THE OLD BULLOCK DRAY

Oh! the shearing is all over,
  And the wool is coming down,
And I mean to get a wife, boys,
  When I go up to town.
Everything that has two legs
  Represents itself in view,
From the little paddy-melon
  To the bucking kangaroo.

            CHORUS

   So it’s roll up your blankets,
     And let’s make a push,
   I’ll take you up the country,
     And show you the bush.
   I’ll be bound you won’t get
     Such a chance another day,
   So come and take possession
     Of my old bullock dray.

Now, I’ve saved up a good cheque,
  I mean to buy a team,
And when I get a wife, boys,
  I’ll be all-serene
For calling at the depôt.
  They say there’s no delay
To get an off-sider
  For the old bullock dray.

Oh! we’ll live like fighting cocks,
  For good living, I’m your man.
We’ll have leather jacks, johnny cakes,
  And fritters in the pan;
Or if you’d like some fish
  I’ll catch you some soon,
For we’ll bob for barramundies
  Round the banks of a lagoon.

Oh! yes, of beef and damper
  I take care we have enough,
And we’ll boil in the bucket
  Such a whopper of a duff,
And our friends will dance
  To the honour of the day,
To the music of the bells,
  Around the old bullock dray.

Oh! we’ll have plenty girls,
  We must mind that.
There’ll be flash little Maggie,
  And buckjumping Pat.
There’ll be Stringy bark Joe,
  And Green-hide Mike.
Yes, my Colonials, just
  As many as you like.

Now we’ll stop all immigration,
  We won’t need it any more;
We’ll be having young natives,
  Twins by the score.
And I wonder what the devil
  Jack Robertson would say
If he saw us promenading
  Round the old bullock dray.

Oh! it’s time I had an answer,
  If there’s one to be had,
I wouldn’t treat that steer
  In the body half as bad;
But he takes as much notice
  Of me, upon my soul,
As that old blue stag
  Off-side in the pole.

Oh! to tell a lot of lies,
  You know, it is a sin,
But I’ll go up country
  And marry a black gin.
Oh! “Baal gammon white feller,”
  This is what she’ll say,
“Budgery you
  And your old bullock dray.”

This song may require a few notes for the benefit of non-Australian readers. A paddy-melon is a small and speedy marsupial, a sort of poor relation of the great kangaroo family.

“Calling at the depôt to get an offsider.”—Female immigrants were housed at the depôt on arrival, and many found husbands within a few hours of their landing. The minstrel, therefore, proposes to call at the depôt to get himself a wife from among the immigrants. An offsider is a bullock-drivers assistant—one who walks on the off-side of the team and flogs the bullocks on that side when occasion arises. The word afterwards came to mean an assistant of any kind.

“Jack Robertson.”—Sir John Robertson, as he afterwards became, was a well-known politician, who believed in Australians doing their best to populate their own country.

“Budgery you”—good fellow you.

PADDY’S LETTER, 1857

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,
  Which some one had written to send away home.

The old adage says, “What you find, you may keep it,”
  And as most of these old sayings are very true,
I straight broke the seal, and then having read it,
  The contents of this letter I tell unto you.

                 The Letter

Dear Dermot, I hope when this letter gets to you
  ’Twill find you in health, as now it leaves me;
But I hope you’re more happy than I am in Australia—
  If not, it’s small comfort that you have, achree!

Hard fortune’s been mine since crossing the line,
  Though that same I ne’er saw, for we crossed it at night;
But they say ’twas laid down at expense of the Crown,
  To divide the wrong side of the world from the right.

But what should a boy placed in my situation
  Know about lines laid across the big sea!
But, faith, this I know, and without navigation,
  I’m at the wrong side of the line, anyway.

I’m telling you now how strange seasons fall.
  We have here rain and sleet in the month of July,
And hailstones as big as a small cannon-ball—
  And they do as much harm—not a word of a lie!

But the making of magistrates now all the rage is,
  And every flockmaster’s a justice of peace;
They find it so easy to cancel the wages,
  The law is their own and they rob whom they please.

