An Australian Folk Song A Day

Waltzing Matilda

2012-01-26T10:26:00.001+10:00

Words: Andrew Barton (Banjo) Paterson
Tune: A variation on Thou Bonnie Wood of Craigielea by Robert Barr (1770-1836)

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Oh, there once was a swagman camped in the billabong,
Under the shade of a coolibah tree,
And he sang as he looked at the old billy boiling,
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?

(Chorus:) Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda my darling,
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?
Waltzing Matilda and leading a waterbag,
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?

Down came the jumbuck to drink at the water-hole,
Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him with glee,
And he sang as he put him away in his tucker-bag,
You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.

Up came the Squatter a-riding his thoroughbred,
Up came Policemen - one, two and three,
Whose is that jumbuck you've got in the tucker-bag?
You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.

The swagman he up and he jumped in the water-hole,
Drowning himself by the coolibah tree,
And his ghost may be heard as it sings by the billabong,
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?

Australia's best known song has a rich history. Written in 1895 by Banjo Paterson it has been adopted and adapted many times. Dennis O'Keeffe's Waltzing Matilda site is a great place to start the journey of research into this fascinating subject.

I've printed the original lyrics above. Observant listeners will note that the version sung here varies a little from the original. These variations represent both the folk process and the varying ways in which this song is learnt by school-children around Australia. (Any timing variations are my responsibility as conductor). The suggestion at the very end of the recording came from James Rigby.

This recording was made on Friday, 20 January, 2012 at the Celtic Southern Cross Summer School in Victoria and was sung by all the attendees at the school. I thank them all for their support and their contribution to the blog. The illustration to this post is a photograph of the group by Phil Green.

The Aeroplane Jelly Song

2012-01-25T22:00:00.000+10:00

Words and Music: Albert Francis Lenertz

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I've got a song that won't take very long,
Quite a good sort of note if I strike it . . .
It is something we eat, and I think it's quite sweet, 
And I know you are going to like it.

I like Aeroplane Jelly 
Aeroplane Jelly for me.
I like it for dinner, I like it for tea, 
A little each day is a good recipe, 

The quality's high as the name will imply, 
And it's made from pure fruits, one more good reason why...

I like Aeroplane Jelly 
Aeroplane Jelly for me.

It is difficult to describe the significance of this song to those who did not experience it growing up in Australia.

The song was written by Albert Lenertz, the business partner of Bert Apleroth, founder of the company which created Aeroplane Jelly crystals. Originally performed as a radio jingle in 1930 it has continued in use to the present day. In the 1940s it was played on radio up to 100 times a day (charming as it is, this is a horrifying thought). Aeroplane Jelly Crystals are still Australia's best-selling brand.

An indication of this commercial jingle's impact on the Australian psyche can be found by its presence in both the National Library and Australian Film and Sound Archive collections.

While I am a great fan (lime being my favourite flavour) I am in no way sponsored by Aeroplane Jelly.

NB. The applause on this track occurs only in my imagination.

This (the last official song on this blog) was recorded using three of my tiredest voices and a bass concertina.

What Shall We Do With The Daily Papers

2012-01-24T22:04:00.001+10:00

Words: Unknown
Tune: Traditional (What Shall We Do With The Drunken Sailor)

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Down in old Melbourne four harlots do dwell
The four daily papers that we know so well,
The Sun and the Herald, the Argus and Age
Just four little birds in the one gilded cage.

Four workers one cribtime sat down in a bunch;
They were reading their papers and eating their lunch,
When the eldest, a fellow called Militant Mick
Says, "The lies that they print, why they fair make me sick"

"Now the front page is full of the wars, hot and cold,
That are helping the millionaires pile up more gold,
And appeals to us workers to please do our bit"
He turns over the page, as the boys all say "S . . t!"

"The second page holds all the editor's thoughts
On how to smash unions by using the courts,
And how to make money by growing more wool"
He turns over the page as the boys yell out "B . . l!"

"Three, four and five are for killers and drunks,
And the Folies Bergeres in their transparent trunks,
The rapes and divorces, the scandal and shock."
He turns over the page, as the boys shout out "C . . k!"

"Six is the page for the Toorak to-do,
Who's getting married, and who is up who,
And the frantic old antics of the socialite sluts."
He turns over the page and the boys all say "N . . ts!"

"The next fifteen pages for the births and the deaths,
Use Chlorophyll toothpaste to sweeten your breaths,
Buy from Foy and Gibson, Myer or Buck."
He turns over the page as the boys mutter "F . . k!"

"The back page says Jan's a good thing for the Cup,
Or maybe Morse Code, if they smarten him up,
Or they might all dead heat, that's if none of them falls."
He turns over the page and they all shout out "B . . ls!"

"Now listen here, comrades, this press isn't free,
It's bought by the bosses for hard L.S.D
This I must tell you, no matter what comes --
It's sole use for us is for wiping our b . ms!"

So they folded their papers and cut them up small,
Put a string through the corner, hung them up on the wall,
And in this way found a use for each page
Of the Herald and Argus, the Sun and the Age.

The following Tuesday a letter they read
From the Acting Director of Sewage, who said,
"Dear Sirs, the papers you've flushed down the drain
Are corrupting my t . . ds, so don't do it again."

Now the moral of this is quite easy to see,
If we want a press that really is free,
That will help all us workers get out of the mess
We must pitch in and fight for the working-class press.

I find myself in Melbourne today and had the misfortune to read a copy of the Herald-Sun in a cafe this morning. Accordingly, I was delighted to find this ditty among the material I have collected in the process of assembling the blog. I've added the chorus at beginning and end to round it out.

From John Meredith's notes in the National Library of Australia. The bowdlerised lyrics are as they appear in the original typed notes.

The illustration to this post is the header from the Melbourne Argus on Melbourne Cup Day (Tuesday, November 4, 1952). Morse Code (who had placed third in 1950 and fallen in 1951) failed to place. This likely dates this song to that year. Morse Code had been a clear favourite for some weeks leading up to the Cup.

The Hardest Bloody Job I Ever Had

2012-01-23T22:23:00.000+10:00

Words: Unknown

Tune: Traditional ('Ard Tack)

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I'm a shearer, yes I am, and I've shorn them sheep and lamb

From the Wimmera to the Darling Downs and back,

And I've rung a shed or two when the fleece was tough as glue

But I'll tell you where I struck the hardest tack.

I was down by Yenda way, killin' time from day to day,

Till the big sheds started moving further out;

When I struck a bloke by chance that I summed up in a glance

As a cocky from a vineyard round about.

Now it seems he picked me too, well, it wasn't hard to do,

As I had my tongs a-hanging at the hip,

"I've got a mob", he said, "of about two hundred head,

And I'd give a ten pound note to have the clip."

I says: "Right, I'll take the stand": it meant getting in me hand;

And by nine o'clock we'd rounded up the mob

In a shed sunk in the ground - yeah, with wine casks all around,

And that was where I started on me job.

I goes easy for a bit while me hand was gitting fit,

And by dinner time I'd done some half a score,

With the cocky picking up, and handing me a cup,

Of pinkie after every sheep I shore.

The cocky had to go away about the seventh day,

After showing me the kind of kegs to use:

Then I'd do the pickin' up, and handing me a cup,

Of pinkie after every sheep I shore.

Then I'd stagger to the pen, grab a sheep and start again,

With a noise between a hiccup and a sob,

And sometimes I'd fall asleep with my arms around the sheep,

Worn and weary from me over-arduous job.

And so six weeks went by, until one day with a sigh,

I pushed the poor old cobbler through the door,

Gathered up the cocky's pay, then staggered on me way,

From the hardest bloody shed I ever shore.

Another from Warren Fahey's Australian Folk Songs and Bush Ballads, published with the following note:

Wine grapes have been grown in Australia from the days of early European settlement and they are celebrated here in this wonderful song charged with bush humour and imagery, especially when the shearer falls asleep "with his arms wrapped around the sheep, worn and weary from the over-arduous job." This version is taken from the singing of Mr Jack Davies, a soldier-settler in the Leeton district, New South Wales, and included in John Lahey's "Great Australian Folk Songs" under the title "Ard Tack", with a note: "It is a song any shearer would relish, but more so in that part of Murrumbidgee, where vineyards and sheep can so easily go together."

The illustration to this post is a photograph from the National Library of Australia entitled "Shearer shearing a sheep's back with mechanical shears, Australia, ca. 1890"

Come, Sing Australian Songs To Me!

2012-01-23T21:41:00.000+10:00

Words:  John O'Brien (Patrick Joseph Hartigan)

Tune:  John Thompson

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Come, Little One, and sing to me
  A song our big wide land to bless,
Around whose gentle parent-knee
  We've twined the flowers of kindliness.

Your eyes are clear Australian blue,
  Your voice like soft bush breezes blown;
Her sunshine steeps the heart of you,
  Your tresses are the wattle's own.

What, no Australian song, my child,
  No lay of love, no hymn of praise?
And yet no mother ever smiled
  With our dear country's winsome ways:

You sing the songs of all the earth,
  Of bower and bloom and bird and bee;
And has the land that gave you birth
  No haunting, native melody?

Your poets' eager pens awake
  The world-old themes of love and youth.
The pulse of life, the joy, the ache,
  The pregnant line of earnest truth;

They dress you these in native guise,
  And interweave with loving hand
The freshness of your rain-washed skies,
  The colours of your sunlit land.

What, no Australian song, my dear?
  And yet I've heard the cottage ring
With notes the world would pause to hear,
  When at their work your sisters sing.

They sing the songs of all the earth,
  Of tender sky, and dimpling sea,
But all their strains have not the worth
  Of one Australian song, for me.

I've heard the harp the breezes play
  Among the wilding wilga-trees;
I've swept my world of care away
  When bush birds lift their melodies;

I've seen the paddocks all ablaze
  When spring in golden glory comes,
The purple hills of summer days,
  The autumn ochres through the gums;

I've seen the bright folk riding in
  O'er blooms that deck the clovered plain,
And neath the trees, when moonbeams spin
  Their silver-dappled counterpane.

What, no Australian song, my pet?
  No patriot note on native horn,
To bind the hearts in kindness met,
  And link the leal Australian-born?

Yet every exile, wandering lone
  Our happy careless homes among,
May live the best his heart has known
  Whene'er his country's songs are sung.

You sing the songs of all the earth,
  Of alien flower and alien tree:
But no one, in my grief or mirth,
  Will sing Australian songs to me.

You sing of every land but mine,
  Where life is lifting neath the sun.
Still all its spirit seems ashine
  In you, my little laughing one.

Your eyes are clear Australian blue,
  Your face is towards the future set:
The bounding, gladsome heart of you
  Is hers-and only hers, my pet.

Ah, Little One, what dreams would rise
  If, nestled here upon my knee,
You'd flash those soft Australian eyes,
  And sing your country's songs to me!

From John O'Brien's Around the Boree Log.

The Overlanders set this poem to music on their album, Songs of the Great 
Australian Balladists.  I used the first line of their melody as a starting

point.

The Ticket of Leave Man

2012-01-22T22:01:00.000+10:00

Words: Unknown
Tune: Traditional (Pretty Polly Perkins)

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Once I was honest and worked at my trade
Which was shoemaker and good shoes I made,
Till once a fine fellow came into my place,
And he was the cause of my present disgrace.

CHORUS:
He was a Ticket of Leave man, still inclined for to thieve,
Although he was out on a Ticket of Leave

He came to my shop and quickly 'twas,
He ordered some boots and he ordered some shoes,
For a twenty pound note, then, the change he did receive,
I was sold by a Ticket of Leave

A week after this note I did cash,
It was forged and for me was a regular smash,
They made me an example and sent me away,
And gave me seven years at Botany Bay.

But every convict bear this in sight,
May he again receive this freedom, if he acts right,
And the government there my story did believe,
And I had but one year and a Ticket of Leave.

Arrived here on shore, I idleness do shirk,
And tried like a man to look for some work.
But all the folks I saw did the one answer give,
Where's the Police, you're a Ticket of Leave.

I'm scorned by the rich, I'm scorned by the poor.
My ticket drives me mad, from door to door,
And now ere a week or fortnight is pass'd
They make me a thief and dishonest at last.

And this will be the end of the poor
Ticket of Leave Man, who is not inclined to thieve
Although I'm free, with my Ticket of Leave,
And who do you think would employ a Ticket of Leave?

