THE SHEEP-WASHERS’ LAMENT

(Air: “The Bonnie Irish Boy.”)

Come now, ye sighing washers all,
  Join in my doleful lay,
Mourn for the times none can recall,
  With hearts to grief a prey.
We’ll mourn the washer’s sad downfall
  In our regretful strain,
Lamenting on the days gone by
  Ne’er to return again.

When first I went a-washing sheep
  The year was sixty-one,
The master was a worker then,
  The servant was a man;
But now the squatters, puffed with pride,
  They treat us with disdain;
Lament the days that are gone by
  Ne’er to return again.

From sixty-one to sixty-six,
  The bushman, stout and strong,
Would smoke his pipe and whistle his tune,
  And sing his cheerful song,
As wanton as the kangaroo
  That bounds across the plain.
Lament the days that are gone by
  Ne’er to return again.

Supplies of food unstinted, good,
  No squatter did withhold.
With plenty grog to cheer our hearts,
  We feared nor heat nor cold.
With six-and-six per man per day
  We sought not to complain.
Lament the days that are gone by
  Ne’er to return again.

With perfect health, a mine of wealth,
  Our days seemed short and sweet,
On pleasure bent our evenings spent,
  Enjoyment was complete.
But now we toil from morn till night,
  Though much against the grain,
Lamenting on the days gone by,
  Ne’er to return again.

I once could boast two noble steeds,
  To bear me on my way,
My good revolver in my belt,
  I never knew dismay.
But lonely now I hump my drum
  In sunshine and in rain,
Lamenting on the days gone by
  Ne’er to return again.

A worthy cheque I always earned,
  And spent it like a lord.
My dress a prince’s form would grace.
  And spells I could afford.
But now in tattered rags arrayed,
  My limbs they ache with pain,
Lamenting on the days gone by,
  Ne’er to return again.

May bushmen all in unity
  Combine with heart and hand,
May cursed cringing poverty
  Be banished from the land.
In Queensland may prosperity
  In regal glory reign,
And washers in the time to come
  Their vanished rights regain.

THE BROKEN-DOWN SQUATTER

(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.
Let us wave our farewells to Glen Eva’s sweet dells
  And the hills where your lordship was bred;
Together to roam from our drought-stricken home—
  It seems hard that such things have to be,
And its hard on a “hogs” when he’s nought for a boss
  But a broken-down squatter like me!

                    Chorus

   For the banks are all broken, they say,
     And the merchants are all up a tree.
   When the bigwigs are brought to the Bankruptcy Court,
     What chance for a squatter like me.

No more shall we muster the river for fats,
  Or spiel on the Fifteen-mile plain,
Or rip through the scrub by the light of the moon,
  Or see the old stockyard again.

Leave the slip-panels down, it won’t matter much now,
  There are none but the crows left to see,
Perching gaunt in yon pine, as though longing to dine
  On a broken-down squatter like me.

   Chorus: For the banks, &c.

When the country was cursed with the drought at its worst,
  And the cattle were dying in scores,
Though down on my luck, I kept up my pluck,
  Thinking justice might temper the laws.
But the farce has been played, and the Government aid
  Ain’t extended to squatters, old son;
When my dollars were spent they doubled the rent,
  And resumed the best half of the run.

   Chorus: For the banks, &c.

’Twas done without reason, for leaving the season
  No squatter could stand such a rub;
For it’s useless to squat when the rents are so hot
  That one can’t save the price of one’s grub;
And there’s not much to choose ’twixt the banks and the Jews
  Once a fellow gets put up a tree;
No odds what I feel, there’s no court of appeal
  For a broken-down squatter like me.

   Chorus: For the banks, &c.

THE FREE SELECTOR

(A Song of 1861.)

Ye sons of industry, to you I belong,
And to you I would dedicate a verse or a song,
Rejoicing o’er the victory John Robertson has won
Now the Land Bill has passed and the good time has come
   Now the Land Bill, &c.

No more with our swags through the bush need we roam
For to ask of another there to give us a home,
Now the land is unfettered and we may reside
In a home of our own by some clear waterside.
   In a home of our own, &c.

On some fertile spot which we may call our own,
Where the rich verdure grows, we will build up a home.
There industry will flourish and content will smile,
While our children rejoicing will share in our toil.
   While our children, &c.