Pat Murphy’s boy Tim, that married Moll Casey,
  Lives on the Barcoo that’s away in the bush.
Himself and the wife, why they lived mighty aisy,
  Till one day on Tim, oh, the blacks they did rush.

They killed little Paddy, but spared the young baby,
  Because it was sickly—I think it was that—
And while Molly was crying, a gin said, “No habbie
  Your thin picaninny—well wait till it’s fat.”

’Tis a beautiful country to practise economy.
  Though the houses out here are not quite waterproof,
But they’re illigant houses for studying astronomy—
  You can lie on your back and read stars through the roof

P.S.—This is cramped—if there’s no one to read it,
  Send for Tim Murphy, he’ll know every stroke.
Ye all have my blessing, I know that yell need it,
  So no more at present from Teddy O’Rourke.

The above to an old tune called “Barney O’Keefe,” 1848.

THE OLD BARK HUT

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,
And I’m forced to go on rations in an old bark hut.

                   Chorus

      In an old bark hut.  In an old bark hut.
      I’m forced to go on rations in an old bark hut.

Ten pounds of flour, ten pounds of beef, some sugar and
     some tea,
That’s all they give to a hungry man, until the Seventh Day.
If you don’t be moighty sparing, you’ll go with a hungry
     gut—
For that’s one of the great misfortunes in an old bark hut.

                   Chorus

      In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
      For that’s one of the great misfortunes in an old
           bark hut.

The bucket you boil your beef in has to carry water, too,
And they’ll say you’re getting mighty flash if you should ask
     for two.
I’ve a billy, and a pint pot, and a broken-handled cup,
And they all adorn the table in the old bark hut.

                   Chorus

      In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
      And they all adorn the table in the old bark hut.

Faith, the table is not made of wood, as many you have seen—
For if I had one half so good, I’d think myself serene—
’Tis only an old sheet of bark—God knows when it was cut—
It was blown from off the rafters of the old bark hut.

                   Chorus

      In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
      It was blown from off the rafters of the old bark hut.

And of furniture, there’s no such thing, ’twas never in the
     place,
Except the stool I sit upon—and that’s an old gin case.
It does us for a safe as well, but you must keep it shut,
Or the flies would make it canter round the old hark hut.

                   Chorus

      In an old bark hut.  In an old bark hut.
      Or the flies would make it canter round the old bark
          hut.

If you should leave it open, and the flies should find your
      meat,
They’ll scarcely leave a single piece that’s fit for man to eat.
But you mustn’t curse, nor grumble—what won’t fatten will
      fill up—
For what’s out of sight is out of mind in an old bark hut.

                   Chorus
       In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
       For what’s out of sight is out of mind in an old
            bark hut.

In the summer time, when the weather’s warm, this hut is
      nice and cool,
And you’ll find the gentle breezes blowing in through every
      hole.
You can leave the old door open, or you can leave it shut,
There’s no fear of suffocation in the old bark hut.

                   Chorus

       In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
       There’s no fear of suffocation in the old bark hut.

In the winter time—preserve us all—to live in there’s a
      treat
Especially when it’s raining hard, and blowing wind and
      sleet.

The rain comes down the chimney, and your meat is black
    with soot—
That’s a substitute for pepper in an old bark hut.

                   Chorus

      In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
      That’s a substitute for pepper in an old bark hut.

I’ve seen the rain come in this hut just like a perfect flood,
Especially through that great big hole where once the table
    stood.
There’s not a blessed spot, me boys, where you could lay
    your nut,
But the rain is sure to find you in the old bark hut.

                   Chorus

      In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
      But the rain is sure to find you in the old bark hut.

So beside the fire I make me bed, and there I lay me down,
And think myself as happy as the king that wears a crown.
But as you’d be dozing off to sleep a flea will wake you up,
Which makes you curse the vermin in the old bark hut.

                   Chorus

      In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
      Which makes you curse the vermin in the old bark
           hut.

Faith, such flocks of fleas you never saw, they are so plump
     and fat,
And if you make a grab at one, he’ll spit just like a cat.
Last night they got my pack of cards, and were fighting for
     the cut—
I thought the devil had me in the old bark hut.

