My name is old Jack Palmer, and I once dug for gold And the song I'm going to sing you recalls the days of old When I'd plenty mates around me, and the talk would fairly hum As we all sat together round the old keg of rum
CHORUS The old keg of rum, the old keg of rum As we all sat together round the old keg of rum
There was Bluey Watt, the breaker, and old Tom Hynes And little Doyle, the ringer, who now in glory shines And many more hard doers, all gone to Kingdom Come We were all associated round the old keg of rum
When the shearing time was over in the sheds on the Bree We'd raise a keg from somewhere, and we'd all have a spree We'd sit and sing together till we got that blind and dumb That we couldn't find the bung-hole of the old keg of rum
There was some would last the night out, and some would have a snooze And some were full of fight, boys, but all were full of booze Till often in a scrimmage I have corked it with my thumb Just to stop the life from ebbing from the old keg of rum.
Well, now my song is ended, I've got to travel on Just an old buffer skiting of days dead and gone But I hope you youngsters round me will, perhaps in years to come Remember Jack Palmer and the old keg of rum
A version of this song was published in Paterson's Old Bush Songs. This version is from An Anthology of Australian Poetry to 1920 , edited by John Kinsella in 2007 (link)
The bush tracks of Australia
Run, dusty, through the day,
And whisper to the gum trees
That guard their sun-kissed way.
They chatter with the breezes,
And dance among the flowers;
And send their love songs ringing
Through perfume-laden hours.
The bush tracks of Australia
Run westward from the sea;
For they love the unbound bushland,
That stretches wide and free.
They clamber to the hilltops,
And wave at skies of blue;
And where the kookaburras laugh,
You'll hear them laughing, too.
Oh, the bush tracks of Australia
Go rambling through my heart;
They wave across the ocean,
And smile when moonbeams dart.
They beckon in my dreaming,
And no matter where I roam;
Their voices ever follow me.
And call, "Come home, come home."
A small gem found on the vast Rhymes Rudely Strung blog of Perry Middlemiss which notes the publication of this poem in The Sydney Morning Herald, 22 April 1933 and that "nothing is known about the author of this poem".
There's a whisper from the regions out beyond the Barwon banks, There's a gathering of the legions and a forming of the ranks, There's a murmur coming nearer with the signs that never fail, And it's time for every shearer to be out upon the trail; They must leave their girls behind them and their empty glasses, too, For there's plenty left to mind them when they cross the dry Barooo: There'll be kissing, there'll be sorrow much as only sweethearts know, But before the noon to-morrow they'll be singing as they go; For the Western creeks are calling, And the idle days are done, With the snowy fleeces falling, And the Queensland sheds begun.
There is shortening of the bridle, there is tightening of the girth, There is fondling of the idol that they love the best on earth, Northward from the Lachlan River and the sun-dried Castlereagh, Outward to the Never-Never ride the "ringers" on their way. From the green bends of the Murray they have run their horses in, For there's haste and there is hurry when the Queensland sheds begin; On the Bogan they are bridling, they are saddling on the Bland, There is plunging and there's sidling -- for the colts don't understand That the Western creeks are calling, And the idle days are done, With the snowy fleeces falling, And the Queensland sheds begun.
They will camp below the station, they'll be outting peg and pole, Rearing tents for occupation till the "calling of the roll," And it's time the nags were driven, and it's time to strap the pack, For there's never license given to the laggards on the track. Hark! The music of the battle: it in time to bare our swords! Do you hear the rush and rattle as they tramp along the boards? They are past the pen-doors picking light-wooled weeners one by one; I can hear the shear-blades clicking, and I know the fight's begun!
First published in The Bulletin, 8 June 1895, and again in the same magazine on 26 August 1959; and then later in Fair Girls and Gray Horses by Will H. Ogilvie, 1958.
Another gem from Alan Musgrove's Songs They Used To Sing.
Eighteen-hundred and seventy-eight Was the year I remember so well. They put my father in an early grave And slung my mother in gaol. Now I don't know what's right or wrong But they hung Christ on nails. Six kids at home and two on the breast: They wouldn't even give her bail.
Chorus: Poor Ned, you're better off dead; At least you'll get some peace of mind. You're out on the track, they're right on your back - Boy, they're gonna hang you high!
You know I wrote a letter 'bout Stringy Bark Creek So they would understand That I might be a bushranger But I'm not a murdering man. I didn't want to shoot Kennedy Or that copper Lonigan. He alone could have saved his life By throwing down his gun.
