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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.