The Old Bush Songs

by Unknown

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.