This song from Warren Fahey's Australian Folk Songs and Bush Ballads, although originally collected by Hugh Anderson and Ron Edwards as part of their examination of English broadside ballads. It was Warren who joined these lyrics to this tune.

The Ticket of Leave was an early form of parole.

The illustration to this post is taken from a review of Tom Taylor's play The Ticket of Leave Man, published in Punch, Vol 104, February 4, 1893.

The Bold Kelly Gang

2012-01-22T17:20:00.000+10:00

Unknown

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Oh there's not a dodge worth knowing or showing that's going
But you'll learn (This isn't blowing) from the Bold Kelly Gang.

We've mates where-e'er we go that somehow let us know
The approach of every foe to the Bold Kelly Gang.

There's not a peeler riding Wombat Ranges, hill or siding
But would rather far be hiding, though he'd like to see us hang.

We thin their ranks, we rob their banks and ask no thanks for what we do.
Oh the terror of the camp is the Bold Kelly Gang.

Then if you want a spree, come with me, and you'll see
How grand it is to be in the Bold Kelly Gang.

Published as part of the excellent Bush Music Club publication, Songs From The Kelly Country, (edited by John Meredith) in commemoration of the 75th anniversary of the death of Ned Kelly.

The publication notes this song as being also published as Bushwhacker Broadside No.9.

The illustration to this post is the logo of the Bush Music Club, Australia's oldest

The Stolen Horse

2012-01-22T16:47:00.000+10:00

Words: J Smail
Tune: Traditional (Derry Down)

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Pat once on a time lost a puddling horse
Which put him to some inconvenience, iv coorse;
"Be me soul, then," says he, " But the nag shall be found,
For I'll search all the district for fifty miles round."
Derry down, down, down, derry down.

Now he hunted a week, but his search was in vain,
And so he returned to his tent once again;
His mate, with an oath, said to Pat, "I'll be bound
That some thief of a squatter has put him in pound."
Derry down etc.

As Pat was returning from labor one day,
He spied his own horse wid some more in a dray.
He seized him at once, and held on to him fast,
"Be the powers," says he, "but I've got you at last."

Wid the driver and Pat, a dispute then arose,
From high words, be-gorra, they soon came to blows;
The p'lice saw the row, and came down from the camp,
And says Pat, "Take that man, he's a horse-stealing scamp"

Now the case was called on, after several remands
And the magistrate ask'd Pat to tell them the brands,
"There's BO on the shoulder," says he, "and it's plain,
He has three white fore-feet, switch tail and long mane.

Here a terrible scrimmage occurred in the place
For a fellow jumped and stared Pat in the face;
"Why, you blackguard," says he, "that's my horse, you know
For I lost the same baste about two years ago."

The bench then ax'd Pat his receipt to produce,
But Pat swore he wouldn't endure such abuse;
For he'd plenty of witnesses there that were able
To prove that he'd found him one night in a stable.

Poor Paddy tried hard to get out of the scrape,
But they'd got him so fast that he couldn't escape.
Now the poor devil's reaping the fruit that he sow'd
For he's doing his ten years' hard work on the road.

Published in Rod Edwards' Big Book of Australian Folk Songs with the following note:

The Stolen Horse was composed around 1857 by J Smail and published in a Colonial Songster published by Hodgson of Castlemaine, Vic. A puddling horse was one used to drag around a rake-like apparatus set inside a circular tank. The tank was filled with gold-bearing clay and water and the rakes reduced this to a slurry, which could then be processed to recover the gold.

The illustration to this post is a copy of Ron Edwards' book cover, available from Ramskull Press.

The Australian Alphabet

2012-01-22T16:03:00.000+10:00

Words: Unknown
Tune: John Thompson (A variation on Flash Jack From Gundagai)

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A is for Australia, the land in which we are;
B is for the bush, my boys, which stretches near and far;
C is for the cattle which we are paid to mind
D is for the dingo, a treacherous brute you'll find.

CHORUS:
So, my Australian brothers, I hope that you will see
Signs of the times in our A B C.

E is for the eagle hawk, which plays havoc with our flocks;
F is for that little wretch - I mean the flying fox;
G is for the gray-flyer, a kind of kangaroo;
H is for the horse, my boys, we all have one or two.

I is for the iguana, which we never catch asleep;
J is for the jumbuck, colonial slang for sheep;
K is for the kangaroo, of which we have a host;
L is for the lyre-bird, the pheasant of the coast.

M is for the morepork, a very curious bird;
N is for the native, as curious as absurd;
O is for that little wretch - I mean the opossum;
P stands for the public0house, where we do get bad rum.

Q is for Quirindi, where lives Mr Hope;
R stands for his rations, and S stands for his soap;
And of the netx letter I'd have you all beware,
For if you drink too much of it you'll spoil your nerves, I fear.

U is for all of you sitting here about;
V is for our voics, with which we raise a shout;
W is for our whips - Oh! what a crack they make;
X is for the excitement, when a beast begins to break.

Y it is, and how it is, we are so very wise,
Has always been to me a matter of great surprise;
And as I'm not just now prepared to find a rhyme for Z,
I think we'll go into the bar, and have a nip instead.

Another from The Queenslander, via the Hurd Collection, this one ... "Supplied by A.M., Gayndah".

The Hurd Collection of clippings held at the State Library of Queensland includes a selection from the Songs of the Bush series which appeared in the late nineteenth century as part of the Flotsam and Jetsam column.

The clippings include this note:

Some correspondents who have been kind enough to respond to our request for contributions to this column have formed a wrong impression of the scope of the undertaking and have sent in bush poems - good enough in their way, but not what are wanted. We ask only for bush songs - songs that are sung every day by the camp fire and in the hut but to familiar airs. We fully appreciate the industry of those who have set themselves to compose songs since the first notice appeared, but we want only old ditties, such as "The Overlander" or "The Drover". ..

The illustration to this post is the cover of an unrelated book published in Melbourne by Valentine and Sons in 1915.

Mustering Day

2012-01-22T14:49:00.000+10:00

Words: Unknown
Tune: So Early In The Morning

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Old master came to the old hut door
And said, as he'd often said before
"Tomorrow is mustering day
So rouse up, boys and get away"

The morning stars began to rise
As we got up and robbed our eyes
Our horses we quickly manned
And started off with whip in hand.

We met a mob not far away,
Started back without delay;
An old white cow ran off the track,
Old master went to fetch her back.

The mare he rode was rather free,
Ran poor master against a tree,
Threw him off upon his head,
Broke his neck and killed him dead.

Next morning I went to catch a horse
To help to bury poor master's horse
And in that most uncertain light
I got a most tremendous fright

For there I saw old master's ghost
Sitting on top of the stockyard post
Smoking the same old clay
That master smoked on mustering day

Where'er I roam, wheree'er I stray
May I never forget that mustering day
For then I saw old master's ghost
Sitting on top of the stockyard post.

From the Hurd Collection (Clippings from The Queenslander held in the State Library of Queensland).

The illustration to this post is a photograph of Mr and Mrs RS Hurd "taken at Oskeid, 1920"

The Wallaby Track

2012-01-18T16:44:00.000+10:00

Unknown

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One morning I rolled up the few things I'd got
And I strapped to my saddle my quart and pint pot
And I told the boss, I said I'd soon be back
I was off for a trip on the wallaby track
Oh the morning was fine, though it blew rather cold
And the sun was just topping the mountains with gold
And my favourite old dingo travelling close to the back
And he knew we were off on the wallaby track

With the tooraleye, ooraleye, tooraleye ooral,
With the tidileye-dum dooral eye tooraleye- dum ay
With my tooraleye, ooral, and a whack-fol the tooral
Tidileye-dum dooral eye tiddle-dum all day.

We'd a fair way to go to an old camping place
So we're rattling along at a pretty good pace
Where friends we would meet when provisions were slack
And they all live close by to the wallaby track
Oh well we hadn't gone very far I suppose
When we met with the girl who said, "G'day Joe"
I said, "You're mistaken, my name it is Jack"
"And I'm off for a trip on the wallaby track"

She said, "Get off your horse and rest yourself now"
"Did you see on your travels me old Poland cow?"
"You remember the one that we used to call Black"
"I'm afraid she has gone on the wallaby track".
So I got off my horse and I patted my dog
And we both sat together on the stringybark log
And I made up the fire and I ratted the pack
And we both had a meal on the wallaby track.

So we sat in the shade of the stringy bark tree
As fine a young girl as you ever did see
She asks where I'm going; when will I be back
And why am I off on the wallaby track
So i told her then I was looking for a wife
And would she take on a partner for life
And like a sensible girl, well, she said "It's a whack"
That was the end of my trip on the wallaby track.

From Dave de Hugard's Magpie In The Wattle album.

Saint Peter

2012-01-16T19:11:00.001+10:00

Words: Henry Lawson
Tune: Traditional (The Wearing of the Green)

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Now, I think there is a likeness 'twixt St Peter's life and mine  
For he did a lot of trampin' long ago in Palestine
He was 'union' when the workers first began to organize 
And I'm glad that old St Peter keeps the gate of Paradise  

When the ancient agitator and his brothers carried swags
I've no doubt he very often tramped with empty tucker-bags 
And I'm glad he's Heaven's picket, for I hate explainin' things 
And he'll think a union ticket just as good as Whitely King's  

When I reach the great head-station which is somewhere 'off the track'
I won't want to talk with angels who have never been out back
 They might bother me with offers of a banjo meanin' well 
And a pair of wings to fly with, when I only want a spell  

I'll just ask for old St Peter, and I think, when he appears
I will only have to tell him that I carried swag for years
'I've been on the track,' I'll tell him, 'an' I done the best I could' 
And he'll understand me better than the other angels would  

He won't try to get a chorus out of lungs that's worn to rags 
Or to graft the wings on shoulders that is stiff with humpin' swags
But I'll rest about the station where the work-bell never rings 
Till they blow the final trumpet and the Great Judge sees to things

The Sunshine Disaster

2012-01-14T22:54:00.000+10:00

Unknown

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He was driving a Bendigo engine
The train was running all right.
It was going along as usual
Till Sunshine came in sight
He put on his brakes and he whistled
For the signal was against the train
He applied his brakes for emergency
But alas 'twas all in vain.

CHORUS:
If those trains had only run
As they should, their proper time
There wouldn't have been a disaster
At a place they call Sunshine
If those brakes had only held
As they did a few hours before
There wouldn't have been a disaster
And a death toll of forty-four

The doctors and nurses arrived there
And the sight it caused them pain
To see all the wounded and dying
In the wreck of that fateful train,
The people of Sunshine ne'er faltered
But assisted with all their power
To help the doctors and nurses
In that awful and painful hour.

From Ron Edwards, published with the following note:

The Sunshine Disaster was collected at Lappa Junction, 21 August 1966 from the singing of Bill Leonard, who had learnt it in the area over thirty years before.

It is in the broadside tradition of songs such as Les Darcy and Phar Lap and uses the tune "If Those Lips Could Only Speak" (A choice I must say I find a little bizarre - JT)

The following is an extract form the official book, "Victorian Railways to '62".

"On Easter Monday, 20 April 1908 one of the most deplorable catastrophes in Australian railway history occurred at Sunshine, 7 miles from Melbourne. The 6.50pm "up" Bendigo crashed into the rear o the 7.15pm "up" Ballarat which was standing at Sunshine station platform. Both trains, crowded with holiday-makers returning to Melbourne, were running late. Forty-four passengers in the Ballarat train were killed and over 400 on both trains were injured."

Follow this link to the contemporary coverage of the disaster in the Melbourne Argus.

The Song Of The Thrush

2012-01-13T14:52:00.000+10:00

Words: Walter Hastings
Music: George Le Brunn

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Years ago out in the wilds of Australia
Out in the minefields there once stood a camp
The miners were made up of all sorts of classes
many a scapegrace and many a scamp.
When into their midst came a young man from England
and with him he brought a small thrush in a cage,
to hear the bird sing they would flock 'round in dozens.
That dear little songster became quite the rage.

CHORUS:
There fell a deep hush. As the song of the thrush,
Was heard by that motley throng.
Many a rough fellows eyes grew moist
As the notes rang out clearly and strong.
Eyes lighted up with a bright yearning look
As the bird trilled his beautiful lay
For it brought to their minds dear old England and home
Thousands of miles away.