                   Chorus

      In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
      I thought the devil had me in the old bark hut.

So now, my friends, I’ve sung my song, and that as well as I
     could,
And I hope the ladies present won’t think my language rude,
And all ye younger people, in the days when you grow up,
Remember Bob the Swagman, and the old bark hut.

                   Chorus

      In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
      Remember Bob the Swagman, and the old bark hut.

THE OLD SURVEY

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,
  He has chalked to us a sum.
But a glass we’ll take, ere the grey dawn break,
  And then saddle up and away—
Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.

With a measured beat fall our horses’ feet,
  Galloping side by side;
When the money’s done, and we’ve had our fun,
  We all are bound to ride.
O’er the far-off plain we’ll drag the chain,
  And mark the settler’s way—
Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.

We’ll range from the creeks to the mountain peaks,
  And traverse far below;
Where foot never trod, we’ll mark with a rod
  The limits of endless snow;

Each lofty crag we’ll plant with a flag,
  To flash in the sun’s bright ray—
Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.

Till with cash hard-earned once more returned,
  At “The Beaver” bars we’ll shout;
And the very bad scrawl that’s against the wall
  Ourselves shall see wiped out.
Such were the ways in the good old days!—
  The days of the old survey!
Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.

DWELL NOT WITH ME

Dwell, not with me,
For you’ll never see
More than a ’possum or a kangaroo,
And now and then a cockatoo.

Oh, would you wish,
Without a dish,
Your scanty meal from a piece of bark,
And a wood fire to illume the dark.

’Tis there you’d mourn,
’Tis there you’d mourn
The sweet woodbine
That round your lattice now doth twine.

Fond friends, don’t grieve
For scenes like these,
Or smart from bugs, mosquitoes, fleas.
Dwell not with me.

THE BEAUTIFUL LAND OF AUSTRALIA

All you on emigration bent,
With home and England discontent,
Come, listen to my sad lament,
  All about the bush of Australia.
I once possessed a thousand pounds.
Thinks I—how very grand it sounds
For a man to be farming his own grounds
  In the beautiful land of Australia.

                Chorus

      Illawarra, Mittagong,
      Parramatta, Wollongong.
   If you wish to become an ourang-outang,
   Then go to the bush of Australia.

Upon the voyage the ship was lost.
In wretched plight I reached the coast,
And was very nigh being made a roast,
  By the savages of Australia.

And in the bush I lighted on
A fierce bushranger with his gun,
Who borrowed my garments, every one,
  For himself in the bush of Australia.

              Chorus

      Illawarra, Mittagong,
      Parramatta, Wollongong.
   If you wish to become an ourang-outang,
   Then go to the bush of Australia.

Sydney town I reached at last,
And now, thinks I, all danger’s past,
And I shall make my fortune fast
  In this promising land of Australia.
I quickly went with cash in hand,
Upon the map I chose my land.
When I got there ’twas barren sand
  In the beautiful land of Australia.

              Chorus

      Illawarra, Mittagong,
      Parramatta, Wollongong-
   If you wish to become an ourang-outang,
   Then go to the bush of Australia.

Of sheep I got a famous lot.
Some died of hunger, some of rot,
For the devil a drop of rain they got,
  In this flourishing land of Australia.
My convict men were always drunk,
They kept me in a constant funk.
Says I to myself, as to bed I slunk,
  How I wish I was out of Australia!

               Chorus

       Booligal, Gobarralong,
       Emu Flat and Jugiong.
   If you wish to become an ourang-outang,
   Then go to the bush of Australia.

Of ills, enough I’ve had you’ll own.
And then at last, my woes to crown,
One night my log house was blown down
  That settled us all in Australia
And now of home and all bereft,
The horrid spot I quickly left,
Making it over by deed of gift
  To the savages of Australia.