We will plant our garden and sow our own field,
And eat from the fruits which industry will yield,
And be independent, what we long for have strived,
Though those that have ruled us the right long denied.
   Though those that have ruled us, &c.

A NATIONAL SONG FOR AUSTRALIA FELIX

Dark over the face of Nature sublime!
Reign’d tyranny, warfare, and every crime;
The world a desert—no oasis green
A man-loving soul on its surface had seen;
Then mercy above a mandate sent forth
An Eden to form—a refuge for worth.
From the ocean it came, with halo so bright,
Want, strife, and oppression were lost in its sight.

                     Chorus

   First isle of the sea—brightest gem of the earth
   In thee every virtue and joy shall have birth.
   A land of the just, the brave, and the free,
   Australia the happy, thou ever shalt be.

So earth in the flood no place for rest gave,
At length a green isle arose from the wave;
The dove o’er the waters the olive branch bore,
To show that one spot was cover’d no more;

Australia thus shall be sounded by fame,
And Europe shall echo the glorious name;
The brave, wise, and good, wherever oppress’d,
Shall fly to thy shores as a haven of rest.

   Chorus: First isle of the sea, &c.

Land of the orange, fig, olive, and vine;
’Midst earth’s fairest daughters the chaplet is thine;
No sick’ning vapours are borne on thy air,
But fragrance and melody twine sweetly there;
Thy ever-green fields proclaim plenty and peace,
If man doth his part, heaven sends the increase;
No customs to fetter, no enemy near,
Independence thy sons for ever must cheer.

   Chorus: First isle of the sea, &c.

SUNNY NEW SOUTH WALES

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;
To his, all other lands on earth cannot even hold a glass.
Now, if other people have their boasts, then, say, why should
    not we,
For we can drink our jovial toast and sing with three times
    three;
For there’s not a country in the world where all that’s fair
    prevails
As here it does in this our land, our sunny New South
    Wales.

                   Chorus

   Then toast with me our happy land,
     Where all that’s fair prevails,
   Our colour’s blue and our hearts are true,
     In sunny New South Wales.

Now let us take a passing glance at all that we possess.
That ours is such a wealthy land no stranger e’er would guess.
Why, we’ve land in store, indeed far more than ever we shall
    require,
And trees grow thick on every side in spite of axe and fire.
Our sheep and cattle millions count, our wool is classed A1;
In beef and mutton our fair land is not to be outdone.
Why, we’ve lately seen old England, who boasts her stock
    ne’er fails,
Has had to send for wholsome meat preserved in New South
    Wales.

   Chorus: Then toast with me, &c.

In childhood California was to us a land of gold,
And people said its riches were so vast, immense, untold.
But time has proved that mineral wealth exists not there
    alone,
For New South Wales possesses gold in many, many a stone.
And when the gold is taken from out its quartzy veins
A heap of silver, copper, tin, as a residue remains.
In fact we are a mass of wealth in all our hills and dales.
There’s not a country half as rich as sunny New South
    Wales.

    Chorus: Then toast with me, &c.

Our climate’s good, that all admit, our flowers are sweet and
    rare;
And scenes abound on every hand so marvellously fair.
Shame on the men who went away and of us wrote such
    lies.
Why, when Anthony Trollope came out here he nearly lost
    his eyes.
Our native girls are fair and good, their hearts are pure and
    true;
And to their colour stick like bricks, the bright Australian
    blue.
Some never loved a roving life, nor blest the ocean’s gales;
But they bless the breeze that blew them to a life in New
    South Wales.

   Chorus: Then toast with me, &c.

BRINGING HOME THE COWS

Shadows of the twilight falling
  On the mountain’s brow,
To each other birds are calling,
  In the leafy bough.
Where the daisies are a-springing,
And the cattle bells are ringing,
Comes my Mary, gaily singing,
  Bringing home the cows.

By a bush the pathway skirted,
  Room for two allows.
All the cornfields are deserted,
  Idle are the ploughs.
Striving for wealth’s spoil and booty,
Farmer boys have finished duty,
When I meet my little beauty,
  Bringing home the cows.

Tender words and kind addresses,
  Most polite of bows,
Rosy cheeks and wavy tresses
  Do my passions rouse

Dress so natty and so cleanly,
Air so modest and so queenly.
Oh! so haughty, yet serenely,
  Bringing home the cows.