The miners though rough and fierce looking fellows
were human and idolised, worshipped that bird
in the midst of a quarrel they'd leave off and listen
when the voice of their charmer, their favourite they heard.
That bird from Old England at last got quite famous
To hear it the miners would come from afar
and many declared they preferred the bird's singing
To the card and the dice at the round liquor bar.

It made them all think of the corn fields and meadows

Of many a shady and quiet little lane

And hearts ached and yearned as they thought of some village

And some they had dearly loved, but all in vain.

The bird still sang on and the miners still listend

P'r'aps they got tired of the bird? no such thing:

As one rough expressed it, "He came like and angel

And make you feel good like to hear that bird sing.

From the National Library of Australia collection: http://nla.gov.au/nla.mus-an21032329

Recorded unaccompanied by Dave De Hugard on the 1974 Larrikin LP, Man of the Earth.

The Billy-Goat Overland

2012-01-12T22:50:00.000+10:00

Words: Banjo Paterson Tune:
Traditional (The Lincolnshire Poacher)

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Come all ye lads of the droving days, ye gentlemen unafraid,
I'll tell you all of the greatest trip that ever a drover made,
For we rolled our swags, and we packed our bags, and taking our lives in hand,
We started away with a thousand goats, on the billy-goat overland.

There wasn't a fence that'd hold the mob, or keep 'em from their desires;
They skipped along the top of the posts and cake-walked on the wires.
And where the lanes had been stripped of grass and the paddocks were nice and green,
The goats they travelled outside the lanes and we rode in between.

The squatters started to drive them back, but that was no good at all,
Their horses ran for the lick of their lives from the scent that was like a wall:
And never a dog had pluck or gall in front of the mob to stand
And face the charge of a thousand goats on the billy-goat overland.

We found we were hundreds over strength when we counted out the mob;
And they put us in jail for a crowd of theives that travelled to steal and rob:
For every goat between here and Bourke, when he scented our spicy band,
Had left his home and his work to join in the billy-goat overland.

The illustration to this post is the copy of the 1933 edition of Paterson's collection from which this poem comes, The Animals Noah Forgot.

Adieu To All Judges And Juries

2012-01-11T11:54:00.001+10:00

Unknown

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Here's adieu to all judges and juries!
Here's adieu to you bailiffs also!
Seven years you've parted me from my true-love,
Seven years I'm transported, you know.

Oh Polly, I'm going for to leave you,
For seven long years, love, or more;
But the time it won't seem but one moment,
When I think on the girl I adore.

Going to a strange country don't grieve me,
Nor leaving old England behind;
But it's all for the sake of my Polly love,
And a-leaving my comrades behind.

And if ever I return from the ocean,
Stores of riches I will bring you, my dear;
It's all for the sake of my Polly love,
I'll cross the salt seas without fear.

How hard is my place of confinement,
Which keeps me from my heart's delight;
Cold chains and cold irons all around me,
And a plank for my pillow at night.

Oftentimes I have wished that some eagle
Would lend me her wings for to fly;
I would fly to the arms of my Polly love,
Once more in her bosom to lie.

Obviously related to the well-known Botany Bay (which Bob Bolton has referred to as this song's "illegitimate offspring").

Published by Frank Purslow in The Constant Lovers (EFDSS 1972). Purslow has this to say:

Gardiner Hp.308. George Blake, St. Denys, Southampton, Hants. May, 1906. "Once extremely popular, but now almost forgotten, it probably had its origins in the early music halls. Some collected versions do seem to be of an earlier date, but a stage origin still seems likely. The tune is sometimes sung in the Mixolydian mode. The composer of Wrap Me Up In My Tarpaulin Jacket -Whyte Melville- appears to have been unconsciously aware of the tune when he composed his. I have slightly rearranged the order of Blake's verses to agree with the usual order."

Sung to a number of tunes, I've adapted this one from Shirley and Dolly Collins version.

The Gum Tree With Six Branches

2012-01-10T20:30:00.000+10:00

Words: Walter P Keen
Tune: Traditional (Australia's On The Wallaby)

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I roamed the bush one summer's eve, while wattle trees were blooming
And aided by the Myall wood, in a land so sweet perfuming,
At sunset, feeling tired, I slept beneath the bowers,
And as I dreamt a spirit arose, from out of the flowers,
The spirit of Australia, was what it said to me
Oh son of mine I'll show to you your magic native tree.

CHORUS
One branch is called Victoria and one is New South Wales,
Then South and West Australia, each gallantly prevails.
With Queensland and Tasmania, dll rich in mines and ranches,
That's federal Australia, the gumtree with six branches.

The spirit said: 'In that tree, there's untold wealth awaiting,
The labour of her children, so why be hesitating,
The task is not beyond you, each healthy son and daughter,
But chiefly you must always—supply that tree with water.
Then she will freely yield the things that you require,
And to its independence your nation will aspire.'

The spirit said: Then rest not, till your task it is completed,
Tis only curs who tell you in childhood they're defeated,
That tree is only growing but she will bloom tomorrow,
For you can't raise a nation without a little sorrow.
Then may each branch united dispel all jealousy,
Advance as one Australia—upon that magic tree.

An example of a type of patriotic song all-too-rare in these cynical times (although I'm not totally convinced by the thought that we should all band together and advance on a tree).

From Warren Fahey's inestimable Australian Folklore Unit site. Published with the following note:

This song was sung at the Tivoli Music Hall about 1910 and the words are attributed to Walter P. Keen with music by that old trouper, Joe Salter. The tune has been suggested by Warren Fahey who unearthed the song in 1979. The gumtree now has eight branches with the addition of the Northern Territory and the ACT. A recorded version appears on the 2MBS-FM record Ryder Round Folk, Sydney.

A Bush Lullaby

2012-01-09T14:12:00.000+10:00

Words: Thomas (Louis) Esson
Tune: Chris Kempster

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Baby, O baby, fain you are for bed
Magpie to mopoke, busy as the bee
The little red calf's in the snug cow-shed
And the little brown bird's in the tree

Daddy's gone a-shearing down the Castlereagh
So we're all alone now, only you and me
All among the wool-O; keep your wide blades full-O!
Daddy loves his baby, parted tho' they be

Baby, my baby, rest your drowsy head
The one man that works here, tired you must be

The little red calf's in the snug cow-shed
And the little brown bird's in the tree

The illustration to this post is a photograph of Louis Esson. Follow this link to Chris Kempster's obituary by Keith McKenry. Below is a photograph of Chris.

The Sparrow and the Emu's Egg

2012-01-09T13:24:00.001+10:00

Words: Unknown (The Perfeser)
Tune: John Meredith

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There was a little sparrow, and he was out of work
So he humped his bluey on his back and he set out for Burke
He walked till he had bunions, then thought he would enquire
And found that he had only got as far as Nevertire.

He was hungry and so weary, he could hardly drag a leg
When suddenly beside the track he spied an emu's egg,
He popped it in his billy can to boil it for his tea,
And by his Waterbury watch, he counted minutes three.

And when the minutes three were up, he thought it time to stop
So he took his little tomahawk and he cut off the top
'Twas a pity that he boiled it, 'twould have been much better fried
For when he stooped to sup it up, he tumbled down inside

And when he fell in to the egg, he to his sorrow found
Three minutes wasn't long enough, and the poor little chap was drowned:
The moral of this story is: if emu eggs you seek
For supper, you should take great care and boil them for a week.

From the Joy Durst Memorial Song Collection, Victorian Folk Music Club, 1980. Noted as being by The Perfesser, Sydney, about 1920.

The illustration above is a photograph of an emu's egg and a chicken's egg.

The Academy of Mr Paddy West

2012-01-09T12:58:00.001+10:00

Unknown.

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You have heard of the academy of Mister Paddy West?
For style and popularity, my school it is the best.
For I've only room for forty and I'm boarding seventy-four
And sure, by Jesus, who is that, comes knocking on my door?

O me name is Patrick Dooley and I've dragged me weary way
All the way from dear old Ireland and I wants to go to sea.
"Come in, me friend," says Paddy, "you're as safe as house ashore,
You're an Irishman and a gentleman and a townie of me own."

"Now, observe this hole within the wall, that is a furnace door,
And there is the shovel and stone, me boys, that lay upon the floor.
You take the shovel and the stones and through the furnace go,
And I'll make you a western Ocean fireman with a dungaree jacket, O!"

Oh we know the way to Auckland and the lights on Sydney Head
We've saved our lives and a little beside on a cold and North Sea wreck;
O I've crossed the Western Ocean in the Gulf of Capricorn.
And I've doffed me glass to a Chinese lass in the ricefields of Siam,

And I've said adieu to a wild old life as a sailor on the seas
I've been down South and way up North and odd ports in between.
I've sung me songs and doffed me cap as I rounded of the Horn
And by cripes I've sworn by Paddy West since the day that I was born.

From Warren Fahey's Australian Folk Songs and Bush Ballads. This song from the History Workshop pamphlet, Shellback: Reminisces of Ben Bright, Mariner, collected by Ewan MacColl and Peggy Seeger. From Warren's notes:

Paddy West is a mythical figure in maritime folklore known for operating a dodgy school for would-be sailors.

The illustration to this post is a photograph of Hobson's Bay Railway Pier, Sandridge (Now Station Pier, Port Melbourne) about 1878.

The Old Man And His Wife

2012-01-07T14:06:00.000+10:00

Unknown

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There was an old man who lived in the woods
Way down in Bungaree
Who swore he could do more work in a day
Than his wife could do in three
"If that is so", the old woman said,
"Then this you will allow
Tomorrow you'll stay at home in my stead
And I'll go and drive the plough".

But you must milk Tidy the cow
For fear that she go dry
And you must feed the little pigs
That are within the sty
And you must mind the speckled hen
For fear she lays astray
And you must wind the spool of yarn
That I spun yesterday.

The old woman took a staff in her hand
And went to mind the plough
The old man took a pail in her hand
And went to milk the cow.
But Tidy hinched and Tidy flinched
And Tidy broke his nose
And Tidy gave him such a blow
That the blood ran down to his toes.

"Hi Tidy Hi, Ho Tidy Ho
Tidy stand you still
If ever I milk you Tidy again
It'll be against my will"
He went to feed the little pigs
That were within the sty
He hit his head against the beam
That made the blood to fly.

He went to mind the speckled hen
For fear she'd lay astray
But he forgot the spool of yarn
His wife spun yesterday
So he swore by the sun, the moon and the stars
He'd never more rule his wife
Nor grumble if she ever did
Another day's work in her life.

From Therese Radic's Songs of Australian Working Life, 1989, Greenhouse Publications. With the following endnote:

A song from my grandmother's and my mother's repertoire. The song is found in Britain and America but was sung in Australia with the place name of the first verse localised. My grandmother, JEssie MacIntyre de Mamiel Wise, learnt the song in the Howlong district of the Riverina in the late 1870s.

Ballad of the Schooner "Eclipse"

2012-01-07T13:26:00.000+10:00

John Dengate

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John Bingle's schooner lay close hauled by river Hunter's shoals,
And on her deck the iron gang wer piling up the coals
Securely chained they yet disdained to live like carrion slaves
"We'll sail her, boys, from bondage to freedom o'er the waves."

The sails unfurled lay on the deck, the guard asleep ashore,
The six bold convicts swore an oath, to liberty they swore.
High water came and they were game as desperate men can be,
They hoist the main peak high my boys, and cast off from the quay.

A good west wind blew down the bay and famously they sped
The captain and the two crewmen trapped below were filled with dread.
But scarce three miles off Knobby's Isle a boat was lowered and though
The convicts owed them nothing, unharmed they let them go.

They toiled and starved in New South Wales, they hewed the Hunter's coals
The cruel cat's nine ugly tails could not subdue their souls
They raised a cry which you and I to emulate must strive
They swapped their chains for freedom in Eighteen Twenty Five.

A third song from the Singabout reprint. Published with the following note from John Dengate:

In 1825 John Bingle's schooner Eclipse was being loaded at Newcastle with a cargo of coal for Sydney. Six heavily ironed convicts were engaged in the work. An armed guard watched from the wharf while the schooner's captain and two crew members were breakfasting below decks. At a given signal the convicts carried out a daring piece of teamwork. They moved with great swiftness considering their irons. One slammed the companion hatch, another cast off the schooner's moorings and the others laboured to get the mainpeak aloft. A friendly westerly swept them out of the harbour past Knobby's Island and out to sea. Three miles offshore a boat was lowered and the three sailors rowed back to shore, embarrassed but quite unharmed. The authorities never heard of the schooner agina, and it is assumed that the daring six made good their escape. The story reminded me of the ballads of the Catalpa and the Cyprus Brig, both convict escape sagas, so I wrote this song to the air of the Irish rebel song, Who Fears to Speak of '98.