I'd rather die like Donahoe, That bushranger so brave, Than be taken by the Government And treated like a slave I'd rather fight with all my might, As long as I'd eyes to see; I'd rather die ten thousand deaths, Than die on the gallows tree. †
You know they took Ned Kelly And they hung him in the Melbourne Gaol. He fought so very bravely Dressed in iron mail. But no man single-handed Can hope to break the bars. It's a thousand like Ned Kelly Who'll hoist the flag of stars. ‡
†: A light rewrite of stanza 7 (of 8) "Young Ned Kelly" (or "My Name is Edward Kelly") collected <1959 by the Moreton Bay Bushwhackers (Queensland Folklore Society) and published Queensland Centenary Pocket Songbook, 1959, p. 16.
‡: A minor reworking of the last verse of John Manifold's "The Death of Ned Kelly", published: The Death of Ned Kelly and Other Ballads, London 1941.
Mudcat was invaluable for this one with the tireless Bob Bolton's work evident in the above lyrics and notes.
First recorded by Fotheringay, and later covered by Redgum as a traditional song, this song by Trevor Lucas is a standard in the Australian bush-band repertoire.
Who is it that all Australia raves about? Who has won our very highest praise? Now is it Amy Johnson, or little Mickey Mouse? No! it's just a country lad who's bringing down the house. And he's
Refrain: Our Don Bradman - And I ask you is he any good? Our Don Bradman - As a batman he can sure lay on the wood. For when he goes in to bat He knocks ev'ry record flat, For there isn't any thing he cannot do, Our Don Bradman - Ev'ry Aussie: dips his lid to you.
Our Don Bradman - Now I ask you is he any good? Our Don Bradman - As a batsman he is certainly "plum pud". Tate and Larwood meet their fate, For it's always "shut the gate" When our boy from Bowral hits four after four. Our Don Bradman - Always manages to top the score.
Woodfull, Grimmett, Ponsford, Kippax and the rest, Proved that they were equal to the best, How gallantly and nobly, we know they've done their share, But there's one tops them all, a real Devil-may-care. And he's
Refrain: Our Don Bradman - And I ask you is he any good? Our Don Bradman - As a batman he can sure lay on the wood. How's that Mister Lyon, poor fish, Must just sit and wish and wish, That our Don had never come across the foam, Our Don Bradman - What a welcome waits for you back home.
Our Don Bradman - Now I ask you is he any good? Our Don Bradman - As a batsman he is certainly "plum pud" Tho' those cricketers now gone. Trumper, and Spofforth and so on, Wrote their names forever in the Hall of Fame, Our Don Bradman - Is the greatest ever played the game.
Jack O'Hagan wrote this song in time for the broadcasting of the 1930 Ashes Test Series between England and Australia in England.
It was during the 3rd Test of this series (at Leeds) that Bradman scored a then world record innings of 334.
The illustration to this post is a photograph of Bradman on his way to that record.
Let me tell you all a story of a bad man of fame A dinky-di Aussie, Ned Kelly was his name Born down in Victoria on 11-mile creek His mother and his father, they were both of them Micks
At sixteen years he was one tough guy The crimes he committed, oh me oh my He'd steal all the horses for miles around Then collect all the rewards for them and paint the town
Poor Ned Kelly A tougher guy you never knew Poor Ned Kelly His brothers and his sisters too
He robbed the stations and he robbed the mail He held up the bank of New South Wales He had all the colonials on the run He shot holes in officers just for fun
Ned and his gang ran fast and free They bailed up the bank at Jerilderie Captured half the town and locked them away Spent their time in the pub for the rest of the day
Poor Ned Kelly, liked his beer I see Poor Ned Kelly, he ain't got nothing on me
Finally they caught him and they threw him in the can Shot down all his cobbers to the very last man Tried him and convicted him and wouldn't give him bail And they hung him to a rafter in the Melbourne Jail
Some years have gone since Ned passed away There's lots of his cobbers carrying on today What with income tax and wages tax and car tax and the price of taxi-cabs and the rest coming due and the beer going up in price and apart from that all the things we gotta buy, well. Poor Ned Kelly wasn't such a bad guy.
Poor Ned Kelly, It's easier to do today Poor Ned Kelly, They don't even have to run away.
Written and recorded by Smiling Billy Blinkhorn in 1940. Covered by the Bushwackers and included in their song book. Blinkhorn was Canadian and this may explain the country feel and North American idioms (eg "they threw him in the can"!).
A version by the writer can be found here, from an album entitled, Australian Balladeers Remembered.
