales of the outer back: "I've just been travelling far and wide,

My son, if you go to the races to battle with Ikey and Mo, Remember, it's seldom the pigeon can pick out the eye of the crow; Remember, they live by the business; remember, my son, and go slow.

The Boers were down on Kimberley with siege and Maxim gun; The Boers were down on Kimberley, their numbers ten to one! Faint were the hopes the British had to make the struggle good,

The Boers were down on Kimberley with siege and Maxim gun; The Boers were down on Kimberley, their numbers ten to one! Faint were the hopes the British had to make the struggle good,

The drought is down on field and flock, The river-bed is dry; And we must shift the starving stock

The drought is down on field and flock, The river-bed is dry; And we must shift the starving stock