The illustration to this post is a drawing of Nobby's Island off Newcastle.

The Whip And The Spur

2012-01-07T12:33:00.000+10:00

Unknown

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"One hundred pounds" the master said,
"To you, me boy I'll pay,
If you will win this race for me
In which you ride today."

I looked him steady in the face,
And touching the cap I wore,
Said I, "I'll do my very best,
And a jockey can do no more"

And with the whip and the spurs,
And a pony to a pin,
If ever a jockey rode in a race,
This day I ride to win.

She whinnied when I patted her,
For well my beauty knew,
As well, or better than myself
The work she had to do.

The first time round the course was run,
In need of a steady strong arm
The mare began to fret and pull
And her blood began to warm.

And in the middle of the ruck
I passed them all but two
And coming the straight me boys
The mare, she fairly flew

Then the whip and the spurs
I applied with all my strength
And as she answered, yes, my boys,
I won it by half a length.

Another from Singabout - Selected Reprints, ed. Bob Bolton, Bush Music Club, Sydney, 1985, published with this note:

Sung to John Meredith by Mrs Violet Skuthorpe Senior of Bankstown, Sydney and learned from her father, Teddy King.

A Pub Without Beer

2012-01-07T12:03:00.000+10:00

Words: Dan Sheehan
Tune: A variation of Beautiful Dreamer by Stephen Foster

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It is lonely away from your kindred and all
In the bushland at night when the warrigals call,
It is sad by the sea where the wild breakers boom,
Or to look on a grave and contemplate doom,
But there's nothing on earth half as lonely and drear
As to stand in the bar of a pub without beer

Madam with her needles sits still by the door,
The boss smokes in silence, he is joking no more,
There's a faraway look on the face of the bum,
While the barmaid looks down at the paint on her thumb,
The cook has gone cranky and the yardman is queer,
Oh, a terrible place is a pub without beer.

Once it stood by the wayside all stately and proud,
'Twas a home to the loafer a joy to the crowd,
Now all silent the rooftree that often times rang
When the navvys were paid and the cane cutters sang,
Some are sleeping their last in a land far from here.
Oh, a terrible place is a pub without beer.

They can hang to their coupons for sugar and tea,
And the shortage of sandshoes does not worry me,
And though benzine and razors be both frozen stiff,
What is wrong with the horse and the old fashioned ziff,
'Mid the worries of war there's but one thing I fear,
'Tis to stand in the bar of a pub without beer.

Oh, you brew of brown barley, what charm is thine,
'Neath thy spell men grow happy and cease to repine,
The cowards become brave and the weak become strong
The dour and the grumpy burst forth into song,
If there's aught to resemble high heaven down here,
'Tis the place of joy where they ladle out beer.

From Singabout - Selected Reprints, ed. Bob Bolton, Bush Music Club, Sydney, 1985. Published with the following note:

As with the case of Bold Tommy Payne, we feel that there is a need to correct some erroneous statements regarding the origin of A Pub Without Beer, a version of which became very popular a couple of years ago. The public were led to believe that the popular version was written by a Sydney singer. If it was, then it will be seen that it owes a lot to this ballad by North Queensland farmer, Dan Sheehan of Ingham. Note that it first appeared in the North Queensland Register, January 1st 1944, on page 22. It was part of a feature called On The Track by Bill Bowyang.

(not so much high as mid-level dudgeon).

The illustration to this post is an undated photograph of Dan Sheehan.

The Broken-Hearted Shearer

2012-01-05T19:52:00.000+10:00

Unknown

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I'm a broken-hearted shearer, I'm ashamed to show my face,
For the way that I've been lambed down 'tis a caution to the snakes.
I took a trip to the Forest, and round the Canobolas then
We went down around the race course and back to town again.

Then I went to get a nobbler at a certain house in town,
Where the barmaid was a caution to lamb a shearer down.
Oh she tossed me up at "Yankee Grab" to keep me on the booze,
And somehow or the other, I was always bound to lose.

Oh me trousers I have two pair, me boots is not all there,
I've a couple of pair of blankets, like meself the worse for wear,
I've a billy can, a pint pot, a bucket and jackshay.
I've a box of Cockle's Pills and a jar of Holloway.

Oh, I have sold my good old horse, and I'll get some work I hope;
I've some tea and some tobacco, and a half a bar of soap.
And that's all my five years gathering since last I left the town,
But it's nothing when you're used to it do a lambing down.

From Singabout, Volume 2, Number 4 (May 1958). Published with the following note:

Collected by John Meredith from Tom Byrnes of Parramatta, who learned it in the Orange (NSW) district, with some additional verses from Stewart and Keesing's Old Bush Songs.

The Mild Colonial Boy

2012-01-05T16:15:00.000+10:00

Unknown

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There was a mild colonial boy, by the name of R.J.Hawke
You'd think that he was Jesus Christ to hear the bastard talk
He is the system's only hope, the bosses pride and joy
The darling of the media is this Mild Colonial Boy

He's never faced election by the workers' rank and file
Yet every night on telly, we're condemned to watch his dial
He'll scowl and raise an eyebrow, 'tis nothing but a ploy
A useless bloody tamecat is the Mild Colonial Boy

He growls and drops expletives in a manner rather fierce
He's just about as radical as good old Eric Pierce.
He claims to be a socialist, he's not the real McCoy
A Labor opportunist is the Mild Colonial Boy

He loves to meet with Fraser, and they have such cosy chats
He's loaded with ambition and he wears too many hats
An action that is militant is certain to annoy
That gruff abrasive cream-puff called the Mild Colonial Boy

And if he gets to parliament, we know he'll never stop
Till he's the biggest windbag in that well-known talking shop
He'll shower them with bull-dust, for he's seldom ever coy
And that's the last we'll hear of him, the Mild Colonial Boy.

From Therese Radic's Songs of Australian Working Life.

Written by an anonymous builder's labourer in the 1970s, this parody of the Wild Colonial Boy showed an incredible lack of prescience. At the time, Bob Hawke was president of the Australian Council of Trade Unions. He did go on to enter parliament, but rather than disappearing from view, he rose to serve as Prime Minister of Australia for 8 years.

The illustration to this post is a photograph of Bob in his ACTU days.

For more biographical information, visit the National Archives entry.

The Ladie Lagoon

2012-01-05T15:48:00.000+10:00

Unknown

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Oh where is the woman, the woman I love
The woman that I do adore
She's lying low where the coolibahs grow
By the shade of the Ladie Lagoon.

I once had a sweetheart, so beautiful and fair
And we'd ride 'neath the light of the moon
But now she is dead and I'm all alone

By the shade of the Ladie Lagoon.

Now my song is o'er I bid you farewell

I'm going to my sweetheart soon,

You can bury me there where the wild flowers grow

By the shade of the Ladie Lagoon.

From Ron Edwards Big Book of Australian Folk Songs.

Collected by Ron and Allan Jenkins at Charters Towers from Jack Parveez on 12 October, 1966.

John Gilbert

2012-01-05T14:20:00.001+10:00

Words: Unknown
Tune: Unknown (Four and Twenty Blackbirds Baked in a Pie)

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John Gilbert was a bushranger of terrible renown,
For sticking lots of people up and shooting others down.
John Gilbert said unto his pals, “Although they make a bobbery
About our tricks we have never done a tip-top thing in robbery.

“We have all of us a fancy for experiments in pillage,
Yet never have we seized a town, or even sacked a village.”
John Gilbert said unto his mates—“Though partners we have been
In all rascality, yet we no festal day have seen.”

John Gilbert said he thought he saw no obstacle to hinder a
Piratical descent upon the town of Canowindra.
So into Canowindra town rode Gilbert and his men,
And all the Canowindra folk subsided there and then.

The Canowindra populace cried, “Here’s a lot of strangers!!!”
But immediately recovered when they found they were bushrangers.
And Johnny Gilbert said to them, “You need not be afraid.
We are only old companions whom bushrangers you have made.”

And Johnny Gilbert said, said he, “We’ll never hurt a hair
Of men who bravely recognise that we are just all there.”
The New South Welshmen said at once, not making any fuss,
That Johnny Gilbert, after all, was “Just but one of us.”

So Johnny Gilbert took the town (including public houses),
And treated all the “cockatoos” and shouted for their spouses.
And Miss O’Flanagan performed in manner quite gintailly
Upon the grand planner for the bushranger O’Meally.

And every stranger passing by they took, and when they got him
They robbed him of his money and occasionally shot him.
And Johnny’s enigmatic feat admits of this solution,
That bushranging in New South Wales is a favoured institution.

So Johnny Gilbert ne’er allows an anxious thought to fetch him,
For well he knows the Government don’t really want to ketch him.
And if such practices should be to New South Welshmen dear,
With not the least demurring word ought we to interfere.

Another from Paterson's Old Bush Songs. A strange song with some spectacular rhymes (I apologise for the butchering of "Canowindra" that this song requires).

Strangely this song focusses on the occupation of Canowindra by Ben Hall's gang but places John Gilbert at the centre of the action.

Yuppie Town

2012-01-05T12:33:00.000+10:00

Alistair Hulett

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People living 'round here they don’t have that much.
They make do with things others wouldn’t even touch.
People living 'round here they work in the factory.
They don’t have to choose they’re ruled by necessity.

And they better watch out
New breed taking over
Driving us out
Givin’ us the old once over
They want to tear the place down
And turn it into Yuppietown.

People who live round here remember how it used to be.
Talking to your neighbour on the street or stop in for a cup of tea.
People who live round here they like to have a beer and all,
But since the old pub changed hands you can’t get in in overalls.

People who live round here they’re gonna have to move out west.
Funny how the powers that be always think they know what’s best.
People who live round here they’ve got the place in such a state.
People who live round here pull down the price of real estate.

Another from the much-missed Alistair Hulett, from his days with Roaring Jack.

Popular in the Townsville sessions in the 1990s and later at the Storey Bridge Hotel sessions which were tragically renovated out of existence.

This link to Alistair's obituary in the Guardian.

The Green Ban Fusiliers

2012-01-03T12:54:00.000+10:00

Words: Denis Kevans
Tune: Traditional (McAlpine's Fusiliers)

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CHORUS:
Up Broadway to the MBA come the Green Ban Fusiliers.
They stole the street with their marching feet, placards high above their ears.
In Sydney town they would not lie down, they gave Martin's scabs some cheer,
And it's up Broadway to the MBA come the Green Ban Fusiliers.

Half-smart thieves with their Gucci sleeves and car parks on the brain
Told the usual lie: 'The trees've got to die' - the fig trees in Sydney's domain,
And some said, 'Joe, we orta let 'em go. It's only bloody timber to be cleared,
Ah, but listen to the trees as they whisper to the breeze and the Green Ban Fusiliers.

Bulldozer blades made a lightning raid, coming in with a great big rush,
Moving in for the kill up at Hunter's hill, at beautiful Kelly's Bush,
But the local women lay down in the bulldozer's way, to the bucking and the shuddering of the gears,
When their hands were raised the ones they praised were the Green Ban Fusiliers.

CHORUS:
Up Broadway to the MBA come the Green Ban Fusiliers.
They stole the street with their marching feet, placards high above their ears.
In Sydney town they would not lie down, they gave Martin's scabs some cheer,
And it's up Broadway to the MBA come the Green Ban Fusiliers.

They made a stand for our sunny land at the Rocks and Woolloomooloo.
On the chimney tops they waltzed with the cops to save a bit of Sydney for you,
And the finance fleas who made refugees of families who had been pioneers
Finished on their arse, and they did their brass with the Green Ban Fusiliers.

Through the years and through my tears I can see 'em marching again,
From the dizzy heights and the concrete sites in sunshine and in rain,
That patch of green's gettin' a lovely old sheen, no matter how many flow the years,
And it's up Broadway to the MBA come the Green Ban Fusiliers.

CHORUS:
Up Broadway to the MBA come the Green Ban Fusiliers.
They stole the street with their marching feet, placards high above their ears.
In Sydney town they would not lie down, they gave Martin's scabs some cheer,
And it's up Broadway to the MBA come the Green Ban Fusiliers.