These notes from a CD re-release of Blinkhorn's recordings:
Billy is a Canadian who immigrated to Australia and had a successful, but short career through the 1940s. All of his 18 songs that have been previously released in 1940 and 1947 with basically guitar, but also 3 with band accompaniment consisting of great fiddle and accordion work in romantic Canadian style. Billy, who passed away in 1977, was not only a great singer. His yodeling was fantastic, too. This CD is of great historical meaning and will please both fans of old Canadian and Australian country music.
NB. The similarities between this melody and that of the later (and arguably more famous) Ballad of Jed Clampett are likely to be coincidental - the latter was written for the Beverly Hillbillies in 1962.
Ronald Ryan was the poor bastard son of a drunken miner who died of black lung That was the depression, he was born in 25 mother turning tricks just to keep the kids alive
That's a good start for a life of crime he was no gangster, strictly small time but a 13 year stretch, he'd do 5 for sure a Friday 13th, November 64
CHORUS: If there's a hard way to live If there's an easy way to die If he leadeth me The quiet waters by don't ask me for my tears Or for whom the bells toll He can't save my neck Can he save my soul
Ronald was a schemer Rising for a fall With Peter Walker he went over that wall One Pentridge warder lay dead as he fell Who pulled that trigger You probably can tell
3 weeks after the boys had flown the coop Tipped off in Sydney, the cops made their swoop In the dock he stood there Sentence was read Guilty of murder, hanged until dead
the judge and jury never thought he would swing But the men in power had votes to win give me law and order the cry of the day Ronald Ryan was the bastard who paid
While there's a gathering at the Coburg hotel Ronald takes communion inside his cell One nip of whisky before he goes Candles and protests out on Sydney Road
They fit the shackles, then they fit the cap They hit the lever, you plummet through the trap the hangman's table, it's all worked out Pray that the rope is strong and the beam is stout
Executed at 8 a.m. on 3 February 1967 in Pentridge gaol, Ronald Ryan was the last man to be judicially hanged in Australia. This song by Brisbane's Mark Cryle, was performed by Steve Cook and John Thompson at the Top Half Folk Club in Darwin on 2 June, 2011.
The photograph is of Ryan at the time of his arrest.
Now I've never been a shearer, never seen a shearing shed And I don't suppose I'd recognise a sheep I've never been a drover bringing dusty cattle over or died of thirst beside a dried up creek I've never been a digger on a worked out worthless claim A rowdy rouse about or jackaroo Never cut a field of cane, never drove a bullock train But I'm bloody well Australian through and through, my oath I am! I'm bloody well Australian through and through
I've never boiled me billy by a bloody billabbong There's better ways than that your days to spend No one humps their swags no more, what a flamin' bloody bore! When you can duck off in the Kingswood each weekend Now there's a mighty waggon! It's a ripper of a car Designed for our conditions, though it's true It's made by General Motors, but you'd hardly even notice 'Cause it's bloody well Australian through and through My oath it is! Yes it's bloody well Australian through and through
I've never crossed the nullabor or trekked the Birdsville Track I can't tell a wallaby from kangaroo I know the Kookaburra 'cause its laugh is like no other But I've only seen Koalas in a zoo! 'Cause I've been o.s. you know (that's short for overseas!) And I've taught these poms and wogs a thing or two And it made me feel damn proud to stand out in the crowd Being bloody well Australian through and through My oath I did! Being bloody well Australian through and through
'Cause there's nothing overseas that we haven't got at home We're as cosmi - bloody - politan as them! With "Dallas" on T.V., the best of BBC And good old Reg Grundy on Channel Ten! We've go disco - bloody - fever from Toorak to Tennant Creek The Bee Gees and Olivia Newton too! Our stars we have our share of them, and although they sound American They're bloody well Australian through and through My oath they are! They're bloody well Australian through and through
So let's sing no more of swaggies or Ned Kelly and his gang Let's sing a more sophisticated theme No longer are we hicks from the international sticks We're jet - setters on the inter - global scene So let us hold our heads up 'cause we've bloody well arrived And sing no more of tied - down kangaroos - sport! At last we've come of age, it's the universal rage Being bloody well Autalian through and through My oath it is! Being bloody well Australian through and through.
Written by the Brisbane folkie and songwriter Tony Miles.
Words: Unknown Tune: Henry Russell (The Ivy Green)
There's something neat in a cabbage-tree hat, When it fits the wearer's crown; There's in it a sort of jaunty look, With its streamers hanging down. Let others boast of the felt or brab, I cannot with them agree, For nobody looks so like a swell, As a man with a cabbage-tree.
