ANOTHER FALL OF RAIN

(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,
For some had got the century who’d ne’er got it before,
  And now all hands were wishing for the rain.

                   Chorus

   For the boss is getting rusty and the ringer’s caving in,
     For his bandaged wrist is aching with the pain,
   And the second man, I fear, will make it hot for him,
     Unless we have another fall of rain.

A few had taken quarters and were coiling in their bunks
  When we shore the six-tooth wethers from the plain.
And if the sheep get harder, then a few more men will funk,
  Unless we get another fall of rain.

But the sky is clouding over, and the thunder’s muttering
    loud,
  And the clouds are driving eastward o’er the plain,

And I see the lightning flashing from the edge of yon black
    cloud,
  And I hear the gentle patter of the rain.

So, lads, put on your stoppers, and let us to the hut,
  Where we’ll gather round and have a friendly game,
While some are playing music and some play ante up,
  And some are gazing outwards at the rain.

But now the rain is over, let the pressers spin the screw,
  Let the teamsters back the waggons in again,
And we’ll block the classer’s table by the way we’ll put them
    through,
  For everything is merry since the rain.

And the boss he won’t be rusty when his sheep they all are
    shorn,
  And the wringer’s wrist won’t ache much with the pain
Of pocketing his cheque for fifty pounds or more,
  And the second man will press him hard again.

“Another Fall of Rain” is a song that needs a little explanation. The strain of shearing is very severe on the wrists, and the ringer or fastest shearer is very apt to go in the wrists, especially at the beginning of a season. Hence the desire of the shearers for a fall of rain after a long stretch of hot weather.

BOLD JACK DONAHOO

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,
For seven long years, in New South Wales, to wear a convict’s
    chain.

                      Chorus

   Then come, my hearties, we’ll roam the mountains high!
   Together we will plunder, together we will die!
   We’ll wander over  mountains and we’ll gallop over
        plains—
   For we scorn to live in slavery, bound down in iron
        chains.

I’d scarce been there twelve months or more upon the
    Australian shore,
When I took to the highway, as I’d oft-times done before.
There was me and Jacky Underwood, and Webber and
    Webster, too.
These were the true associates of bold Jack Donahoo.

   Chorus: Then come, &c.

Now, Donahoo was taken, all for a notorious crime,
And sentenced to be hanged upon the gallows-tree so high.
But when they came to Sydney gaol, he left them in a stew,
And when they came to call the roll, they missed bold
    Donahoo.

   Chorus: Then come, &c.

As Donahoo made his escape, to the bush he went straight-
    way.
The people they were all afraid to travel night or day—
For every week in the newspapers there was published some-thing
    new
Concerning this dauntless hero, the bold Jack Donahoo!

   Chorus: Then come, &c.

As Donahoo was cruising, one summer’s afternoon,
little was his notion his death was near so soon,
When a sergeant of the horse police discharged his car-a-bine,
And called aloud on Donahoo to fight or to resign.

   Chorus: Then come, &c.

“Resign to you—you cowardly dogs! a thing I ne’er will do,
For I’ll fight this night with all my might,” cried bold Jack
    Donahoo.
“I’d rather roam these hills and dales, like wolf or kangaroo,
Than work one hour for Government!” cried bold Jack
    Donahoo.

   Chorus: Then come, &c.

He fought six rounds with the horse police until the fatal
    ball,
Which pierced his heart and made him start, caused Donahoo
    to fall.
And as he closed his mournful eyes, he bade this world Adieu,
Saying, “Convicts all, both large and small, say prayers for
    Donahoo!”

   Chorus: Then come, &c.

THE WILD COLONIAL BOY

’Tis of a wild Colonial boy, Jack Doolan was his name,
Of poor but honest parents he was born in Castlemaine.
He was his father’s only hope, his mother’s only joy,
And dearly did his parents love the wild Colonial boy.

                    Chorus

   Come, all my hearties, we’ll roam the mountains high,
   Together we will plunder, together we will die.
   We’ll wander over valleys, and gallop over plains,
   And we’ll scorn to live in slavery, bound down with iron
       chains.


He was scarcely sixteen years of age when he left his father’s
    home,
And through Australia’s sunny clime a bushranger did roam.
He robbed those wealthy squatters, their stock he did
    destroy,
And a terror to Australia was the wild Colonial boy.

   Chorus: Come, all my hearties, &c.

In sixty-one this daring youth commenced his wild career,
With a heart that knew no danger, no foeman did he fear.
He stuck up the Beechworth mail coach, and robbed Judge
    MacEvoy,
Who trembled, and gave up his gold to the wild Colonial boy.

   Chorus: Come, all my hearties, &c.