This parody of Dominic Behan's McAlpine's Fusiliers was written by Denis Kevans in 1972 and used as part of the presentation, An Unlikely Alliance at the 2011/2012 Woodford Folk Festival.

Another of Denis' songs on the topic of the Green Bans industrial movement.

This recording from the last performance at the festival features:

Ann Bermingham: vocals, shaker

Dale Jacobsen: vocals

Sandy McCutcheon: vocals

Nicole Murray: vocals, fiddle

Helen Rowe: vocals, fiddle

Peggy Seeger: vocals, banjo

John Thompson: vocals, guitar

The illustration to this post is a photograph of Jack Mundey, one of the principal actors in the Green Bans movement, in conversation with police.

Norman Brown

2011-12-27T13:12:00.001+10:00

Words: Dorothy Hewett
Tune: Traditional (Bold Nelson's Praise)

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Right-click to download

There was a very simple man,
Honest and quiet, yet he became
The mate of every working man,
And every miner knows his name.

CHORUS
Oh Norman Brown, oh Norman Brown
The murderin' coppers they shot him down,
They shot him down in Rothbury town,
A working man called Norman Brown.

"An honest man," the parson said,
And dropped the clods upon his head,
But honest man or not, he's dead
And that's the end of Norman Brown.

Coal bosses wiped their hands and sighed,
"It is a pity that he died."
It will inflame the countryside,
And all because of Norman Brown.

At pit-top meetings and on strike
In every little mining town,
When miners march for bread and rights
There marches honest Norman Brown.

He thunders at the pit-top strike,
His voice is in the women's tears,
With banner carried shoulder-high
He's singing down the struggling years.

A miner's pick is in his hand,
His song is shouted through the land,
A land that's free and broad and brown,
The land that bred us Norman Brown.

Last chorus
Oh Norman Brown, oh Norman Brown,
The murderin' coppers they shot him down.
They shot him down in Rothbury town,
To live forever ... Norman Brown.

With thanks to Tony Suttor. Recorded on the 1974 album, Man of the Earth- Songs and Ballads of the Australian Mining Industry.

Norman Brown, aged 29 was killed and forty-five others were injured by police in 1929 during what becam known as the Rothbury Riot. These notes from Wikipedia:

In 1929 colliery owners on the Northern New South Wales coalfields combined as the Northern Collieries Association. On Thursday 14 February 1929 the mine employers gave their 9,750 employees 14 days notice, that they (the miners) should accept the following new conditions:

"A wage reduction of 12½ per cent on the contract rates, one shilling ($0.10) a day on the "day wage" rate; all Lodges must give the colliery managers the right to hire and fire without regard to seniority; all Lodges must agree to discontinue pit-top meetings and pit stoppages".

The miners refused to accept these terms, and on Saturday 2 March 1929, all miners were "locked out" of their employment.

In September 1929, the NSW State Parliament introduced an Unlawful Assembly Act designed to suppress the miners, which authorised police to break up any gatherings.

During December 1929 about 4,000 miners were demonstrating against the introduction of non-union labour into the Rothbury mine by the conservative Thomas Bavin State Government who had taken over the colliery. The State Government called in 400 officers from the New South Wales Police from other districts to protect the colliery and allow the entry of non-union labour. On the morning of 16 December the miners had marched to the mine gate led by a pipe band. When the miners charged the gate, they were met by baton charges by the police and hand to hand clashes. Then the police drew their revolvers and shot into the crowd.

This from the Barrier Miner newspaper, 18 December 1930, reporting on the unveiling of the monument to Norman Brown depicted above:

Special trains brought about 2500 men to West Maitland to-day for the unveiling of the monument to the memory of Norman Brown, who was fatally shot in the Rothbury riot last year: A mass meeting had been arranged to follow the ceremony. There was an absence of violence. A brief service was conducted at the Greta Church-of England and at the monument.

Mr. T. Hoare, the miners' northern president, delivered an abusive address before the unveiling of the
monument. His remarks displeased a large section of the crowd.

Bill The Bullocky

2011-12-27T12:35:00.000+10:00

Unknown

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While travelling over the mountain
I heard a maiden cry
There goes old Bill the Bullocky
He's bound for Gundagai
Through eating beef and damper
His shit was stiff with clay
No better man through sand or dirt
Was Bill the Bullocky

With Spark and Charley in the lead
And on the pole old Ball,
Who bent his back, nor cared a damn
If the others pulled at all
It was then that Nobby broke the yoke
Blucher poked out Baldy's eye
And the dog shit in the tucker box
Nine miles from Gundagai.

From Ron Edwards Big Book of Australian Folk Song, with the following note:

Bill the Bullocky was collected from Percy Skinner, Cairns on 6 April, 1965. He was born in Casino, NSW, in 1889 and learned this song in 1905 while working as a bullock driver in the Clarence River area, where he was engaged in hauling out timber.

Six White Boomers

2011-12-25T12:01:00.000+10:00

Rolf Harris and John Brown

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Early on one Christmas Day, a Joey Kangaroo, 
Was far from home and lost in a great big zoo.
Mummy, where's my mummy? They've taken her a-way. 
We'll help you find your mummy, son. Hop up on the sleigh.

Up beside the bag of toys little Joey hopped, 
But they hadn't gone far when Santa stopped. 
Unharnessed all the reindeer and Joey wondered why, 
Then he heard a far off booming in the sky.

CHORUS:
Six white boomers, snow white boomers, 
Racing Santa Claus through the blazing sun.
Six white boomers, snow white boomers, 
On his Australian run.

Pretty soon old Santa began to feel the heat, 
Took his fur-lined boots off to cool his feet,
Into one popped Joey, feeling quite okay, 
While those old man kangaroos kept pulling on the sleigh.

Joey said to Santa, Santa, what about the toys? 
Aren't you giving some to these girls and boys?
They've got all their presents, son, we were here last night, 
This trip is an extra trip, Joey's special flight.

Soon the sleigh was flashing past, right over Marble Bar,
Slow down there, cried Santa, it can't be far, 
Come up on my lap here, son, and have a look around. 
There she is, that's Mummy, bounding up and down.

Well that's the bestest Christmas treat that Joey ever had, 
Curled up in mother's pouch feeling snug and glad.
The last they saw was Santa heading northwards from the sun, 
The only year the boomers worked a double run.

Folk? It has endured in memory and custom... I won't push the point. Merry Christmas.

This one was a big hit for Rolf in 1960.

And for completeness, the six white boomers (kangaroos who pull the sleigh in the South) were:

Jackeroo, Bluey, Curly, Two-up, Desert-Head and Snow

The Old Stag

2011-12-24T18:58:00.000+10:00

Unknown

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The old stag leaned against the fence,
He was too tired to walk,
The butcher pulled out his knife and steel
And the beast began to talk

Misguided man, oh do you mean
To perpetrate this crime?
Don't sell me to your customers
And tell them that I'm prime.

For many a mile on the parched outback,
With never a day to spare,
My master kept me to the yoke,
And God knows he could swear.

I've cancer, blots and pleuro,
I can scarcely draw my breath,
Pray let me take my bones aside
And die a natural death.

The butcher laughed a greasy laugh,
And poking out his tongue,
Said, "I'll tell them that you're lucerne fed,
And I'll kid them that you're young.

They do not know of what they eat,
The people of this town,
And God sends the likes of you old man
To keep the prices down.

Should any of my patrons die
Through catching of your ills,
I hope to Christ it will be those
Who never pay the bills.

With that he knocked the poor wretch down
And ut him up for scrag,
Next day he winked the other eye
As he dealt them out the stag.

From Ron Edwards Big Book of Australian Folk Songs, with the following note:

The Old Stag or The Bull Stag is better known as a recitation than as a song, and most old bushmen in the North know at least a few lines of it. The present text was collected from Arthur Nevins, Cairns, on 12 March 1965. He had learned it on Normanby Station in the Gulf Country around 1928. The tune came from Bill Scott who had it from Noel Sligar, who in turn had learned it from his father during the 1930s in the Snowy River area of North-East Victoria.

Salt Junk

2011-12-24T18:34:00.000+10:00

Words: Saul Mendelsohn
Music: Alfred Lee

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I am a roving jackeroo and often take pot luck
From Maranoa to Paroo, of wonga, turkey, duck.
The squatters pretty daughters vie to serve me with the best,
I pass their daintiest willing by an choose salt junk for zest.

CHORUS:
Salt junk is my delight, it is my favourite,
The wealth of dear Australia, boys - the common wealth of Australia, boys -
What ever may betide, by this I will abide -
Of all the meats which grace the hall, salt junk's the king of all.

I am no glutton, no, not I, but this I will avow,
I like a savoury mutton pie, it's jam you must allow,
I also like a kidney stew, roast fowl is my delight,
Of oysters I can gorge a few, still junk's my favourite.

Invited by the Governor, Sir Thomas and Sir Sam,
Or Tozer, Cowley, Theodore, to cod and wiltshire ham;
To fete the guests they have a knack, and that is their vocation,
To English, French and German tack, but junk is collation.

When my remittance comes once more I am the favourite,
Again the invitations pour to parties every night,
The civil service girls I treat, the choicest in the lnad,
For jollity they can't be beat, and I am in demand.

Another from Saul Mendelsohn (Brisbane Ladies), this song is set to the tune of Champagne Charlie, a popular 19th century song by Alfred Lee and George Leybourne.

From the Hurd Collection.

The Woodford Drover

2011-12-22T13:53:00.000+10:00

Words: Unknown
Tune: Traditional (All for me Grog)

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It was one Friday night, when the stars shone out bright,
And the drovers had emptied the bottle.
Those rough Milton cattle, they came with a rattle
Through logs, over stumps, and through wattle.

Our horses in splendour, we all well remember,
Raced hard for the lead, but in vain;
There was Jack came a crash, up a Moreton Bay ash,
And through it lost hold of his rein.

Then onward we sped, it would wake all the dead,
To hear the great row that we made:
You may talk of Mongolians, and also Napoleon—
You'd think 'twas their men on parade.

On, onward we drew to the lead but a few,
While the wattlo cut like a knife blade;
Still onward we flew to the lead all but two,
For tbe pace it was hot that we made.

When at last we caught them a lesson we taught them;
We wheeled them and rung them in rough timber tall,
I have ridden in thick brushes, and also great rushes,
But I think this the worst of them aIl.

One night-horse—a stranger—not knowing his danger,
Raced headlong and stumbled, then fell;
Not a sound was then heard, but the screech of a bird,
And the far distant sound of a bell.

And there he lay dead, while the rider his head
He had struck 'gainst an old iron bark;
There the horse lay, and his bones to this day
Yoa can see by daylight or dark.

And before the day broke, when the men in camp woke,
They found every hoof bad cleared out;
Not a word one spoke, for they knew 'twas no joke,
Said the Boss," Now, my lads, put aboat."

That day when we mustered together we clustered,
Each man was put in his place;
Our loss it was nought, for we were but three short,
To the watchman that was no disgrace.

Our second, moreover, was an off-handed drover,
Thro' summer and winter he'd weathered;
So now the trip's over, farewell Woodford drover,
Our store bullocks they are delivered.

Another from The Queenslander, this time from Saturday 22 September 1894. Attributed only to "H".

The illustration to this post is a photograph of Queensland drovers from around 1880.

Our Brave Steeds

2011-12-21T13:47:00.000+10:00

Words: Unknown
Tune: Traditional (Ring the bell, Watchman)

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I'll sing of the horses so gallant and bold -
That we rode far and fast in those brave days of old.
Days of our hot youth, long vanished away,
When riding meant danger, and danger meant play.

CHORUS:
Then a cheer for the brave steeds that carried us o'er
The mountains and plains in those brave days of yore,
Days of our hot youth, long vanished away,
When riding meant danger, and danger meant play,

Remember the fierce chase, when madden'd with fright,
The wild horses broke into furious flight,
How down the steep mountain, and racing them hard,
We swept with them proudly right into the yard.

Remember, while smashing and crushing their track,
Through the vine-tangled brigalow the cleanskins made back,
How we beaded and rushed them right out on the plain,
'Mid the sweet-smelling wattle flowers falling like rain. . '

Remember the stout hearts that breasted the wave
When the yellow flood waters had else proved our grave
Remember old Jack on that waterless ride,-. .
How he toiled to the fountain, there lay down and died.

