The above to an old tune called “Barney O’Keefe,” 1848.
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.
Chorus
In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
For that’s one of the great misfortunes in an old
bark hut.
The bucket you boil your beef in has to carry water, too,
And they’ll say you’re getting mighty flash if you should ask
for two.
I’ve a billy, and a pint pot, and a broken-handled cup,
And they all adorn the table in the old bark hut.
Chorus
In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
And they all adorn the table in the old bark hut.
Faith, the table is not made of wood, as many you have seen—
For if I had one half so good, I’d think myself serene—
’Tis only an old sheet of bark—God knows when it was cut—
It was blown from off the rafters of the old bark hut.
Chorus
In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
It was blown from off the rafters of the old bark hut.
And of furniture, there’s no such thing, ’twas never in the
place,
Except the stool I sit upon—and that’s an old gin case.
It does us for a safe as well, but you must keep it shut,
Or the flies would make it canter round the old hark hut.
Chorus
In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
Or the flies would make it canter round the old bark
hut.
If you should leave it open, and the flies should find your
meat,
They’ll scarcely leave a single piece that’s fit for man to eat.
But you mustn’t curse, nor grumble—what won’t fatten will
fill up—
For what’s out of sight is out of mind in an old bark hut.
Chorus
In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
For what’s out of sight is out of mind in an old
bark hut.
In the summer time, when the weather’s warm, this hut is
nice and cool,
And you’ll find the gentle breezes blowing in through every
hole.
You can leave the old door open, or you can leave it shut,
There’s no fear of suffocation in the old bark hut.
Chorus
In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
There’s no fear of suffocation in the old bark hut.
In the winter time—preserve us all—to live in there’s a
treat
Especially when it’s raining hard, and blowing wind and
sleet.
The rain comes down the chimney, and your meat is black
with soot—
That’s a substitute for pepper in an old bark hut.
Chorus
In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
That’s a substitute for pepper in an old bark hut.
I’ve seen the rain come in this hut just like a perfect flood,
Especially through that great big hole where once the table
stood.
There’s not a blessed spot, me boys, where you could lay
your nut,
But the rain is sure to find you in the old bark hut.
Chorus
In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
But the rain is sure to find you in the old bark hut.
So beside the fire I make me bed, and there I lay me down,
And think myself as happy as the king that wears a crown.
But as you’d be dozing off to sleep a flea will wake you up,
Which makes you curse the vermin in the old bark hut.
Chorus
In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
Which makes you curse the vermin in the old bark
hut.
Faith, such flocks of fleas you never saw, they are so plump
and fat,
And if you make a grab at one, he’ll spit just like a cat.
Last night they got my pack of cards, and were fighting for
the cut—
I thought the devil had me in the old bark hut.
Chorus
In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
I thought the devil had me in the old bark hut.
So now, my friends, I’ve sung my song, and that as well as I
could,
And I hope the ladies present won’t think my language rude,
And all ye younger people, in the days when you grow up,
Remember Bob the Swagman, and the old bark hut.
Chorus
In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
Remember Bob the Swagman, and the old bark hut.
THE OLD SURVEY
Our money’s all spent, to the deuce went it!
The landlord, he looks glum,
On the tap-room wall, in a very bad scrawl,
He has chalked to us a sum.
But a glass we’ll take, ere the grey dawn break,
And then saddle up and away—
Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.
With a measured beat fall our horses’ feet,
Galloping side by side;
When the money’s done, and we’ve had our fun,
We all are bound to ride.
O’er the far-off plain we’ll drag the chain,
And mark the settler’s way—
Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.
We’ll range from the creeks to the mountain peaks,
And traverse far below;
Where foot never trod, we’ll mark with a rod
The limits of endless snow;
Each lofty crag we’ll plant with a flag,
To flash in the sun’s bright ray—
Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.
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.
’Tis there you’d mourn,
’Tis there you’d mourn
The sweet woodbine
That round your lattice now doth twine.
Fond friends, don’t grieve
For scenes like these,
Or smart from bugs, mosquitoes, fleas.
Dwell not with me.
THE BEAUTIFUL LAND OF AUSTRALIA
All you on emigration bent,
With home and England discontent,
Come, listen to my sad lament,
All about the bush of Australia.
I once possessed a thousand pounds.
Thinks I—how very grand it sounds
For a man to be farming his own grounds
In the beautiful land of Australia.
Chorus
Illawarra, Mittagong,
Parramatta, Wollongong.
If you wish to become an ourang-outang,
Then go to the bush of Australia.
Upon the voyage the ship was lost.
In wretched plight I reached the coast,
And was very nigh being made a roast,
By the savages of Australia.
And in the bush I lighted on
A fierce bushranger with his gun,
Who borrowed my garments, every one,
For himself in the bush of Australia.
Chorus
Illawarra, Mittagong,
Parramatta, Wollongong.
If you wish to become an ourang-outang,
Then go to the bush of Australia.
Sydney town I reached at last,
And now, thinks I, all danger’s past,
And I shall make my fortune fast
In this promising land of Australia.
I quickly went with cash in hand,
Upon the map I chose my land.
When I got there ’twas barren sand
In the beautiful land of Australia.
Chorus
Illawarra, Mittagong,
Parramatta, Wollongong-
If you wish to become an ourang-outang,
Then go to the bush of Australia.
Of sheep I got a famous lot.
Some died of hunger, some of rot,
For the devil a drop of rain they got,
In this flourishing land of Australia.
My convict men were always drunk,
They kept me in a constant funk.
Says I to myself, as to bed I slunk,
How I wish I was out of Australia!
Chorus
Booligal, Gobarralong,
Emu Flat and Jugiong.
If you wish to become an ourang-outang,
Then go to the bush of Australia.
Of ills, enough I’ve had you’ll own.
And then at last, my woes to crown,
One night my log house was blown down
That settled us all in Australia
And now of home and all bereft,
The horrid spot I quickly left,
Making it over by deed of gift
To the savages of Australia.
Chorus
Booligal, Gobarralong,
Emu Flat and Jugiong.
If you wish to become an ourang-outang,
Then go to the bush of Australia
I gladly worked my passage home,
And now to England back I’ve come,
Determined never more to roam,
At least, to the bush of Australia.
And stones upon the road I’ll break,
And earn my seven bob a week,
Which is surely better than the freak
Of settling down in Australia.
Chorus
Currabubula, Bogolong,
Ulladulla, Gerringong.
If you wouldn’t become an ourang-outang,
Don’t go to the bush of Australia.