               Chorus

       Booligal, Gobarralong,
       Emu Flat and Jugiong.
   If you wish to become an ourang-outang,
   Then go to the bush of Australia

I gladly worked my passage home,
And now to England back I’ve come,
Determined never more to roam,
  At least, to the bush of Australia.
And stones upon the road I’ll break,
And earn my seven bob a week,
Which is surely better than the freak
  Of settling down in Australia.

              Chorus

      Currabubula, Bogolong,
      Ulladulla, Gerringong.
  If you wouldn’t become an ourang-outang,
  Don’t go to the bush of Australia.

ON THE ROAD TO GUNDAGAI

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,
With a three-spot cheque between us, as wanted knocking
    down.

                       Chorus

  But we camped at Lazy Harry’s, on the road to Gundagai
  The road to Gundagai!  Not five miles from Gundagai!
  Yes, we camped at Lazy Harry’s, on the road to Gundagai.

Well, we struck the Murrumbidgee near the Yanko in a
    week,
And passed through old Narrandera and crossed the Burnet
    Creek.
And we never stopped at Wagga, for we’d Sydney in our eye.


But we camped at Lazy Harry’s, on the road to Gundagai.
  Chorus: But we camped, &c.

Oh, I’ve seen a lot of girls, my boys, and drunk a lot of beer,
And I’ve met with some of both, chaps, as has left me mighty
    queer;
But for beer to knock you sideways, and for girls to make
    you sigh,
You must camp at Lazy Harry’s, on the road to Gundagai.

Well, we chucked our blooming swags off, and we walked
    into the bar,
And we called for rum-an’-raspb’ry and a shilling each cigar.
But the girl that served the pizen, she winked at Bill and I—
And we camped at Lazy Harry’s,  not five miles from
    Gundagai.

In a week the spree was over and the cheque was all knocked
    down,
So we shouldered our “Matildas,” and we turned our backs
    on town,
And the girls they stood a nobbler as we sadly said “Good
    bye,”
And we tramped from Lazy Harry’s, not five miles from
    Gundagai;

          Chorus: And we tramped, &c.

“Humped our blues serenely.”—To hump bluey is to carry one’s swag, and the name bluey comes from the blue blankets. To “Shoulder Matilda” is the same thing as to “hump bluey.”

FLASH JACK FROM GUNDAGAI

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
Shearin’ for old Tom Patterson, on the One Tree Plain.

                    Chorus

  All among the wool, boys,
  Keep your wide blades full, boys,
  I can do a respectable tally myself whenever I like to try,
  But they know me round the back blocks as Flash Jack
    from Gundagai.

I’ve shore at big Willandra and I’ve shore at Tilberoo,
And once I drew my blades, my boys, upon the famed Barcoo,
At Cowan Downs and Trida, as far as Moulamein,
But I always was glad to get back again to the One Tree
    Plain.

  Chorus: All among the wool, &c.

I’ve pinked ’em with the Wolseleys and I’ve rushed with
    B-bows, too,
And shaved ’em in the grease, my boys, with the grass seed
    showing through.
But I never slummed my pen, my lads, whate’er it might
    contain,
While shearin’ for old Tom Patterson, on the One Tree Plain.

I’ve been whalin’ up the Lachlan, and I’ve dossed on Cooper’s
    Creek,
And once I rung Cudjingie shed, and blued it in a week.
But when Gabriel blows his trumpet, lads, I’ll catch the
    morning train,
And I’ll push for old Tom Patterson’s, on the One Tree
    Plain.

“I’ve pinked ’em with the Wolseleys, and I’ve rushed with B-bows, too.” — Wolseleys and B-bows are respectively machines and hand-shears, and “pinking” means that he had shorn the sheep so closely that the pink skin showed through. “I rung Cudjingie shed and blued it in a week,” i.e., he was the ringer or fastest shearer of the shed, and he dissipated the earnings in a single week’s drunkenness.

“Whalin’ up the Lachlan.” — In the old days there was an army of “sundowners” or professional loafers who walked from station to station, ostensibly to look for work, but without any idea of accepting it. These nomads often followed up and down certain rivers, and would camp for days and fish for cod in the bends of the river. Hence whaling up the Lachlan.