Around, the camp fire it's a glory to dwell ,
On the deeds of the chargers that carried us well,'
On some wonderful leap, or a glorious-run,
The journeys we'd made and the races we'd won.

The days of our hot youth have long passed away,
The brave steeds we once rode have turned-into clay;
Our eyes will grow dim and a tear trickle o'er
When we think of our gallant companions of yore.

Another from the Queenslander, this time from 16 March, 1895.

Published with the note:

Supplied by "Jumping Jenny," Belyando.

Belyando is on the road between Charters Towers and Emerald in Central Queensland.

The illustration to this post is a watercolour by Percy Lindsay from the book, Along The Western Road: Bush Stories and Ballads.

Bushranger Gilbert's Song

2011-12-21T13:19:00.002+10:00

Words: Unknown
Tune: Traditional (Bonnie Dundee)

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To his comrades in council thus Gilbert outspoke:
"Ere rangers go down there are crowns tobe broke;
Then each gallant youth that will plunder with me
Let him follow the banners of Gilbert the free."

CHORUS:
Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,
Come saddle my horses and call out my men;
Come load your revolvers and let us go free,
For you've not heard the last of O'Meally and me."

Brave Gilbert is mounted, he rides to the West,
In all that wild country his steed is the best,
From Cooma's fair stables he took him by force,
And Cooma'a gay lords may lament for his loss.

Tho Weddin' has mountains, th'Aberorcmbie has caves,
While they have traps in tho East, in the West they have Braves;
And cockatoo settlers three thousand times three
Cry shares in the booty of Gilbert the free.

"We'll pillage your banks and we'll rob all your stores,
We'll rout your gold escorts and laugh at your laws;
We'll laugh at you all in the midst of our glee,
For you've not heard the last of O'Meally and me."

In the late 19th Century, the Queenslander's Flotsam and Jetsam column published old songs sent in by readers. This song from the Queenslander, Saturday, 2 February 1895, with the note:

Supplied by GWEH, Moonee Ponds, Victoria.

John O'Meally was one of John Gilbert's gang and was involved in the robbery at Eugowra Rocks.

The illustration to this post is a sketch of Johnny Gilbert from the 1860s.

The Rose Bay Ferry

2011-12-19T15:50:00.000+10:00

Bernard Bolan

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Every morning at 8:25
Down to the Rose Bay wharf I drive
Park my Humber underneath a tree
Pop along the gangplank and then I'm free
Free says you, but how can that be?
For you always finish up at Circular Quay
So doubting Tom I shall explain
When I get on board I sing this sweet refrain

Where are we going today, Mr. Nicholson?
Where is the going to be?
Don't turn left, turn right down the harbor
And out to the open sea
Throw away your compass, right hand down
And it's out through the heads we go
So ho! let's be merry on the Rose Bay ferry
If we run out of petrol we'll row Yo Ho!
If we run out of petrol we'll row

Monday Java, Tuesday Spain
Wednesday's it's Tokyo and back again
The only trouble is, they isn't any Gents
But what do you want for 20 cents?
Off with me raincoat and me woolly vest
See the naked ladies on my chest
Today is Friday, so hold on tight
'Cause we're off to Trinidad and back tonight

Where are we going today, Mr. Nicholson?
Where is the going to be?
Don't turn left, turn right down the harbor
And out to the open sea
Pull up your anchor, pull your finger out
And wave goodbye to your home
We're off to Nantucket, so give that man a bucket
'Cause it's choppy when you're out on the foam Yo Ho!
It's choppy when you're out on the foam

Sometimes when I get up late
I only reach the jetty at half past 8
But that doesn't ruin my world-wide trip
'Cause the 8:37 is a battleship
Off on the dot with our guns on high
We mince up Manley as we pass by
If you're out of rockets, just pop upstairs
You can get 'em from the chappy who collects the fares

Where are we going today, Mr. Nicholson?
Where is the going to be?
Don't turn left, turn right down the harbor
And out to the open sea
For though we look like dudes and doctors
At heart we are men of the sea
So Ho! let's be merry on the Rose Bay ferry
Until we get to Circular Quay
We finish up at Circular Quay

From the wonderful Bernard Bolan. In the 1970s this song reached number 1 on the charts.

Poison Train

2011-12-19T15:09:00.002+10:00

Mick O'Rourke

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This old town has had its day 
All the people moved away 
And the houses standing empty
In the dry and the dusty day 
No one cares for this old town 
Now the money's not around 
And the railway lines are rusty 
And the station's falling down

Chorus: 
There's a light down the line
Let it shine, shine, let it shine 
There's a camp down the way 
All the fettlers will be coming home today

When the railway opened here
All the gutters flowed with beer 
And the people stood beside the line 
To watch and wave and cheer 
All the speeches that were made 
When the bosses smiled and said 
'The good times are just beginning
Follow us and you'll go ahead'

Well, they built the street so wide
It would be a thing of pride
To walk across it drunk
Or throw a stone to the other side 
And the buildings grew so tall 
You would tremble at the fall
But they've just dried out 
And you would never know 
There was anyone there at all

I still hear the tall man say 
To the children at their play
'You'd better go home early 
And you'd better stay away
Stay away from the line 
Can't you hear the railway humming 
The grass has grown too tall
And the poison train is coming

You feel sorry for the grass 
All it did was grow too fast 
All the weapons used against it 
It was never made to last 
And the man and his offsider
Are all dressed in black 
As the poison train goes through the town
And blisters all the track

Well, it never lasted long
Half the town was packed and gone
And everybody was afraid
To be left there alone 
All the people stayed away 
And there was no celebration
Nobody made a speech the day
They closed the railway station

A great song from Mick O'Rourke.

The illustration to this post is a photograph of Poison Train Near Kingston from Johnny's Pages (A South Australian Railway Shunters Memories)

This song is from Songs of Australian Working Life, (Thérèse Radic, Greenhouse Publications, 1989):

... an important singer and songwriter of the Australian Folk Revival. O'Rourke was brought up on the Atherton Tableland, which seems to have provided the central image of this song. The train he refers to is the defoliant special used in tropis northern Queensland to keep the tracks free of weeds. O'Rourke equates it with the ruthlessness of economic forces against which the rural community feels powerless.

Tailing A Kangaroo

2011-12-17T18:21:00.001+10:00

Unknown

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Bill Swiggen and myself were bushed up in the mallee scrub,
For two long days and two ling nights we had not tasted grub,
And on the third, my blessed word, affairs looked rather blue,
When Bill descried, with joyful pride, an old man kangaroo.

This old man quite majestically sat upright on his tail,
He looked at us contemptuously, nor did he shake nor quail,
He seemed to say, 'To come this way, what business fried had you?'
'By Jove!” cried Bill, “I'd like to kill, that old man kangaroo.'

Without another word he rushed with waddy in his hand,
To where the old man kangaroo undauntedly did stand,
He aimed a blow but this hairy foe upon poor William flew,
And grabbed my mate, as sure as fate, this old man kangaroo.

He clasped him tightly in his arms and Bill began to roar,
A struggle so terrific, I had ne'er beheld before,
“Oh Tom, why blow my eyes, you know he'll break my back in two,
Come hither quick and fetch a stick, oh cuss the kangaroo.

At my approach the kangaroo made ready for a bolt,
But still he clung to William tight, he would not loose his holt,
But Bill you see, was twelve stone three, flesh, bones and muscle too,
That's overweight, the truth I state, for any kangaroo.

Them stealing up behind the brute, my bag I opened wide,
And pulling it down over his ears, I then securely tied,
It 'round his neck, this seemed to check his progress so I drew,
My dover out and with a shout, I tailed that old man kangaroo.

A kangaroo without a tail can't run we all well know,
So finding his appendage gone, he let poor Willie go,
He gave a shout, a gory tail I tell you but it's true,
Then with a jump he sunk, a lump of lifeless kangaroo.

My mate was slightly bruised about but scarcely he was freed,
\When turning round to me he says, “By George, we'll have a feed.”
Then Billy got the billy pot and cooked a splendid stew,
The sweetest meal I ever ate was that old man kangaroo.

I've used the words from Warren Fahey's collection of this song from the Australian Journal - July 1871, where it was attributed to Tom Tallfern.

I first came across this one in Singabout, Volume 4, Number 2 (1961) where it was published with the following note:

Sung by Simon McDonald, of Creswick, Victoria and collected by N.O'Connor and H. Pearce of the Folk Lore Society of Victoria in 1957.

I've used the tune from Singabout.

The illustration to this post is from an 1860 issue of the Illustrated London News entitled, Death of a Red Forester, An Old Man Kangaroo.

Stirling-O

2011-12-16T20:56:00.000+10:00

Unknown

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No lark in transport rides the sky
Nor leaves with early plaintive cry
But I must bid my last goodbye
My last fairwell to Stirling O

Though far away my heart's with you
Those happy hours from us they flew
And I must bid a sad adieu
A last fairwell to Stirling O

My comrades all now grieve for me
And one request I'll ask of ye
My faithful dog ye'll keep for me
When I am far from Stirling O

No more I'll wander through the glen
Or rob the roost of the pheasant hen
Nor chase the rabbit to its den
When I am far from Stirling O

Now fare you well my Jeannie dear
I hope you'll find another dear
And shed ye no a bitter tear
When I am far from Stirling O

So fare you well for I am bound
For twenty years to Van Diemen's Land
Think of me and what I've done
When I am far from Stirling O

The following notes are from the liner note for this song by Edgar Waters from Gary Shearston's CD re-release of earlier recordings Here and There: Now and Then:

One great Scots poet, Robert Burns, collected Scots folk songs, published them (often after considerable rewriting) and wrote songs of his own that were more or less in folk song style. Dozens of lesser poets also wrote songs more or less in the style of Scots folk song, and some of them actually passed into oral tradition. This seems to be such a song. In the 1950s the poet John Manifold gathered around him in Brisbane a group of people who were interested in performing folk music and songs. One of them was a Scots migrant. Nan Shanko. This is a song she carried with her from her native land.

The tune used here is from Mark Gregory's Australian Folk Songs site, where it is published with the following note:

Stirling O, Collected by Stan Arthur from Bob Gallagher, Brisbane 1958. Edgar Waters in his notes to the song in Tradition (April 1967) writes: "The number of convicts transported from Scotland to Australia was relatively small, but there are a good many Scottish songs about transportation. The present song seems to be still fairly common in oral tradition in Scotland. In recent years it has been recorded several times from oral tradition in Australia, but so far as I know always from Scottish migrants".

Monuments

2011-12-15T18:21:00.000+10:00

Words: Denis Kevans
Tune: Bob Fagan

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Some leave a marble monument, or a statue made of brass
That stands in cold retirement, getting tickled by the grass
Some leave a passive portrait they’ve commissioned for a fee,
But no one comes to sculpt or carve, or paint a pic of me.

Don’t worry, I’ve been carved up by experts, not a few. 
Subbies, foremen use their knives to carve a pound or two. 
I’ve been sculpted by the cleaver winds that scream up in the struts.
I’ve been painted by the mud and slush in bogging rickshaw ruts

I am a kind of portrait if you could read between
The lines that mark my face with time and see just what they mean
The leagues and laughs and lands I've known, the years of wear and tear
No gypsy woman on the earth could glean the stories there.

From the mullock heavy rickshaw to the hook that rides with ease,
From the sucking clay caught shovel, to the steel walk in the breeze,
From the jack pick gun’s staccato to the steady chisel chip, 
I’ve worked upon my monument in a life’s apprenticeship.

From the convict’s pickmarked alphabet in Hawkesbury River stone

To where the dogman carves his name in the concrete rise alone

From mud in acres poured and squared, to the bright mosaic eye,

I’ve worked upon my monument, and build before I die.

I see your monuments displayed in cavalcades of war,

In lands where you make ashes from the courage of the poor.

In little children hobbling down to drink from sorrow’s well

Looking sadly at their faces, cut to bits by petrol gel.

I see your monuments displayed in smog polluted air.

To the wraiths of black shawled mountains, in the wake of ‘I don’t care’

In oil choked harbours, upturned fish, and nuclear sullied seas

In forests felled, and deserts made from songbird’s aviaries

You’ve had your chance, you’ve run the world your way, we know it’s true.

Your monuments stick in my craw, the monuments to you.

We leave the cities of the world cemented with our sweat

The cemeteries of our youthful years, but we’re not beaten yet.

For there’s a living monument to all we’ve lived and learned

The green bans we’ve created, and the victories we have earned

And one day when our cities are but dust upon the air

The pollen from our fighting hearts will bloom again somewhere.