Go where you will round Lambing Flat, Every digger wears his cabbage-tree hat, Go where you will, now think of that, You're right it you've got a cabbage-tree hat.
Let the roughs and the muffs talk as they will Of the rowdy cabbage-tree mob; It's no paltry tile that costs a pound, And adjust to adorn your nob. Roam as you will round Sydney town, The lasses will all agree, You're just the man to escort them out, If you've got on a good cabbage-tree.
It's been worn by men of every clime, Though Australians bear the sway; Though used at the present day. No matter what caste, or class, or creed, Whether rich or poor they be; They'll never want a friend in need, If they've got a good cabbage-tree.
The rich look down on the poor man's coat, If but seedy it appear; But a cabbage-tree hat is a different thing, For it's free from a wealthy sneer, New chums will wear it to ape old hands, And get bush logic pat; Yet, where would they be twixt you and me, If minus the cabbage-tree hat.
The cabbage-tree (Livistona Australis), or Australian cabbage palm was used to waterproof shelters or make a distinctive hat, which marked established settlers from new arrivals.
This song included in Ron Edward's Great Australian Folk Songs and credited to Chanson's Sydney Songster.
Words: Unknown Tune: Nicolo (We Have Lived and Loved Together)
Thy form it is airy and slight, love, Its graces are free from restraint Thy hair sheds a halo of light, love, Round features like those of a saint. Oh, to bathe in the light of thine eyes, What destiny sweeter could be? But visions of doubt will arise, love. Could you make me some damper for tea?
Thy mouth is s fountain of song, love Whence melody flows like a stream, To list to thee all the day long, love Would be pleasure too sweet for a dream. But my couraage to ask for thee fails, love To accept my hand, oh, would you stoop? And again, if I brought you the tails, love. Would you make me some kangaroo soup?
And so then I bid thee farewell, love And my claims to another, I yield. But you will not grieve, I can tell, love There are others than me in the field. You can sing, you can play, you can dance, love But your feelings I don't mean to hurt Your charms you would greatly enhance, love Could you make me a Crimean shirt?
With a couple of little drinks to make us happy And a couple of little beers to make us gay And a couple of little gins to keep our strength in You'll find yourself at last in Fanny Bay
Some are white and some are black and some are yellow And some are old and some are young and gay But what costs you thirty bob in Castlereagh Street You can get for two and six in Fanny Bay
Fanny Bay is the name of the jail in Darwin, Northern Territory. This song was collected by Ron Edwards from Bill Harney in the 1950s.
The tune is the well-known Galway Bay written in 1947 by neurologist, Dr Arthur Colahan.
The illustration to this post is a photograph of the old gates to Fanny Bay prison.
It's time to go now, Jenny, no need to close the door What if the dust gets in the house, it doesn't matter any more You and the dust have been at war for far too many years Now the war is over, Jenny dear
CHORUS: Leaving the land, leaving the land Leaving all I've ever been and all the things I am Leaving the land
Remember when I brought you here those long bright years ago For all that time you've been my heart and this land has been my soul The long bright days are over now but still the heart beats on But Jenny dear, the soul is gone
And all I see around me sings to me of the past Four generations loved this land, never thought I'd be the last All that toiling all that dreaming, birth and death and toil and pain it was all for nothing, all in vain
It's time to go now, Jenny, drive quickly down the track We'll never see what lies ahead if we keep on looking back Behind is just an empty house, old memories and ghosts And our small dreams, gathering dust
All you on emigration bent, With home and England discontent, Come listen to my sad lament About the bush of Australia.
CHORUS:: Illawarra, Mittagong, Parramatta, Wollongong, If you wish to become an orang-outang Well, go to the bush of Australia.
Once I possessed a thousand pounds, Says I to meself how grand it sounds, For a man to be farming his own grounds In the promising land of Australia.
When coming out the ship got lost, In a very sad plight we reached the coast, And very nearly made a roast For the savages of Australia.
Escaped from thence I lighted on A fierce bushranger with his gun, Who borrowed my garments, every one, For himself in the bush of Australia.
Sydney town we reached at last, Says I to meself, all danger's passed, Now I'll make me fortune fast In the promising land of Australia.
So off I went with cash in hand, Upon the map I bought my land, But found it naught but barren sand When I got to the bush of Australia.
Of sheep I got a famous lot; Some died of hunger, some of rot, But the divil a lot of rain we got In this promising land of Australia.