He bade the Judge “Good morning,” and told him to beware,
That he’d never rob a hearty chap that acted on the square,
And never to rob a mother of her son and only joy,
Or else you may turn outlaw, like the wild Colonial boy.

   Chorus: Come, all my hearties, &c.

One day as he was riding the mountain side along,
A-listening to the little birds, their pleasant laughing song,
Three mounted troopers rode along—Kelly,  Davis, and
    FitzRoy.
They thought that they would capture him—the wild
    Colonial boy.

    Chorus: Come, all my hearties, &c.

“Surrender now, Jack Doolan, you see there’s three to one.
Surrender now, Jack Doolan, you daring highwayman.”
He drew a pistol from his belt, and shook the little toy.
“I’ll fight, but not surrender,” said the wild Colonial boy.

   Chorus: Come, all my hearties, &c.

He fired at Trooper Kelly, and brought him to the ground,
And in return from Davis received a mortal wound.
All shattered through the jaws he lay still firing at FitzRoy,
And that’s the way they captured him—the wild Colonial
    boy.

   Chorus: Come, all my hearties, &c.

It will be noticed that the same chorus is sung to both “The Wild Colonial Boy” and “Bold Jack Donahoo.” Several versions of both songs were sent in, but the same chorus was always made to do duty for both songs.

JOHN GILBERT (BUSHRANGER)

(Air: “Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.”)

John Gilbert was a bushranger of terrible renown,
For sticking lots of people up and shooting others down.
John Gilbert said unto his pals, “Although they make a
    bobbery
About our tricks we have never done a tip-top thing in
    robbery.

“We have all of us a fancy for experiments in pillage,
Yet never have we seized a town, or even sacked a village.”
John Gilbert said unto his mates—“Though partners we
    have been
In all rascality, yet we no festal day have seen.”

John Gilbert said he thought he saw no obstacle to hinder a
Piratical descent upon the town of Canowindra.
So into Canowindra town rode Gilbert and his men,
And all the Canowindra folk subsided there and then.

The Canowindra populace cried, “Here’s a lot of strangers!!!”
But immediately recovered when they found they were
    bushrangers.
And Johnny Gilbert said to them, “You need not be afraid.
We are only old companions whom bushrangers you have made.”

And Johnny Gilbert said, said he, “We’ll never hurt a hair
Of men who bravely recognise that we are just all there.”
The New South Welshmen said at once, not making any
    fuss,
That Johnny Gilbert, after all, was “Just but one of us.”

So Johnny Gilbert took the town (including public houses),
And treated all the  “cockatoos” and shouted for their
    spouses.
And Miss O’Flanagan performed in manner quite gintailly
Upon the grand planner for the bushranger O’Meally.

And every stranger passing by they took, and when they got
    him
They robbed him of his money and occasionally shot him.
And Johnny’s enigmatic feat admits of this solution,
That bushranging in New South Wales is a favoured
    institution.

So Johnny Gilbert ne’er allows an anxious thought to fetch
    him,
For well he knows the Government don’t really want to
    ketch him.
And if such practices should be to New South Welshmen dear,
With not the least demurring word ought we to interfere.

IMMIGRATION

(Air: “Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.”)

Now Jordan’s land of promise is the burden of my song.
Perhaps you’ve heard him lecture, and blow about it strong;
To hear him talk you’d think it was a heaven upon earth,
But listen and I’ll tell you now the plain unvarnished truth.

Here mutton, beef, and damper are all you’ll get to eat,
From Monday morn till Sunday night, all through the
    blessed week.
And should the flour bag run short, then mutton, beef, and
    tea
Will be your lot, and whether or not, ’twill have to do,
    you’ll see.

Here snakes and all vile reptiles crawl around you as you
    walk,
But these you never hear about in Mr. Jordan’s talk;
Mosquitoes, too, and sandflies, they will tease you all the
    night,
And until you get quite colonised you’ll be a pretty sight.

Here are boundless plains where it seldom rains, and you’ll
    maybe die of thirst;
But should you so dispose your bones, you’ll scarcely be the
    first,
For there’s many a strong and stalwart man come out to
    make his pile,
Who never leaves the fatal shore of this thrice accursed isle.

To sum it up in few short words, the place is only fit
For those who were sent out here, for from this they cannot
    flit.
But any other men who come a living here to try,
Will vegetate a little while and then lie down and die.

THE SQUATTER’S MAN

Come, all ye lads an’ list to me,
That’s left your homes an’ crossed the sea,
To try your fortune, bound or free,
  All in this golden land.
For twelve long months I had to pace,
Humping my swag with a cadging face,
Sleeping in the bush, like the sable race,
  As in my song you’ll understand.