Australia's "Poet Lorikeet", Denis Kevans (1939 - 2005) first published this poem in the new South Wales Builders Labourers Federation Journal in 1970.

The song (with Bob Fagan's tune) has been performed in Australia as part of shows about the Green Bans disputes in Sydney. Over a period of four years in the 1970s, over 40 development projects were delayed in the Sydney area by a union which had decided in 1970 to adopt a principle of social benefit in determining where to exert their industrial muscle. Projects which threatened natural or heritage values where subjected to Green Bans.

Follow this link for a lengthier discussion of the Green Bans: http://www.dictionaryofsydney.org/entry/green_bans_movement.

Roma Downs

2011-12-14T14:20:00.002+10:00

Words: Unknown
Tune: So Early in the Morning

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Roma's Queen of the Western Downs
And hard by it is Roma Downs
A station fit for any King
And loud the boys its praises sing.

With game it is abounding
With game it is abounding

With game it is abounding

Perhaps you'd like to shoot.

A winding stream they call Blythe Creek

Provides fresh water for the sheep

With hook and line and bully frog

There you may catch a nice big cod

Shoals of fish are swimming

Shoals of fish are swimming
Try and catch a few

On the plains sometimes are dingoes found,
By the boundary-men as they make their round,
The boss he swears they kill the sheep
And to have their lives he'd lost his sleep.

Poison for the dingoes
Poison for the dingoes

Poison for the dingoes

Strychnines just the thing

The Horseshoe Bend's well known to fame

For big pot-shots at feathered game

At no other spot on all the run

Can there be had such whips of fun.

Big pot-shots for ever

Whips of fun for me.

Another from the Hurd Collection via Ron Edwards.

Roma Downs was the station owned by Charles and Horatio Flower, Charles being the author of The Broken Down Squatter.

The illustration to this post is of boys swimming in Lockyer Creek, Gatton.

The Battle of Castle Hill

2011-12-13T17:56:00.000+10:00

Words: John Dengate
Tune: Traditional (The Maid of Fife)

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I'll sing of Toongabbie, a place of renown
And events that occurred in the days fo yore.
Oh, the convicts working there lived a life of black despair,
It was all in the year of eighteen hundred and four.

Brave Cunningham said, "I will march at your head
If you'll throw off your fetters and follow me
And though Ireland's far away we will think of her today
As we fight for our lives and for our liberty.

The magistrate's house they burned to the ground.
'Twas a grand insurrection, a stirring sight
And it cannot be denied that the flogger's wretched hide
Was bruised and abused on that eventful night.

Parramatta here they come: so beat on the drum;
A rider spurs for Sydney and the loyalists arm
And without the least delay Samuel Marsden ran away
In a boat that he pinched from John MacArthur's farm.

There's a priest forced to ride by Colonel Johnstone's side
While the Rum Corps' red coast march in the rear.
Soon a bitter cup will spill on that road near Castle Hill
Where the convicts rest not knowing death is near.

See the dead on the road, hear the sharp command, "Reloa"
See the soldiers present, hear the volleys crash.
There's a dozen croppies more lying lifeles in their gore,
They're safe from the Reverend Samuel Marsden's lash.

This song from Singabout, Volume 6, Number 1, 1966.

Also known as the Battle of Vinegar Hill after the Irish rebellion of the same name, this was the first significant armed uprising by convicts against their military masters.

Wikipedia has a reasonable discussion of the rebellion and its surrounding events.

This site has further detail.

The illustration to this post is a contemporary sketch of the uprising.

Waltzing Matilda (Queensland Version)

2011-12-12T11:04:00.001+10:00

Words: Banjo Paterson

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Oh there once was a swagman camped in the billabongs,
Under the shade of a Coolibah tree;
And he sang as he looked at the old billy boiling
"Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me."

Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.

Up came the jumbuck to drink at the waterhole,
Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him with glee;
And he sang as he put him away in his tucker-bag,
"Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me."

Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.

Up came the squatter a-riding his thoroughbred;
Up came the policeman - one, two, and three.
"Whose is the jumbuck you've got in the tucker-bag?
You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with we."

Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.

Up sprang the swagman and jumped into the waterhole,
Drowning himself by the Coolibah tree;
And his voice can be heard as it sings in the billabongs,
"Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me."

Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.

The Queensland version of this great song.

Loads of information exists on the web surrounding this song. A decent starting point is this National Library of Australia site: Who'll Come A'Waltzing Matilda With Me? The notes on this version (The Buderim Variant) include the following:

The Buderim tune was collected from an oral source by John Manifold in 1955 and discussed in Who Wrote the Ballads: Notes on Australian Folksong and included in Manifold's 1964 The Penguin Australian Song Book. Manifold's informant was John O'Neill from Buderim in south-east Queensland, thus lending the names ‘Buderim’ or ‘O'Neill’ to this variant of the Queensland version. This tune seems to have been widely disseminated not long after ‘Waltzing Matilda’ had become well known in the Winton district. O'Neill remembered his father singing this version when he was a boy under ten years old.

After his contact with Manifold, O'Neill also handed down the tune to a Mrs Joy Durst, who played in the Melbourne Billabong Band in 1956 (Harry Pearce Papers, NLA MS2765 Box 13). From there it passed into the hands of other folk revival bands and took on a new performance life. During the folk revival this tune more generally became known as the ‘Queensland version’.

There is of course an extensive discussion of this one on Mudcat.

And now is as good a time as any to include my favourite version of the alternative (and better known tune). This from Ali Mills:

The Gumtree Canoe

2011-12-11T11:05:00.000+10:00

Words: Silas Steele

Music: AF Winnemere

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By yon bonny river in a hut I was born

Made out of thorns and the wild yellow corn

It's there I met Julia so fair and so true

And we went for a row in my gumtree canoe

We will row, yes we'll row

Over waters so blue

Like a feather I'm a floating

In my gumtree canoe

With one hand on my banjo and my toe on the oar

I'll sing to my Julia - I'll sing as I row

And the stars they shone down on my Julia so true

On the night we rowed out in my gumtree canoe

Was for three solid days we sailed out on the bay

We could not get back - we were forced there to stay

Then we spied a large ship flying the flag of true blue

And she took us in tow in my gumtree canoe.

An American song from 1847 which has picked up some Australian variations.

This tune collected by Warren Fahey and used on the 1977 album, Lime Juice and Vinegar.

The following is from Mudcat and the cover text:

Published in Boston (as much of the first-period minstrel music was) in 1847! Only 4 years after Dan Emmett and the boys got the whole thing rolling!

PLANTATION MELODIES,
The words by S.S. STEELE, Esq. as sung by A.F. WINNEMORE and his band of VIRGINIA SERENADERS.
Arranged for the Piano Forte by A. F. WINNEMORE.

1. The Gum Tree Canoe
2. Kate of Carolina (Note: other songs were sold with same cover)
3. Dinah Doe
4. Away to the Sugar Cane Field
5. Farewell to Georgia
6. De Eel Catcher's Glee

Old Sydney Town

2011-12-10T07:40:00.000+10:00

Phyl Lobl

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The tank stream ran silent through shaded green banks, 
When first I saw Sydney I offered no thanks.
And the pleasant bush scenery gave me no cheer, 
For the eyes of a convict are blinded by fear.  

CHORUS:
Oh Old Sydney Town I once was a rover, 
But now I can see that you've fair won me over,
From the Hero of Waterloo up at the Rocks 
To Blackwattle Bay with its dirty old docks, 
I'll sing of your pleasures that satisfy me
Of your harbour, your pubs and your Circular Quay

The stone and the sweat that they used for the Quay, 
Was culled from the earth and poor bastards like me.
How I hated that stone from the Argyle Cut, 
And I wished it were my bones they'd hung at Pinchgut.

They gave me a pardon and set me quite free, 
But the white cliffs of Dover no more will see me, 
For I'm working a ferry run, I'm doing fine 
From Blues Point to Dawes Point I'm straight down the line.

Now Phillip he formed you for he chose the place,
Macquarie came after and quite changed your face, 
But for prisoners of Old Mother England who slaved 
To build up your city, no names are engraved.

Thanks to Phyl Lobl for this one from her 1980 album, Blackmeadow Thistle. The lyrics are from her website, with the following note:

Warren Fahey needed a song about Old Sydney for a project with which he was involved. I did some research and came up with this song.

The version sung here is as I heard it in the 1980s Brisbane sessions.

Woodturner's Love Song

2011-12-09T09:07:00.000+10:00

Phyl Lobl

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If I had a piece of Maple, red or white or pink,
I'd turn you a set of chair legs so you could sit and think.
And when you sit and think love I hope you'll think of me,
For I'd like to be there in your thoughts if not in your company.

If I had a piece of Coachwood white and fine and pure
I'd turn you a handle smooth and round, a handle for your door.
And when I come to see you, you could make that handle spin,
And open up the door my dear, to let your true love in.

If I had a piece of Silky Oak of even textured grain
I’d turn you a lamp stand for your light, tapered tall and plain.
And when you turn your light on, I hope it'll be for me,
For you're the light of my life, the only one for me.

If I had a piece of Cedar, the grain well shot with red,
I'd turn you a set of corner posts for a fine double bed.
A bed for you to lie on with the one that you love best,
But I hope you'd lie with me love and farewell all the rest.

Yes I'm a turner, that's my trade, as you can plainly see,
But the thing I'd really like to turn is to turn your heart to me.
Alas in that I have no skill, I've never learnt the art,
And Cedar, Maple and Silky Oak don't make a lover's heart.

A cracker from Phyl Lobl from her 1980 album, Broadmeadow Thistle.

Lots of concertinas on this one!

There's a great discussion of this one on Mudcat too.

The Girls In Our Town

2011-12-08T07:54:00.000+10:00

Bob Hudson

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Girls in our town, they just haven't a care
You see them on Saturday floating on air
Painting their toenails and washing their hair
Maybe tonight it'll happen

Girls in our town they leave school at fifteen
Work at the counter or behind the machine
And spend all their money on making a scene
They plan on going to England

Girls in our town go to parties in pairs
Sit 'round the barbecue, give themselves aires
Then they go to the bathroom with their girlfriend who cares
Girls in our town are so lonely

Girls in our town are too good for the pill
But if you keep asking they probably will
Sometimes they like you or else for the thrill
And explain it away in the morning

Girls in our town get no help from their men
No one can let them be sixteen again
Things might get better but it's hard to say when
If they only had someone to talk to

Girls in our town can be saucy and bold
At seventeen, no one is better to hold
Then they start havin' kids, start gettin' old
Girls in our town...
Girls in our town

Margaret Roadnight had a top 40 hit with this song in 1976.

I was unable to find a decent photograph of the writer of this song, Bob Hudson, but did discover this clip from the Paul Hogan show of Bob performing his even more famous, Newcastle Song.

The Brolga's Laugh

2011-12-07T19:41:00.001+10:00

Unknown

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The brolga laughs and the brolga shouts, 
The brolga's there when there's rain about;
If it's going to rain he's sure to know,
And then he'll laugh 'Oh! oh! oh! oh!'

He laughs all night, and he laughs all day, 
If it's going to rain he'll laugh and play; 
If he laughs in the night it's sure to rain, 
And then he'll dance and laugh again.

He mounts right up above the trees 
And looks across for the north-east breeze;
He sees the clouds coming afar, 
And then he laughs 'Ah! ah! ah! ah!'

He curves his neck and spreads his wings,
For the brolga does some funny things;
If it rains all night he'll laugh with glee, 
Saying, 'Now there's water enough for me!'

The frog may croak and the duck may swim, 
But the brolga's laugh's enough for him. 
Men with guns and little to do 
Will shoot the brolga through and through.

If they'd but work and pay their way 
The brolga still could laugh and play. 
He saw the bars that crossed the moon, 
And thought 'Not now, but very soon.'

'The Brisbane man will have to swim,' 
And the brolga's laugh's a hint for him.
They make their nest without a straw, 
And lay one egg, for I've seen no more.

They'll hatch their young in the pouring rain, 
And then they'll laugh and laugh again. 
If a drought comes on, which it's sure to do, 
The swamps all dry and herbage too.

They'll mount right up and away will soar, 
And the brolga's laugh we'll hear no more 
Till the rain return with its pattering glee, 
Then the brolga's laugh will bring joy to me.