My convicts, they were always drunk, And kept me in a mighty funk, Says I to meself as to bed I sunk, I wish I were out of Australia.
Of ills I've had enough, you'll own, But something else my woes to crown, One night my bark hut tumbled down And settled me in Australia.
Of cash and homestead thus bereft, The ruddy spot I gladly left, Making it over by deed of gift To the savages of Australia.
Now stones upon the road I break, And earn my seven bob a week. 'Tis better surely than the freak Of settling down in Australia.
Credited to Muriel Whalan in Meredith and Scott's Authentic Australian Bush Ballads which dates this song to the early 19th Century and notes the use at the time of aboriginal words in "nonsense" choruses.
The miner he goes and changes his clothes And then makes his way to the shaft For each man well knows he's going below To put in his eight hours of graft
Chorus With his calico cap and his old flannel shirt His pants with the strap round the knee His boots watertight and his candle alight His crib and his billy of tea
The platman to the driver will knock four and one The ropes to the windlass will strain As one shift comes up, another goes down And working commences again
He works hard for his pay at six bob a day He toils for his missus and kids He gets what's left over and thinks he's in clover To cut off his 'baccy in quids
And thus he goes on, week in and week out To toil for his life's daily bread He's off to the mine, hail, rain or shine That his dear ones at home may be fed
Digging holes in the ground where there's gold to be found And most times where gold it is not A man's like a rabbit with this digging habit And like one, he ought to be shot
Another from Ron Edwards collecting legacy. Mark Gregory has these notes:
'The Miner' comes from the later period of gold mining after the alluvial gold was exhausted. It's a song about deep shaft gold mining and this version was collected in 1959 by Norm O'Connor and Maryjean Officer from Mrs. R. Sayers, Bulumwaal, Gippsland. Ron Edwards collected two versions one in 1965 from Mrs T. Jenkins in Cairns and one in Fruitgrove, Qld in 1970 from Tony Davis.
Coolgardie folk remember well, the torrent from the sky Westralia's tunnels took the flood, men were forced to fly It chilled the blood to have to hear the wailing whistle blow As miner Vareschetti lay, a thousand feet below.
CHORUS: It's down in the goldmine, underneath the ground Floods are apt to fill the mine, men are apt to drown Dare the dark and the dreary water, send a diver down Deep down in the gold mine, underneath the ground.
They heard a hammer down below and ran to break the news To dare the gloomy catacomb, they sent for diver Hughes It's half a hope or sudden death, no are you game to go Where miner Vareschetti lies, a thousand feet below.
Fremantle found the diving gear, a train began to roar The engine got the right of way, a hundred miles or more It hit the track at 65 and it set the night aglow Where miner Vareschetti lay, a thousand feet below.
A million gallons rose above the captive in the cave Then diver Hughes, he brought him up and he left an empty grave And life can keep a lamp alight if we are game to go Where miner Vareschetti lay, a thousand feet below.
A song I found in a folio entitled, Moondyne Joe and Other Sandgroper Ballads. It is a parody of a music hall song, Down in the Coal Mine. This link is to the story which I first read about the rescue of this Italian miner from a flooded goldmine in the desert in 1907.
Enquiries around the folk scene in Australia have not revealed the songwriter's name. Any advice would be appreciated.
This recording taken from The Circus of Desires, cloudstreet's most recent album.
The illustration to this post is a contemporary photograph showing Modesto's rescuers.
Way down Eurobin, Ovens Valley, Where we reside, Growing hops and picking for a tally Good for the beer inside
CHORUS: All the world may be sad and bleary Feeling all alone But we are always so bright and cheery Hopping away down at home.
Awaking fresh and bright each morning Breathing the smell of hops Gone before is drowsiness and yawning Fighting fit for unions and cops
"Flowers of the forest" pickers gather Hooking down from the wire Checking weights from kids, Mum and Father Calling each other a liar.
So may you who like your evening snorter Give a thought to how it's made Never let it be known that you have bought a beer With a dash of lemonade.
Another from Ron Edwards, this collected from Stan Dean of Cairns, a song he wrote in the 1920s as part of a skit he wrote while picking hops in Victoria.