Arm-in-arm together walking,
  While the cattle browse,
Earnestly together talking,
  Plighting lovers’ vows.
Where the daisies are a-springing,
Wedding bells will soon be ringing,
Then we’ll watch our servant bringing
  Mine and Mary’s cows.

THE DYING STOCKMAN

(Air: “The Old Stable Jacket.”)

A strapping young stockman lay dying,
  His saddle supporting his head;
His two mates around him were crying,
  As he rose on his pillow and said:

              Chorus

   “Wrap me up with my stockwhip and blanket,
     And bury me deep down below,
   Where the dingoes and crows can’t molest me,
     In the shade where the coolibahs grow.

“Oh! had I the flight of the bronzewing,
  Far o’er the plains would I fly,
Straight to the land of my childhood,
  And there would I lay down and die.

        Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.

“Then cut down a couple of saplings,
  Place one at my head and my toe,
Carve on them cross, stockwhip, and saddle,
  To show there’s a stockman below.

        Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.

“Hark! there’s the wail of a dingo,
  Watchful and weird—I must go,
For it tolls the death-knell of the stockman
  From the gloom of the scrub down below.

        Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.

“There’s tea in the battered old billy;
  Place the pannikins out in a row,
And we’ll drink to the next merry meeting,
  In the place where all good fellows go.

        Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.

“And oft in the shades of the twilight,
  When the soft winds are whispering low,
And the dark’ning shadows are falling,
  Sometimes think of the stockman below.”

       Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.

MY MATE BILL

That’s his saddle on the tie-beam,
  And them’s his spurs up there
On the wall-plate over yonder—
  You ken see they ain’t a pair.

For the daddy of all the stockmen
  As ever come mustering here
Was killed in the flaming mulga,
  A-yarding a bald-faced steer.

They say as he’s gone to heaven,
  And shook off all worldly cares
But I can’t sight Bill in a halo
  Set up on three blinded hairs.

In heaven! what next I wonder,
  For strike me pink and blue,
If I see whatever in thunder
  They’ll find for Bill to do.

He’d never make one of them angels,
  With faces as white as chalk,
All wool to the toes like hoggets,
  And wings like an eagle-hawk.

He couldn’t ’arp for apples,
  His voice had tones as jarred,
And he’d no more ear than a bald-faced steer,
  Or calves in a branding yard.

He could sit on a bucking brumbie
  Like a nob in an easy chair,
And chop his name with a greenhide fall
  On the flank of a flying steer.

He could show them saints in glory
  The way that a fall should drop,
But sit on a throne—not William,
  Unless they could make it prop.

He mightn’t freeze to the seraphs,
  Or chum with the cherubim,
But if ever them seraph johnnies
  Get a-poking it like at him—

Well! if there’s hide in heaven,
  And silk for to make a lash,
He’ll yard ’em all in the Jasper Lake
  In a blinded lightning flash.

If the heavenly hosts get boxed now,
  As mobs most always will,
Who’ll cut ’em out like William,
  Or draft on a camp like Bill?

An ’orseman would find it awkward
  At first with a push that flew,
But blame my cats if I know what else
  They’ll find for Bill to do.

It’s hard if there ain’t no cattle,
  And perhaps they’ll let him sleep,
And wake him up at the judgment
  To draft those goats and sheep.

It’s playing it low on William,
  But perhaps he’ll buckle to,
To show them high-toned seraphs
  What a Mulga man can do.

If they saddles a big-boned angel,
  With a turn of speed, of course,
As can spiel like a four-year brumbie,
  And prop like an old camp horse,

And puts Bill up with a snaffle,
  A four or five inch spur,
And eighteen foot of greenhide
  To chop the blinded fur—

He’ll yard them blamed Angoras
  In a way that it’s safe to swear
Will make them tony seraphs
  Sit back on their thrones and stare.

SAM HOLT

(Air: “Ben Bolt.”)

Oh! don’t you remember Black Alice, Sam Holt—
  Black Alice, so dusky and dark,
The Warrego gin, with the straw through her nose,
  And teeth like a Moreton Bay shark.

The terrible sheepwash tobacco she smoked
  In the gunyah down there by the lake,
And the grubs that she roasted, and the lizards she stewed,
  And the damper you taught her to bake.

