“ 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? ”

“ 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. ”

“ We’ll try you with bullocks now, Paddy Malone. To see me dressed out with my team and my dray too, Wid a whip like a flail and such gaiters, Ohone! But the bullocks, as they eyed me, they seemed for to say too, “You may do your best, Paddy, we’re blest if we go.” “Gee whoa! Redman! come hither, Damper! Hoot, Magpie! Gee, Blackbird! Come hither, Whalebone!” But the brutes turned round sharp, and away they did scamper, And heels over head turned poor Paddy Malone. Oh, Paddy Malone! you’ve seen some bulls at home, But the bulls of Australia cows Paddy Malone. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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 ”

“ 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. ”

“ THE STOCKMEN OF AUSTRALIA The stockmen of Australia, what rowdy boys are they, They will curse and swear an hurricane if you come in their way. They dash along the forest on black, bay, brown, or grey, And the stockmen of Australia, hard-riding boys are they. Chorus: And the stockmen, &c. By constant feats of horsemanship, they procure for us our grub, And supply us with the fattest beef by hard work in the scrub. To muster up the cattle they cease not night nor day, And the stockmen of Australia, hard-riding boys are they. ”

“ 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. ”

“ When the fires are burning bright through the darkness of the night, And the cattle camping quiet, well, I’m sure That I wish for two o’clock when I call the other watch— This is droving from the sandy Maranoa. Our beds made on the ground, we are sleeping all so sound When we’re wakened by the distant thunder’s roar, And the lightning’s vivid flash, followed by an awful crash- It’s rough on drovers from the sandy Maranoa. ”

“ 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! ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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 ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ An old Scotchman, to whom Sir Walter Scott read some of his collected ballads, expressed the opinion that the ballads were spoilt by printing. And these bush songs, to be heard at their best, should be heard to an accompaniment of clashing shears when the voice of a shearer rises through the din caused by the rush and bustle of a shearing shed, the scrambling of the sheep in their pens, and the hurry of the pickers-up; or when, on the roads, the cattle are restless on their camp at night and the man on watch, riding round them, strikes up “Bold Jack Donahoo” to steady their nerves a little. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ There’s mischief in you wide-horned steer, There’s danger in you cow; Then mount, my merry horsemen all, The wild mob’s bolting now— The wild mob’s bolting now, my boys, But ’twas never in their hides To show the way to the well-trained nags That are rattling by their sides. Oh! ’tis jolly to follow the roving herd Through the long, long summer day, And camp at night by some lonely creek When dies the golden ray. ”

“ 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. ”

“ We’d rap it with our knuckles— If it sounded like a drum, We’d know the life and spirit Had left the Old Keg of Rum. Chorus Oh! the Old Keg of Rum! the Old Keg of Rum! We’d know the life and spirit Had left the Old Keg of Rum. Those happy days have passed away, I’ve seen their pleasures fade; And many of our good old friends Have with old times decayed. But still, when on my travels, boys, If I meet with an old chum, We will sigh, in conversation, Of the Grand Old Keg of Rum. Chorus Oh! the Old Keg of Rum! the Old Keg of Rum! ”

“ 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. ”

“ Beginning with the crude early days, when there was land and to spare, and when labour was in demand and Australia was terra incognita to all, we find in “Paddy Malone” a fitting chronicle in rhyme. In this ballad a raw, Irish immigrant tells of his adventures in the Australian bush. He was put to shepherding and bullock-driving, which in itself proves that labourers were at a premium, and that instead of a man having to hunt for a job the job had to hunt for the man. He lost his sheep, and the bullocks got away from him. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”