Another great disaster has come upon this land Out where the Lachlan River flows on its way so grand Was in the month of August and the town was bright and gay And the folks out on the lachlan they were happy all the day
And then the skies grew cloudy and the rain came fallen down All day the mighty torrents came falling to the ground The streams throughout the country kept swelling day by day Until the angry Lachlan, it was roaring on its way
And then there came a warning , the levees cannot stand A brave important struggle to save their native land But still the raging water kept pounding at the shores Until it broke the levee banks and into Forbes it poured
How many homes were flooded and brave men knelt to pray As all that they had cherished was madly swept away The world will gladly help them to pay the awful cost But no-one can ever give them back the treasures they have lost
We can't explain the reason these great disasters come But we all must remember to say "Thy will be done" And though the good may suffer for other people's sins There is a crown awaiting where eternal life begins.
As I strolled out one morning The birds did sweetly sing And being Sunday morning The village bells did ring As I walked on contemplating On nature's beauty store I beheld a lovely maiden Twas Mary of Kilmore
She on the grass was seated A young man by her side He asked if she would name the day That she would be his bride He was her own true lover For I heard the vows he swore That he would ever constant be To Mary of Kilmore
She said, "My dearest Henry" "I wish that we had never met" "Since my parents won't give their consent" "For me to marry yet" "And about you, dearest Henry" "They bade me think no more" "But separation is worse than death" Said Mary of Kilmore
"If your parents have objections" "There's one thing we can do We can go down to Melbourne town And there I'll marry you This very night we'll take a flight So gather up your store Oh, that I'll do quite willingly Said, Mary of Kilmore
So this wronged yet beautiful maiden Her lovers wish did keep But out her bedroom window When her parents were asleep She shed no tears at parting Though her heart was troubled sore She made haste to meet her lover Did Mary of Kilmore
And soon by coach and horses They were quickly whirled away They arrived in Melbourne town At 10 o'clock next day So attractive was the cottage And the bridal dress she wore She soon became a wedded wife Did Mary of Kilmore
But her husband proved a gambler Which caused her many a tear And to his home he'd not return Til day was drawing near Though attractive was the cottage All by the tranquil shore She did not feel contentment Poor Mary of Kilmore
And one day when meditating With sorrow at her lot She was handed in a letter Which caused her blood to start It told she was no wedded wife Though the wedding ring she wore And that the marriage was all a sham Poor Mary of Kilmore
So she took her infant in her arms And across the fields did roam To visit again with a broken heart Her childhood's happy home But she found the cottage as she left With ivy towering o'er For her parents died of broken hearts Poor Mary of Kilmore
So now my pitiful story I'll bring it to an end Her husband he's in Pentridge Her child is with a friend And within the Kew asylum You'll hear the mournful roar Of that wronged but beautiful maiden Poor Mary of Kilmore
Mentioned by Russel Ward in his autobiography as having been heard from Hoopiron Jack. Keith McKenry reports that Ward thought the song was marked by "maudlin sentimentality" and "deserving of oblivion"
Keith McKenry found further lyrics in the National Library archive and included it in his Lost Folk Songs of Australia collection.
A Roller-coaster ride of adventure and romance. Derived at least in part from an Irish song of the same name.
Kate Burke put this tune to the words, the tune being from a song about the bushranger, Harry Power
The illustration to this post is a photograph of Kew Asylum.
A conglomeration of the available fragments. The first:
Recorded by John Meredith from the singing of Jack Luscombe, aged 86 (in March, 1953), of Ryde, N. S. W. Luscombe learned the song in Queensland during the 1890s. The second stanza appearing In "The Bulletin" of June 10th, 1882.
The verses:
Collected by Warren Fahey from Cyril Duncan (source: 1- cassette collection of ABC Radio programs: While the Billy Boils, A Panorama of Australian Folklore, devised and scripted by Warren Fahey, Australian Broadcasting Commission, 1981. [ISBN 0 6442 975817]
The illustration is a contemporary newspaper illustration. The caption reads:
"THE OUTLAWS AT BAY. SCENE OF THE ATTACK ON JONES'S HOTEL AT GLENROWAN"
Words: John Dengate Tune: Trad (The Knickerbocker Line)
As I was walking down the road, he suddenly appeared: A bloody turbaned Moslem with a big Bin Laden beard; I asked, "Are you a terrorist, is that your bloody lurk?" He said, "No, I'm a carpenter, I'm on my way to work."
CHORUS: I watched him, tracked him, rang up A.S.I.O. I dobbed him into Alan Jones on talk-back radio. I may not be a beauty and I don't have any sense But, by God, I know my duty to the national defence!
They're going to bomb the Harbour Bridge then quiet as a mouse, They'll sneak up with explosives and blow up the Opera House. They're going to blow up Murphy's pub. I've heard about the plot… I hope they get the pokies 'cause I'm losing quite a lot.