Unto this country I did come,
A regular out-and-out new chum.
I then abhorred the sight of rum—
  Teetotal was my plan.
But soon I learned to wet one eye—
Misfortune oft-times made me sigh.
To raise fresh funds I was forced to fly,
  And be a squatter’s man.

Soon at a station I appeared.
I saw the squatter with his beard,
And up to him I boldly steered,
  With my swag and billy-can.

I said, “Kind sir, I want a job!”
Said he, “Do you know how to snob
Or can you break in a bucking cob?”
  Whilst my figure he well did scan.

“’Tis now I want a useful cove
To stop at home and not to rove.
The scamps go about—a regular drove—
  I ’spose you’re one of the clan?
But I’ll give ten—ten, sugar an’ tea;
Ten bob a week, if you’ll suit me,
And very soon I hope you’ll be
  A handy squatter’s man.

“At daylight you must milk the cows,
Make butter, cheese, an’ feed the sows,
Put on the kettle, the cook arouse,
  And clean the family shoes.
The stable an’ sheep yard clean out,
And always answer when we shout,
With ‘Yes, ma’am,’ and  ‘No, sir,’ mind your
    mouth;
  And my youngsters don’t abuse.

“You must fetch wood an’ water, bake an’ boil,
Act as butcher when we kill;
The corn an’ taters you must hill,
  Keep the garden spick and span.

You must not scruple in the rain
To take to market all the grain.
Be sure you come sober back again
  To be a squatter’s man.”

He sent me to an old bark hut,
Inhabited by a greyhound slut,
Who put her fangs through my poor fut,
  And, snarling, off she ran.
So once more I’m looking for a job,
Without a copper in my fob.
With Ben Hall or Gardiner I’d rather rob,
  Than be a squatter’s man.

“Do you know how to snob?”—A snob in English slang is a bootmaker, so the squatter wanted his man to do a bit of boot-repairing.

“I’ll give ten, ten, sugar and tea.”—The “ten, ten” refers to the amount—ten pounds weight—of flour and meat that made up the weekly ration on the stations.

THE STRINGY-BARK COCKATOO

I’m a broken-hearted miner, who loves his cup to drain,
Which often times has caused me to lie in frost and rain.
Roaming about the country, looking for some work to do,
I got a job of reaping off a stringy-bark cockatoo.

                   Chorus

   Oh, the stringy-bark cockatoo,
   Oh, the stringy-bark cockatoo,
   I got a job of reaping off a stringy-bark cockatoo.

Ten bob an acre was his price—with promise of fairish
    board.
He said his crops were very light, ’twas all he could afford.
He drove me out in a bullock dray, and his piggery met my
    view.
Oh, the pigs and geese were in the wheat of the stringy-bark
    cockatoo.

   Chorus: Oh, the stringy-bark, &c.

The hut was made of the surface mud, the roof of a reedy
    thatch.
The doors and windows open flew without a bolt or latch.
The pigs and geese were in the hut, the hen on the table
    flew,
And she laid an egg in the old tin plate for the stringy-bark
   cockatoo.

   Chorus: Oh, the stringy-bark, &c.

For breakfast we had pollard, boys, it tasted like cobbler’s
    paste.
To help it down we had to eat brown bread with vinegar
    taste.
The tea was made of the native hops, which out on the
    ranges grew;
’Twas sweetened with honey bees and wax for the stringy-bark
    cockatoo.

   Chorus: Oh, the stringy-bark, &c.

For dinner we had goanna hash, we thought it mighty
    hard;
They wouldn’t give us butter, so we forced down bread and
    lard.
Quondong duff, paddy-melon pie, and wallaby Irish stew
We used to eat while reaping for the stringy-bark cockatoo.

   Chorus: Oh, the stringy-bark, &c.

When we started to cut the rust and smut was just beginning
    to shed,
And all we had to sleep on was a dog and sheep-skin bed.
The bugs and fleas tormented me, they made me scratch and
    screw;
I lost my rest while reaping for the stringy-bark cockatoo.

   Chorus: Oh, the stringy-bark, &c.

At night when work was over I’d nurse the youngest child,
And when I’d say a joking word, the mother would laugh and
    smile.
The old cocky, he grew jealous, and he thumped me black
    and blue,
And he drove me off without a rap—the stringy-bark
    cockatoo.

   Chorus: Oh, the stringy-bark, &c.

THE EUMERELLA SHORE

There’s a happy little valley on the Eumerella shore,
  Where I’ve lingered many happy hours away,
On my little free selection I have acres by the score,
  Where I unyoke the bullocks from the dray.

                   Chorus

   To my bullocks then I say
   No matter where you stray,
     You will never be impounded any more;
   For you’re running, running, running on the duffer’s
       piece of land,
     Free selected on the Eumerella shore.