Oh! don’t you remember the moon’s silver sheen,
  And the Warrego sand-ridges white?
And don’t you remember those big bull-dog ants
  We caught in our blankets at night?

Oh! don’t you remember the creepers, Sam Holt,
  That scattered their fragrance around?
And don’t you remember that broken-down colt
  You sold me, and swore he was sound?

And don’t you remember that fiver, Sam Holt,
  You borrowed so frank and so free,
When the publican landed your fifty-pound cheque
  At Tambo your very last spree?

Luck changes some natures, but yours, Sammy Holt,
  Was a grand one as ever I see,
And I fancy I’ll whistle a good many tunes
  Ere you think of that fiver or me.

Oh! don’t you remember the cattle you duffed,
  And your luck at the Sandy Creek rush,
And the poker you played, and the bluffs that you bluffed,
  And your habits of holding a flush?

And don’t you remember the pasting you got
  By the boys down in Callaghan’s store,
When Tim Hooligan found a fifth ace in his hand,
  And you holding his pile upon four?

You were not the cleanest potato, Sam Holt,
  You had not the cleanest of fins.
But you made your pile on the Towers, Sam Holt,
  And that covers the most of your sins.

They say you’ve ten thousand per annum, Sam Holt,
  In England, a park and a drag;
Perhaps you forget you were six months ago
  In Queensland a-humping your swag.

But who’d think to see you now dining in state
  With a lord and the devil knows who,
You were flashing your dover, six short months ago,
  In a lambing camp on the Barcoo.

When’s my time coming?  Perhaps never, I think,
  And it’s likely enough your old mate
Will be humping his drum on the Hughenden-road
  To the end of the chapter of fate.

THE BUSHMAN

(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;
His ships may be cast away or taken in a war,
So him alone we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are.

     Chorus: Who true bushmen are,
             Who true bushmen are,
  So him alone we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are!

When the soldier lies down, his mind is full of thought
O’er seeking that promotion which so long he has sought;
He fain would gain repose for mortal wound or scar,
So him also we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are.

     Chorus: Who true bushmen are, &c.

When the sailor lies down, his mind he must prepare
To rouse out in a minute if the wind should prove unfair.
His voyage may be stopped for the want of a spar,
So him also we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are.

     Chorus: Who true bushmen are, &c.

When the bushman lies down, his mind is free from care,
He knows his stock will furnish him with meat, wear and tear.
Should all commerce be ended in the event of a war,
Then bread and beef won’t fail us boys, who true bushmen are.

     Chorus: Who true bushmen are, &c.

Then fill, fill your glasses, a toast I’ll give you, then,
To you who call yourselves true-hearted men.
Here’s a health to the soldier and e’en the jolly tar,
And may they always meet as good friends as we bushmen are.

     Chorus: Who true bushmen are,
             Who true bushmen are,

And may they always meet as good friends as we bushmen are.

HAWKING

(Air: “Bow, Wow, Wow.”)

Now, shut your mouths, you loafers all,
  You vex me with your twaddle,
You own a nag or big or small,
  A bridle and a saddle;
I you advise at once be wise
  And waste no time in talking,
Procure some bags of damaged rags
  And make your fortune hawking.

             Chorus

   Hawk, hawk, hawk.
   Our bread to win, we’ll all begin
   To hawk, hawk, hawk.

The stockmen and the bushmen and
  The shepherds leave the station,
And the hardy bullock-punchers throw
  Aside their occupation;

While some have horses, some have drays,
  And some on foot are stalking;
We surely must conclude it pays
  When all are going hawking.

   Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c.

A life it is so full of bliss
  ’Twould suit the very niggers,
And lads I know a-hawking go
  Who scarce can make the figures
But penmanship’s no requisite,
  Keep matters square by chalking
With pencil or with ruddle, that’s
  Exact enough for hawking.

   Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c.

The hawker’s gay for half the day,
  While others work he’s spelling,
Though he may stay upon the way,
  His purse is always swelling;
With work his back is never bent
  His hardest toil is talking;
Three hundred is the rate per cent.
  Of profit when a-hawking.

   Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c.

Since pedlaring yields more delight
  Than ever digging gold did,
And since to fortune’s envied height
  The path I have unfolded,
We’ll fling our moleskins to the dogs
  And don tweeds without joking,
And honest men as well as rogues
  We’ll scour the country hawking.

   Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c.