Im not very proud! I can dig in a bog, Feed pigs or for firewood can split up a log, Clean shoes, riddle cinders, or help to boil down Or whatever you please, but graze lands of the Crown.



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 Joes a fine lump of a horse; But the stockmen said, as they laughed aside, Hed barely do for a Sundays ride.

Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe. Ooh! poor Wallabi Joe.

Im 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 wont 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.)

Ill 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 youd 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 Thompsons 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 hes 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 STOCKMANS 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 steeds 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 stockmans last bed.

Whilst drafting one day he was horned by a cow. Alas! cried poor Jack, its 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 masters return; No friend to bemoan him, unheeded he dies; Save Australias 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 Jacks 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 dont 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 wed 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.

Were at it nowthat bally calf Would surely make a sick man laugh; The silly fool cant take a joke; I hope some day in the drought hell croak.

Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.

Weve em nowthe 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.

Its getting late, wed better push; Tis a good long way across the bush, And the mob to drive are middling hard; I do not think well reach the yard.

Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.



THE AUSTRALIAN STOCKMAN

The sun peers oer you wooded ridge and thro the forest dense, Its golden edge oer 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 goburras song.

Chorus

Till they chime, ha! ha! till they chime, ha! ha! in the wild goburras song; Till they chime, ha! ha! till they chime, ha! ha! in the wild goburras 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 goburras song.

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

Oh! let them boast their citys wealth, who toil in a dusty town; Give me the beam on the mountain stream, and the ranges dark-faced frown The stream, the stream, and the ranges dark-faced frown. When our steed shall pass oer the quivring grass, and the crack of the sounding thong Shall bid the startled echoes join the wild goburras 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 momentyet 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

Theres a trade you all know well Its bringing cattle over Ill 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; Dont let the bottle stand there, For to-night well 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 theyd break my snout If I did not move along. I said, Youre very hard; Take care, dont raise my dander, For Im 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, Im not a gander; When a good fat stranger joins the mob, Hell do, says the overlander.

One day a squatter rode up. Says he, Youre on my run; Ive 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. Shes 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, thats 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, Well ship our meat both sound and sweet, nor care what some folks say; And frozen well send home the cattle that now roam On the far Barcoo and the Flinders too, a thousand miles away.

Knee-deep in grass weve got to passfor the truth Im 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 eer grew outside such beef as we can freeze; No Yankee pastures make such steers as we send oer the seas As we send oer 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.)

Im 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 Ive lost that little freehold on the plain.

Chorus

The stockyards broken down, and the woolsheds tumbling in; Ive written to the mortgagees in vain; My wool it is all damaged and it is not worth a pin, And Ive 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 Id have you all to know That Ive lost that little freehold on the plain.

Chorus: The stockyards 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 Ive lost that little freehold on the plain.

Chorus: The stockyards broken down, &c.

And now I am compelled to take a drovers 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 stockyards broken down, &c.



THE WALLABY BRIGADE

You often have been told of regiments brave and bold, But we are the bravest in the land; Were 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 shearings at an end well 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 dont stump up a warning should be made; To teach them better sensewhy, 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; Youve only to sport your dover and knock a monkey over Theres cheap mutton for the Wallaby Brigade.

Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &c.

Now when the shearings 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 differtruly wise is my plan, With my doctrine, perhaps, youll agree, To be upright and downright and act like a man, Thats 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* Thats the religion for me.

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

Let Psalm-singing Churchmen and Lutheran sing, They cant 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, thats the religion for me.



BOURKES 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 theyll 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 foemans 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 deaths sleep reposing, Friends that I once loved but shall neer 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.



BILLY BARLOW IN AUSTRALIA

When I was at home I was down on my luck, And I earned a poor living by drawing a truck; But old aunt died, and left me a thousandOh, oh, Ill start on my travels, said Billy Barlow. Oh dear, lackaday, oh, So off to Australia came Billy Barlow.

When to Sydney I got, there a merchant I met, Who said he would teach me a fortune to get; Hed cattle and sheep past the colonys bounds, Which he sold with the station for my thousand pounds. Oh dear, lackaday, oh, He gammond the cash out of Billy Barlow.

When the bargain was struck, and the money was paid, He said, My dear fellow, your fortune is made; I can furnish supplies for the station, you know, And your bill is sufficient, good Mr. Barlow. Oh dear, lackaday, oh, A gentleman settler was Billy Barlow.

So I got my supplies, and I gave him my bill, And for New England started, my pockets to fill; But by bushrangers met, with my traps they made free, Took my horse and left Billy bailed to a tree. Oh dear, lackaday, oh, I shall die of starvation, thought Billy Barlow.

At last I got loose, and I walked on my way; A constable came up, and to me did say, Are you free? Says I, Yes, to be sure; dont you know? And I handed my card, Mr. William Barlow. Oh dear, lackaday, oh, He said, Thats all gammon, to Billy Barlow.

Then he put on the handcuffs, and brought me away Right back down to Maitland, before Mr. Day. When I said I was free, why the J.P. replied, I must send you down to be identified. Oh dear, lackaday, oh, So to Sydney once more went poor Billy Barlow.

They at last let me go, and I then did repair For my station once more, and at length I got there; But a few days before, the blacks, you must know, Had speard all the cattle of Billy Barlow. Oh dear, lackaday, oh, Its a beautiful country, said Billy Barlow.

And for nine months before no rain there had been, So the devil a blade of grass could be seen; And one-third of my wethers the scab they had got, And the other two-thirds had just died of the rot. Oh dear, lackaday, oh, I shall soon be a settler, said Billy Barlow.

And the matter to mend, now my bill was near due, So I wrote to my friend, and just asked to renew; He replied he was sorry he couldnt, because The bill had passed into a usurers claws. Oh dear, lackaday, oh, But perhaps hell renew it, said Billy Barlow.

I applied; to renew he was quite content, If secured, and allowed just three hundred per cent.; But as I couldnt do, Barr, Rodgers, and Co. Soon sent up a summons for Billy Barlow. Oh dear, lackaday, oh, They soon settled the business of Billy Barlow.

For a month or six weeks I stewed over my loss, And a tall man rode up one day on a black horse; He asked, Dont you know me? I answered him No. Why, said he, my names Kinsmill; how are you, Barlow? Oh dear, lackaday, oh, Hed got a fi. fa. for poor Billy Barlow.

What Id left of my sheep and my traps he did seize, And he said, They wont pay all the costs and my fees; Then he sold off the lot, and Im sure twas a sin, At sixpence a head, and the station givn in. Oh dear, lackaday, oh, Ill go back to England, said Billy Barlow.

My sheep being sold, and my money all gone, Oh, I wandered about then quite sad and forlorn; How I managed to live it would shock you to know, And as thin as a lath got poor Billy Barlow. Oh dear, lackaday, oh, Quite down on his luck was poor Billy Barlow.

And in a few weeks more, the sheriff, you see, Sent the tall man on horseback once more unto me; Having got all he could by the writ of fi. fa., By way of a change hed brought up a ca. sa. Oh dear, lackaday, oh, He seized on the body of Billy Barlow.

He took me to Sydney, and there they did lock Poor unfortunate Billy fast under the clock; And to get myself out I was forced, you must know The schedule to file of poor Billy Barlow. Oh dear, lackaday, oh, In the list of insolvents was Billy Barlow.

Then once more I got free, but in povertys toil; Ive no cattle for salting, no sheep for to boil; I cant get a jobthough to any Id stoop, If it was only the making of portable soup. Oh dear, lackaday, oh, Pray give some employment to Billy Barlow.

THE END