When the moon has climbed the mountains and the stars are
    shining bright,
  Then we saddle up our horses and away,
And we yard the squatters’ cattle in the darkness of the
    night,
  And we have the calves all branded by the day.

                   Chorus

Oh, my pretty little calf,
At the squatter you may laugh,
  For he’ll never be your owner any more;
For you’re running, running, running on the duffer’s
    piece of land,
  Free selected on the Eumerella shore.

If we find a mob of horses when the paddock rails are down,
  Although before they’re never known to stray,
Oh, quickly will we drive them to some distant inland town,
  And sell them into slav’ry far away.

                   Chorus

   To Jack Robertson we’ll say
   You’ve been leading us astray,
     And we’ll never go a-farming any more;
   For it’s easier duffing cattle on the little piece of land
     Free selected on the Eumerella shore.

JIMMY SAGO, JACKAROO

(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.
Pack up the old portmanteau, and label it Paroo,
With a name aristocratic—Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.

When you get on to the station, of small things you’ll make
    a fuss,
And in speaking of the station, mind, it’s we, and ours, and
    us.
Boast of your grand connections and your rich relations, too
And your own great expectations, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.

They will send you out on horseback, the boundaries to ride
But run down a marsupial and rob him of his hide,
His scalp will fetch a shilling and his hide another two,
Which will help to fill your pockets, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.
Yes, to fill your empty pockets, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.

When the boss wants information, on the men you’ll do a
    sneak,
And don a paper collar on your fifteen bob a week.
Then at the lamb-marking a boss they’ll make of you.
Now that’s the way to get on, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.

A squatter in the future I’ve no doubt you may be,
But if the banks once get you, they’ll put you up a tree.
To see you humping bluey, I know, would never do,
’Twould mean good-bye to our new chum, Jimmy Sago,
    Jackaroo.
Yes, good-bye to our new chum, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.

A “Jackaroo” is a young man who comes to a station to get experience. He occupies a position much like that of an apprentice on a ship, and has to work with the men though supposed to be above them in social status. Hence these sneers at the Jackaroo.

THE PLAINS OF RIVERINE

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 squatters of their own free will this year will pay the
    pound.

For this is a year of great prosperity, that everybody knows,
We’ll take no top knots off this year, nor trim them to the
    toes,
But a level cut for a level pound, and the rations thrown
    in free.
That’s how the squatters say they’ll keep their Sovereign’s
    Jubilee.

And kind Providence once more has sent the sweet, refreshing
    rains.
The trefoil and the barley grass wave high upon the plains,
The tanks all overflowing and the saltbush fresh and green,
It’s a pleasure for to ramble o’er the plains of Riverine.

Once more upon the rippling lake the wild swan flaps her
    wing.
Out in the lignum swamps once more frogs croak and crickets
    sing.
Once more the wild fowl, sporting midst the crab-holes, may
    be seen,
For prosperity is hovering o’er the plains of Riverine.

Yes, ’twill be a year of full and plenty for those back-block
    pioneers,
Though behind each scrub and saltbush you can spot the
    bunny’s ears;
And although the price for scalps is not so high as it has been,
Yet the bunny snappers they will thrive on the plains of
    Riverine.

You should see the jolly teamsters how with joy their faces
    beam,
As they talk about the crowfoot, carrots, crab-holes, and
    their team.
They tell you that this year they do intend to steer sixteen.
They’ll show the “cookies” how to plough the plains of
    Riverine.

Yes, in more respects than one it is a year of joy and glee,
And the news of our prosperity has crossed the briny sea.
Once more the Maorilander and the Tassey will be seen
Cooking Johnny cakes and jimmies on the plains of Riverine.

They will gather like a regiment to the beating of the drum,
But it matters not to us from whence our future penmates
    come.
From New Zealand’s snow-clad summits or Tasmania’s
    meadows green,
We’ll always make them welcome on the plains of Riverine.

Down from her rocky peaks Monaro will send her champions
    bold;
Victoria will send her “cockies,” too, her honour to uphold.
They’ll be here from Cunnamulla, and the rolling downs
    between,
For this is the real convincing ground, these plains of
    Riverine.

I have a message to deliver now, before I say farewell,
Some news which all the squatters have commissioned me to
    tell;
Your backs well bent, bows long and clean, that’s what they
    want to see,
That your tallies may do you credit in this year of Jubilee.

“This year will pay the pound.”—A pound a hundred is the price for shearing sheep, and several bitterly fought-out strikes have taken place about it.

“We’ll take no topknots off this year nor trim them to the toes.”—Owing to the amiability of the squatters and the excellence of the season, the shearers intend to leave some of the wool on the sheep, i.e., the topknots on the head and wool down on the legs.

“To steer sixteen”—sixteen horses in the team.