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.

THE SQUATTER OF THE OLDEN TIME

(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,
Who swore by right pre-emptive at a sanguinary rate
That by his rams, his ewes, his lambs, Australia was made
    great—
  Like a fine Australian squatter, one of the olden time.

His hut around was hung with guns, whips, spurs, and boots
   and shoes,
And kettles and tin pannikins to hold the tea he brews;
And here his worship lolls at ease and takes his smoke and
    snooze,
And quaffs his cup of hysouskin, the beverage old chums
    choose—
  Like a fine Australian squatter, one of the olden time.

And when shearing time approaches he opens hut to all,
And though ten thousand are his flocks, he featly shears
    them all,
Even to the scabby wanderer you’d think no good at all;
For while he fattens all the great, he boils down all the
    small—
  Like a fine old Murray squatter, one of the olden time.

And when his worship comes to town his agents for to see,
His wool to ship, his beasts to sell, he lives right merrily;
The club his place of residence, as becomes a bush J.P.,
He darkly hints that Thompson’s run from scab is scarcely
    free—
  This fine old Murray settler, one of the olden time.

And now his fortune he has made to England straight goes he,
But finds with grief he’s not received as he had hoped to be.
His friends declare his habits queer, his language much too
    free,
And are somewhat apt to cross the street when him they
    chance to see—
  This fine Australian squatter, the boy of the olden time.

THE STOCKMAN’S LAST BED

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,
His clear “Go ahead, boys,” his jingling quart pot.

                    Chorus

   For we laid him where wattles their sweet fragrance shed,
   And the tall gum trees shadow the stockman’s last bed.

Whilst drafting one day he was horned by a cow.
“Alas!” cried poor Jack, “it’s all up with me now,
For I never again shall my saddle regain,
Nor bound like a wallaby over the plain.”

His whip it is silent, his dogs they do mourn,
His steed looks in vain for his master’s return;
No friend to bemoan him, unheeded he dies;
Save Australia’s dark sons, few know where he lies.

Now, stockman, if ever on some future day
After the wild mob you happen to stray,
Tread softly where wattles their sweet fragrance spread,
Where alone and neglected poor Jack’s bones are laid.

MUSTERING SONG

(Air: “So Early in the Morning.”)

The boss last night in the hut did say—
“We start to muster at break of day;
So be up first thing, and don’t be slow;
Saddle your horses and off you go.”

               Chorus

   So early in the morning, so early in the morning,
   So early in the morning, before the break of day.

Such a night in the yard there never was seen
(The horses were fat and the grass was green);
Bursting of girths and slipping of packs
As the stockmen saddled the fastest hacks.

   Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.

Across the plain we jog along
Over gully, swamp, and billabong;
We drop on a mob pretty lively, too
We round ’em up and give ’em a slue.

   Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.

Now the scrub grows thick and the cattle are wild,
A regular caution to this ’ere child—
A new chum man on an old chum horse,
Who sails through the scrub as a matter of course.

   Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.

I was close up stuck in a rotten bog;
I got a buster jumping a log;
I found this scouting rather hot,
So I joined the niggers with the lot we’d got.

   Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.

A long-haired shepherd we chanced to meet
With a water bag, billy, and dog complete;
He came too close to a knocked up steer,
Who up a sapling made him clear.

   Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.

Now on every side we faintly hear
The crack of the stockwhip drawing near;
To the camp the cattle soon converge,
As from the thick scrub they emerge.

   Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.

We hastily comfort the inner man
With the warm contents of the billy can;
The beef and damper are passed about
Before we tackle the cutting out.

   Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.

We’re at it now—that bally calf
Would surely make a sick man laugh;
The silly fool can’t take a joke;
I hope some day in the drought he’ll croak.

   Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.

We’ve ’em now—the cows and calves
(Things here are never done by halves);
Strangers, workers, and milkers, too,
Of scrubbers also not a few.

   Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.

It’s getting late, we’d better push;
’Tis a good long way across the bush,
And the mob to drive are middling hard;
I do not think we’ll reach the yard.

   Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.

THE AUSTRALIAN STOCKMAN

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;
And dark creeks rush thro’ the tangled brush, when their
  shuddering shadows throng
Until they chime in the rude rough rhyme of the wild
  goburra’s song.

                   Chorus

   Till they chime, ha! ha! till they chime, ha! ha! in the
     wild goburra’s song;
   Till they chime, ha! ha! till they chime, ha! ha! in the
     wild goburra’s song.

The night owl to her home hath fled, to shun the glorious
  pomp
Of golden day she speeds away to her nest in the tea-tree
  swamp;
Away, away to her nest in the tea-tree swamp.

The dingo looks with a timid stare as he stealthily prowls
  along,
And his pattering feet in concert beat with the wild goburra’s
  song.