There's terrorism everywhere; it makes a man afraid… I’m buying a machine gun and I'll build a barricade. You'll have to know the password if you come and visit me. Shoot first, ask questions later mate, that's my philosophy.
My Aunty May's eccentric; "You’re paranoid," she said. She doesn't believe the terrorists are underneath the bed. She reckons it's "hysteria"… I don’t know what she meant… She said she’s far more frightened of the Federal Government.
John Howard will protect us, he is very strong and brave; He's passing legislation that will make you all behave! You won't be facing Mecca on that silly bloody mat You'll all be Church of England, Abdul, cogitate on that!
Final Chorus Watch them, track them…
Another parody from the wonderful pen of John Dengate.
Come all you sons of liberty and listen to my tale A story of bushranging days I will to you unveil. 'Tis of those valiant heroes, God bless them one and all! We'll sit and sing: 'God save the King, Dunn, Gilbert, and Ben Hall.'
Ben Hall he was a squatter, and he owned six hundred head; A peaceful, quiet man was he until he met Sir Fred. The troopers burned his homestead down, his cattle perished all. 'I've all my sentence yet to earn, was the word of brave Ben Hall.
John Gilbert was a flash cove, and young O'Meally too, With Ben and Bourke and Dunn and Vane they all were comrades true. They bailed the Carcoar mailcoach up and made the troopers crawl. There's a thousand pound set on the heads of Dunn, Gilbert, and Ben Hall
From Bathurst down to Goulburn town they made the coaches stand, While far behind, Sir Frederick's men were labouring thro' the land Then at Canowindra's best hotel they gave a public ball: We don't hurt them that don't hurt us, says Dunn, Gilbert, and Ben Hall.
They held the Gold Commissioner to ransom on the spot , But young John Vane surrendered after Micky Bourke was shot. O'Meally at Goimbla did like a hero fall; But 'We'll take the country over yet,' says Dunn, Gilbert, and Ben Hall.
They never robbed a needy man, the records go to show, Though staunch and loyal to their mates, unflinching to the foe; So we'll drink a toast tonight, my lads, their memories to recall. Let us sit and sing: 'God save the King, Dunn, Gilbert, and Ben Hall!'
A version compiled by John Manifold. Posted to Mudcat by Bob Bolton in 1998.
The illustration to this post is a sketch of John Gilbert, bushranger.
Words: A.W.Davis Tune: Traditional (Little Sally Waters)
The night is dark and stormy and the sky is clouded o'er Our horses we will mount and ride away To watch the squatters' cattle through the darkness of the night And we'll keep them on the camp till break of day
Chorus For we're going going going to Gunnedah so far And we'll soon be into sunny New South Wales We shall bid farewell to Queensland with its swampy coolibah Happy drovers from the sandy Maranoa
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
We are up at break of day and we're all soon on the way For we always have to go ten miles or more It don't do to loaf about or the squatter will come out He's strict on drovers from the sandy Maranoa
We shall soon be on the Moonie and we'll cross the Barwon too Then we'll be out upon the rolling plains once more We'll shout hurrah for old Queensland with its swampy coolibah And the cattle that come off the Maranoa
Also known as Maranoa Drovers. Another from Paterson's Old Bush Songs.
You came to this country in fetters and chains Outlaws and rebels with numbers for names And on the triangle were beaten and maimed Blood stained the soil of Australia Dookies and duchesses, flash lads and whores You worked their plantations and polished their floors Lived in their shadow and died in their wars Blood stained the soil of Australia
Does it quicken your heart beat To see tar and concrete Cover the tracks of the old bullock dray Have you grown so heartless To christen it progress When the swaggies have all waltzed Matilda away
Driven like dogs from your own native home Hardship and poverty caused you to roam Over the bracken and over the foam Blood stained the soil of Australia Then in the fever for fortune and fame You caused the poor blacks to suffer the same Imprisoned on missions or hunted for game Blood stained the soil of Australia
Its two hundred years since you came to this land Betrayed by the girl with the black velvet band And still to this day you don’t understand Blood stained the soil of Australia Koori and white, old Australian and new Brothers and sisters of every hue The future is ours, take the wealth from the few And raise the Red Flag in Australia
Let it quicken your heart beat The road’s at your own feet Travel it lightly and travel it well And don’t speak of success Or christen it progress Til the swaggies can all waltz Matilda as well
Alistair Hulett (1951-2010) was a great songwriter and social activist. This song was recorded with a band he formed in Sydney, Roaring Jack and was included in their 1988 album, Cat Among the Pigeons.
