(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.