   Chorus: And they beat, ha! ha! &c.

Oh! let them boast their city’s wealth, who toil in a dusty
  town;
Give me the beam on the mountain stream, and the range’s
  dark-faced frown—
The stream, the stream, and the range’s dark-faced frown.
When our steed shall pass o’er the quiv’ring grass, and the
  crack of the sounding thong
Shall bid the startled echoes join the wild goburra’s song.

   Chorus: And they join, ha! ha! &c.

THE SHEPHERD

(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;
His footsteps had a languor, his voice a husky tone;
Both man and dog were spent with toil as they slowly
  wandered home.

                   Chorus

   I saw him but a moment—yet methinks I see him now—
   While his sheep were gently feeding ’neath the rugged
     mountain brow.

When next we met, the old blue shirt and cabbage-tree were
  gone;
A brand new suit of tweed and “Doctor Dod” he had put on;
Arm in arm with him was one who strove, and not in vain,
To ease his pockets of their load by drinking real champagne.

   I saw him but a moment, and he was going a pace,
   Shouting nobbler after nobbler, with a smile upon his
     face.

When next again I saw that man his suit of tweed was gone,
The old blue shirt and cabbage-tree once more he had put on;
Slowly he trudged along the road and took the well-known
  track
From the station he so lately left with a swag upon his back.

   I saw him but a moment as he was walking by
   With two black eyes and broken nose and a tear-drop
     in his eye.

THE OVERLANDER

There’s a trade you all know well—
  It’s bringing cattle over—
I’ll tell you all about the time
  When I became a drover.
I made up my mind to try the spec,
  To the Clarence I did wander,
And bought a mob of duffers there
  To begin as an overlander.

               Chorus

   Pass the wine cup round, my boys;
     Don’t let the bottle stand there,
   For to-night we’ll drink the health
     Of every overlander.

Next morning counted the cattle
  Saw the outfit ready to start,
Saw all the lads well mounted,
  And their swags put in a cart.

All kinds of men I had
  From France, Germany, and Flanders;
Lawyers, doctors, good and bad,
  In the mob of overlanders.

Next morning I set out
  When the grass was green and young;
And they swore they’d break my snout
  If I did not move along.
I said, “You’re very hard;
  Take care, don’t raise my dander,
For I’m a regular knowing card,
  The Queensland overlander.”

’Tis true we pay no license,
  And our run is rather large;
’Tis not often they can catch us,
  So they cannot make a charge.
They think we live on store beef,
  But no, I’m not a gander;
When a good fat stranger joins the mob,
  “He’ll do,” says the overlander.

One day a squatter rode up.
  Says he, “You’re on my run;
I’ve got two boys as witnesses.
  Consider your stock in pound.”

I tried to coax, then bounce him,
  But my tin I had to squander,
For he put threepence a head
  On the mob of the overlander.

The pretty girls in Brisbane
  Were hanging out their duds.
I wished to have a chat with them,
  So steered straight for the tubs.
Some dirty urchins saw me,
  And soon they raised my dander,
Crying, “Mother, quick! take in the clothes,
  Here comes an overlander!”

In town we drain the wine cup,
  And go to see the play,
And never think to be hard up
  For how to pass the day.
Each has a sweetheart there,
  Dressed out in all her grandeur—
Dark eyes and jet black flowing hair.
  “She’s a plum,” says the overlander.

A THOUSAND MILES AWAY

(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—
To carry me Westward Ho! my boys, that’s where the cattle
  stray
On the far Barcoo, where they eat nardoo, a thousand miles
   away.

                    Chorus

   Then give your horses rein across the open plain,
   We’ll ship our meat both sound and sweet, nor care what
     some folks say;
   And frozen we’ll send home the cattle that now roam
   On the far Barcoo and the Flinders too, a thousand miles
     away.

Knee-deep in grass we’ve got to pass—for the truth I’m
  bound to tell—
Where in three weeks the cattle get as fat as they can swell—

As fat as they can swell, my boys; a thousand pounds they
  weigh,
On the far Barcoo, where they eat nardoo, a thousand miles
  away.

   Chorus: Then give your horses rein, &c.

No Yankee hide e’er grew outside such beef as we can freeze;
No Yankee pastures make such steers as we send o’er the
  seas—
As we send o’er the seas, my boys, a thousand pounds they
  weigh—
From the far Barcoo, where they eat nardoo, a thousand
  miles away.

   Chorus: Then give your horses rein, &c.

THE FREEHOLD ON THE PLAIN

(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;
My cattle are all mortgaged, of horses I have none,
  And I’ve lost that little freehold on the plain.