A neat little packet from Hobart set sail For to cruise 'round the westward for monster sperm whales; Cruise in the westward, where the stormy winds blow, Bound away in the Waterwitch, to the west'd we go.
CHORUS: Bound away, bound away, where the stormy winds blow, Bound away to the west'd in the Waterwitch we go.
Oh it's early one morning just as the sun rose; A man from the masthead cries out: 'There she blows!' 'We're away!' cried the skipper, and springing aloft; 'Three points on the lee bow and scarce three miles off.
'Get your lines in your boats, my boys, see your box-line all clear, And lower me down, my bully-boys, and after him we'll steer. Now the ship, she gets full, my boys; to Hobart we steer, Where there's plenty of pretty girls and plenty good beer.
'We'll spend our money freely with the pretty girls on shore, And when it's all gone we'll go whaling for more.' Bound away, bound away, where the stormy winds blow, Bound away in the Waterwitch, to the west'd we go.
The Waterwitch was a whaling ship based in Hobart in the 1860s. This song was published in collections in the mid-twentieth century. I've used a tune based on the Wongawilli version.
Down through the years, again and again. The blue fist moves in; the names ring with shame The Springboks, the marches, up in Cedar Bay We saw our rights and our freedoms get taken away
CHORUS:: 12 women and men with his fate in their hands They let him go free and I don't understand How he walked out the door and he claimed victory What's justice to them isn't justice to me.
Mr Fitzgerald came onto the scene Gunn thought the old joke would keep the boys clean But the pimps and the coppers, the stories they could tell Another two years and the government fell
The truth came to light and Sir Joh came to trial With a wave for the cameras and an arrogant smile But the jury was deadlocked, they couldn't be satisfied That when the old man told his story, the premier had lied
Now was justice done, was justice observed Or was justice twisted and mangled and turned When justice drops the charges, when the guilty go free What's justice to them isn't justice to me.
A song I wrote after the former Queensland premier, Sir Johannes Bjelke-Peterson's trial for perjury resulted in a hung jury and the decision was taken to not order a re-trial. The history of the Bjelke-Petersen government, the Fitzgerald hearings and the ultimate renovation of the Queensland political system are dealt with extensively in Evan Whitton's book, The Hillbilly Dictator. Well worth a look.
Twas in the city of London, in apprenticeship I was bound And many's the happy sweet hour, I spent in that dear old town One day as I was walking, along my usual beat A pretty little young maiden, came tripping along the street
CHORUS: And her eyes they shone like diamonds, I thought her the pride of the land The hair that hung down on her shoulders was tied with a black velvet band
One day as we were walking, a gentleman passed us by I could she was bent on some mischief by the roving of her eye Gold watch she picked from his pocket and slyly placed it into my hand I was taken in charge by a copper - bad luck to that black velvet band
Before the Lord Mayor I was taken: "Your case sir, I plainly can see And if I'm not greatly mistaken you're bound far over the sea It's over the dark and blue ocean Far away to Van Diemen's Land Away from my friends and relations and the girl with the black velvet band
A song of many versions dating back to roughly the 1830s.
This version from Singabout, Volume 5, Number 1 (1963).
The illustration is a photograph of early Peelers, members of the first police force.
The sweet scented wattle sheds perfume around, Enticing the bird and the bee, As I lie and take rest, in a fern-covered nest In the shade of a Currajong tree. High up in the air I can hear the refrain Of the butcher bird piping his tune, For the Spring in her glory has come back again To the banks of the reedy lagoon.
I've carried my bluey for many a mile, My boots are worn out at the toes, And I'm dressing this season in different style From what I did last year, God knows! My cooking utensils, I'm sorry to say, Consist of a knife and a spoon; And I've dry bread and tea, in a battered Jack Shea On the banks of the reedy lagoon.
Oh where is poor Frankie (and how he could ride!) And Johnny the kind hearted boy? They tell me that lately he's taken a bride A Benedick's life to enjoy. And Mac the big Scotsman? I once heard him say. He wrestled the famous Muldoon. But they're all far away, and I'm lonely today On the banks of the reedy lagoon.
Oh where is the lady I often caressed, The girl with the sad dreamy eyes? She pillows her head on another man's breast Who tells her the very same lies! My bed she would hardly be willing to share Where I camp in the light of the moon! But it's little I care, for I couldn't keep square, On the banks of the reedy lagoon.
First heard from Peter Bate at the Top End Folk Club.
