The Old Bush Songs

by Unknown

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.

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 thousand—“Oh, oh,
I’ll 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;
He’d cattle and sheep past the colony’s bounds,
Which he sold with the station for my thousand pounds.
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
He gammon’d 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; don’t you know?”
And I handed my card, “Mr. William Barlow.”
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
He said, “That’s 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 i—dentified.”
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 spear’d all the cattle of Billy Barlow.
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
“It’s 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 couldn’t, because
The bill had passed into a usurer’s claws.
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
“But perhaps he’ll 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 couldn’t 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, “Don’t you know me?” I answered him “No.”
“Why,” said he, “my name’s Kinsmill; how are you,
Barlow?”
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
He’d got a fi. fa. for poor Billy Barlow.
What I’d left of my sheep and my traps he did seize,
And he said, “They won’t pay all the costs and my fees;”
Then he sold off the lot, and I’m sure ’twas a sin,
At sixpence a head, and the station giv’n in.
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
“I’ll 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 he’d 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 poverty’s toil;
I’ve no “cattle for salting,” no “sheep for to boil;”
I can’t get a job—though to any I’d stoop,
If it was only the making of portable soup.”
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
Pray give some employment to Billy Barlow.