                     Chorus

   The stockyard’s broken down, and the woolshed’s
       tumbling in;
     I’ve written to the mortgagees in vain;
   My wool it is all damaged and it is not worth a pin,
     And I’ve lost that little freehold on the plain.

I commenced life as a squatter some twenty years ago,
  When fortune followed in my train;
But I speculated heavy and I’d have you all to know
  That I’ve lost that little freehold on the plain.

   Chorus: The stockyard’s broken down, &c.

I built myself a mansion, and chose myself a wife;
  Of her I have no reason to complain;
For I thought I had sufficient to last me all my life,
  But I’ve lost that little freehold on the plain.

   Chorus: The stockyard’s broken down, &c.

And now I am compelled to take a drover’s life,
  To drive cattle through the sunshine and the rain,
And to leave her behind me, my own dear loving wife—
  We were happy on that freehold on the plain.

   Chorus: The stockyard’s broken down, &c.

THE WALLABY BRIGADE

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,
We are members of the Wallaby Brigade.

                    Chorus

   Tramp, tramp, tramp across the borders,
   The swagmen are rolling up, I see.
   When the shearing’s at an end we’ll go fishing in a bend.
   Then hurrah! for the Wallaby Brigade.

When you are leaving camp, you must ask some brother tramp
If there are any jobs to be had,
Or what sort of a shop that station is to stop
For a member of the Wallaby Brigade.

   Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &c.

You ask me if they want men, you ask for rations then,
If they don’t stump up a warning should be made;
To teach them better sense—why, “Set fire to their fence”
Is the war cry of the Wallaby Brigade.

   Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &c.

The squatters thought us done when they fenced in all their
  run,
But a prettier mistake they never made;
You’ve only to sport your dover and knock a monkey over—
There’s cheap mutton for the Wallaby Brigade.

   Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &c.

Now when the shearing’s in our harvest will begin,
Our swags for a spell down will be laid;
But when our cheques are drank we will join the Tag-rag
  rank,
Limeburners in the Wallaby Brigade.

   Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &c.


To knock a monkey over is to kill a sheep, monkey being
slang for sheep in many parts of the bush.

MY RELIGION

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

From all these I differ—truly wise is my plan,
  With my doctrine, perhaps, you’ll agree,
To be upright and downright and act like a man,
  That’s the religion for me.

I will go to no Church and to no house of Prayer
  To see a white shirt on a preacher.
And in no Courthouse on a book will I swear
  To injure a poor fellow-creature.

For parsons and preachers are all a mere joke,
  Their hands must be greased by a fee;
But with the poor toiler to share your last “toke”*
  That’s the religion for me.

[Footnote: “Toke” is a slang word for bread.]

Let Psalm-singing Churchmen and Lutheran sing,
  They can’t deceive God with their blarney;
They might just as well dance the Highland Fling,
  Or sing the fair fame of Kate Kearney.

But let man unto man like brethren act,
  My doctrine this suits to a T,
The heart that can feel for the woes of another,
  Oh, that’s the religion for me.

BOURKE’S DREAM

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,
  Tired and weary I fell into a doze.
      Tired from working hard
      Down in the labour yard,
Night brought relief to my sad, aching brain.
      Locked in my prison cell,
      Surely an earthly hell,
I fell asleep and began for to dream.

I dreamt that I stood on the green fields of Erin,
  In joyous meditation that victory was won.
Surrounded by comrades, no enemy fearing.
  “Stand,” was the cry, “every man to his gun.”
       On came the Saxons then,
       Fighting our Fenian men,
Soon they’ll reel back from our piked volunteers.
       Loud was the fight and shrill,
       Wexford and Vinegar Hill,
Three cheers for Father Murphy and the bold cavaliers.

I dreamt that I saw our gallant commander
  Seated on his charger in gorgeous array.
He wore green trimmed with gold and a bright shining
    sabre
  On which sunbeams of Liberty shone brightly that day.
      “On,” was the battle cry,
      “Conquer this day or die,
Sons of Hibernia, fight for Liberty!
      Show neither fear nor dread,
      Strike at the foeman’s head,
Cut down horse, foot, and artillery!”

I dreamt that the night was quickly advancing,
  I saw the dead and dying on the green crimson plain.
Comrades I once knew well in death’s sleep reposing,
  Friends that I once loved but shall ne’er see again.
      The green flag was waving high,
      Under the bright blue sky,
  And each man was singing most gloriously.
      “Come from your prison, Bourke,
      We Irishmen have done our work,
God has been with us, and old Ireland is free.”

I dreamt I was homeward, back over the mountain track,
  With joy my mother fainted and gave a loud scream.
With the shock I awoke, just as the day had broke,
  And found myself an exile, and ’twas all but a dream.