Found by Ron Edwards in the Hurd Collection (1895-1900) with the note "supplied by WS Bollon".

For more on the Brolga (Grus Rubicunda) follow this link.

Hey Rain/The Innisfail Song

2011-12-07T12:34:00.001+10:00

Bill Scott

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CHORUS:
Hey rain, rain comin' down
On the cane, on the roofs of the town.

There's rain on me hands and rain on me face,
Oh muddy old Innisfail's a muddy wet place,
Hey rain, hey rain.
And there's rain in me beer and rain in me grub,
And they've just fitted anchors to the Garradunga pub,
Hey rain, hey rain.

There's a Johnstone River crocodile livin' in me fridge
And a bloody great tree on the Jubilee Bridge
Hey rain, hey rain.
And the monsoon sky has sprung a leak
From Flyin' Fish Point to the Millstream Creek,
Hey rain, hey rain.

And the storm clouds are so black and big
Theres an old flyin' fox in the Moreton Bay fig,
Hey rain, hey rain
It's the worst wet season we've ever had,
And I'd swim down to Tully, but it's just as bloody bad
Hey rain, hey rain.

Perhaps Bill Scott's best-known song.

Some very useful discussions (and snippets of additional lyrics) on Mudcat.

Recorded on my verandah in Brisbane in the first steady rain of December.

The illustration to this post is a photo taken in Innisfail's main street in 1925 during that year's floods. Innisfail (as well as being my father's hometown) competes with Tully and Babinda each year for the golden gumboot for the highest rainfall.

The Royal Charter

2011-12-06T15:55:00.001+10:00

Unknown

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Good people all, attend, I pray,
Now I'll relate a sad calamity,
Of a dreadful shipwreck near Belmore Town
Of the Royal Charter while homeward bound.

From fair Australia with a pleasant gale
The Royal Charter for old England sailed
With a human cargo, her fate did rule
We ne'er but one reached Liverpool.

On Tuesday morning, I'm grieved to say,
Our fore and mainmast were cut away,
When our mizzen-top fell with a heavy crush,
And in the raging sea our ship did dash.

Brave Captain Taylor with his men so brave
Made all their efforts the ship to save
But notwithstanding all they could do
The Royal Charter she broke in two.

Now broadside on she drove on shore.
The lightning flashed and the sea did roar,
Brave Captain Taylor drowned it is true,
With ninety-seven of his gallant crew.

Now the total number that lost their lives
Was four hundred and fifty-five;
Of women and child we are assured
Not one escaped out of all on board.

Off the riggings lost their names I'll tell;
Was Williams, Thomson and James Bell,
There was Elfie and Philips and W.Jones
There was another, but his name's unknown.

And drowned in agony and anguish wild
The mother cried, "Do save my child!"
And the father strived in vain -
They were all engulfed in the raging main.

O God, 'tis frightful to think what crowds
Of drowned passengers clung to the shrouds
To hear their shrieks on the stormy sea,
As from the ship they were washed away.

So may the Lord look down on the deep distress
Of the widowed mothers and fatherless
Likewise the parents of the seamen brave
Who in the Royal Charter met a watery grave.

The Royal Charter was the most prominent victim of over 200 ships wrecked in what became known as the "Royal Charter Storm" off the Welsh coast on 26 October, 1859.

Another from Warren Fahey's Australian Folk Songs and Bush Ballads, published with the following notes:

On 25 October 1859, the Royal Charter, a combined steam and sailing ship from Melbourne bound for Liverpool, was lost off Moelfre on the island of Anglesey, Wales....

Almost at the end of its long voyage from Melbourne to England, the Royal Charter was carrying 452 passengers and crew and gold from the Australian goldfield valued at £320 000.

... EJ Moeran collected a ballad about the wreck from Mr JAmes Strong at Winterton, England, in July 1915. It was published in his Songs Sung in Norfolk, 1923...

Currency Lasses

2011-12-06T15:42:00.001+10:00

Unknown

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The Currency Lads can fill up their glasses
And drink to the health of the Currency Lasses,
The lass I adore, the one for me
Is the lass in the Female Factory.

Molly's her name - her name it is Molly
Although she was tried by the name of Polly
Tried and sentenced to death at Newry
The Judge was bribed and so were the jury.

She was sentenced to death at Newry Town
For stealing her mistresses watch and gown.
Her little boy, Paddy, will tell you the tale
His Father is turnkey at Newry Jail.

The first time I saw this comely lass
I was at Parramatta, goin' to Mass.
Says I, "I'll marry you in an hour"
Says she, "I'll go and get Father Power".

But I got into trouble that very same night.
Being drunk on the street I got into a fight.
A policeman came up and I gave him a box.
I was put in the watch-house and then in the stocks

It's very unpleasant as I remember
To sit in the stocks in the month of December
The wind is so hot with the sun right o'er
Sure, it's no place for a lover at all.

"It's very unpleasant", says I, "Mr Dunn,
For to sit here all day in the heat of the sun",
"Either that or a dollar", says he, "for your folly".
"If I had a dollar I'd drink it with Molly."

Now I'm out again, early and late.
Crying outside of the Factory gate
Sayin', "Mrs O'Reardon and Mrs Muldoon
Won't you let my Molly out very soon."

And the Currency Lads can fill up their glasses
And drink to the health of the Currency Lasses.
The lass I adore, the one for me
Is the lass of the Female Factory.

From Warren Fahey's Australian Folk Songs and Bush Ballads. Collected by Warren from:

Botany Bay Eclogues in the Sydney Gazette, 4 July 1832. "An excellent new Song, as it ought to be sung in the Theatre Royal, Sydney, by Mr Bert Levy, in the character of the ticket-of-leave holder"

Tweed & Lismore

2011-12-06T15:22:00.001+10:00

Unknown

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I am a navvie that worked everywhere
East, west, north and south I vow and declare
Such terrible misfortune I never had before
As I had on that Railway, The Tweed and Lismore

Chorus
Laddie Fol the Diddle eril Ol, eril Ol aye

Myself and Bill Lalie came up from the South
To see if we could get some cuts to take out
Old Kerril he promised us cuttings galore
On that railway they call the Tweed and Lismore

When we came to Bexhill 'twas on a hot day
We had no money or nothing to play
It came on to rain, and we lay on the floor
Beside that Railway, The Tweed and Lismore

There's one thing was in it, our credit ran light
If not, by my soul, a lot there would die
The people from Queensland came down by the score
To seek work on that Railway, The Tweed and Lismore

I next got a job with an axe in my hand
From lopping and chopping I scarcely could stand
My arms, they did ache and my hands they were sore
From working like blazes upon the Lismore

I next got a job with my horses and drays
The chaff it was dear boys, and so was the maize
Ten and sixpence a day they would give, and no more
And they run you like blazes upon the Lismore

Now our little 'Timie' was Brady by name
He came down from Queensland I tell to you plain
In stature he's small, but of cheek he's galore
And he'd sack you for smoking upon the Lismore

And now to conclude and finish my song
Mr McKeeley is big, fat and strong
While old Davie Morgan is a man to the core
And Kerril himself is a 'Bludde old Bore'

This note from Mark Gregory's Australian Folk Song site:

In his Big Book of Australian Folk Song Ron Edwards writes "The text of Tweed and Lismore was sent to me by the Richmond River Historical Society with a note: 'Composed by Ned McElligot, late of Bagotville.' Further enquiries failed to find anyone who knew the tune of the song until Wendy Lowenstein discovered it on a field recording which she thinks may have been made by collector Edgar Waters some years ago".

The Good Time Coming

2011-12-02T08:00:00.000+10:00

Words: Unknown

Tune: Henry Russell (The Good Time Coming)

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There's a good time coming, boys, a good time coming,
When it will it's hard to say but I hope it will be some day
This good time coming.
A comic song oft tells hard truth in place of weapons stronger,
So now I'm going in to win, wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys, a good time coming,
Squatters shan't permitted be to overrun this colony
In this good time coming,
Our members shall not squabble then to show which is the stronger,
Nor sell themselves to gain a place - wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys, a good time coming,

Shepherds in the bush shan't be fed on damper, chops and tea

In this good time coming,

Then bullock drivers shall not swear, or taste a drink that's stronger

Than ginger beer when on the road - wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys, a good time coming,

Camp officials shall have sense and not try to give offence

In this good time coming

Some magistrates too will be found with love of justice stronger

And also know a little law - wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys, a good time coming,

Not a shicer shall be sunk not a digger e'er seen drunk

In the good time coming

Jumpers too shall be laid by, the rule of fashion stronger,

Bell-toppers worn when down the holes - wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, a good time coming,

Cases, Courts of Mines decide, shan't dissatisfy any side,

In this good time coming,

Mails shan't be behind their time, both ships and engines stronger

Shall not break down, or run ashore, wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys, a good time coming,

Railways to the diggings made will Cobb' Coaches throw in shade,

In the good time coming,

Stations shall be large and fine, embankments, too much stronger

In fact they'll beat the Geelong line - wait a little longer

There's a good time coming, boys, a good time coming,

Young colonials han't be seen with their ladies at thirteen,

In this good time coming,

English girls shan't be allowed, though love than fire is stronger,

To marry flash John Chinamen - wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys, a good time coming,

Then no single ship that comes shall e'er land us more new chums,

In this good time coming,

But be searched in Hobson's Bay by the police made stronger

And new chums sent back overland - wait a little longer.

From Coxon's Comic Songster with a melody by Henry Russell (composer of A Fine Old English Gentleman).

Anderson's Coast

2011-12-01T15:17:00.001+10:00

John Warner

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Now Bass Strait roars like some great mill race
And where are you, my Annie
And the same moon shines on this lonely place
As shone one day on my Annie's face

CHORUS
But Annie dear, don't wait for me
I fear I shall not return to thee 
There's naught to do but endure my fate 
And watch the moon 
The lonely moon 
Light the breakers on wild Bass Strait.

We stole a vessel and all her gear
And where are you, my Annie
And from Van Diemen's we north did steer
'Till Bass Strait's wild waves wrecked us here

A mile inland, as our course was laid
And where are you, my Annie?
We found a government stockade.
Long long deserted, but stoutly made.

And somewhere West Port Melbourne lies
And where are you, my Annie
Through swamps infested with snakes and flies
The fool who walks there, he surely dies

We hail no ships, though the time it drags
And where are you, my Annie
Our chain gang walk and government rags
All mark us out as Van Diemen's lags

We fled the lash and the chafing chain
And where are you, my Annie
We fled hard labour and brutal pain
And here we are and here remain

This wonderful song from John Warner and Margaret Walters' recording, The Pithead in the Fern.

These notes from the Cockersdale sleeve notes (via Mudcat):

Australian singer John Warner writes evocative and beautifully poetic songs, many drawing on Australian colonial history. Anderson's Coast concerns of a group of convicts who escaped Van Diemen's Land in a stolen ship, only to be wrecked by the notorious Bass Strait waves on the Gippsland coast (in Victoria). The explorer Strzlecki and his small band stumbled out of dense rainforest and encountered the marooned men. Strzlecki would probably have perished had it not been for his Koori guide Charlie Tarra and this group of convicts who led him to Anderson, a pioneer settler who ran cattle on the South Gippsland coast. Apparently the convicts were pardoned for their contribution to the explorer's survival.

Wollongong and Illawarra

2011-11-30T20:03:00.001+10:00

Words: Unknown
Tune: Traditional (Roy's Wife)

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CHORUS:
Wollongong and Illawarra
Wollongong and Illawarra

Native poets yet will sing

Of Wollongong and Illawarra

The times may take a sulky fit

Like any honest married womand,

Whose husband is what she is not,

For she's a mind above the common.

But nature here forever smiles,

Her mountain paths lead up to heaven

Where sight and sounds the soul beguiles

Of every ounce of earthly leaven.

As I went up to Jamberoo

I met so many pleasant people

'Twas still "Good Day" and "How d'ye do?"

And "How are all around the steeple?"

I thanked them asking, "How are you?"

And how are little Tom and Kitty?

And that sweet infant? - well I vow,

I never saw a child so pretty".

And then the pigs would gracious grunt,

The dog would set the tail a-shaking,

And wives would, smiling say, "Now won't

You just step in and taste the bacon?"

"With all my heart," so in I went,

And found their weather-boarded dwelling

So clean, so neat, that sweet content,

Reflected, saw her bosom swelling.

This fact, e'er since I crossed the seas,

I rarely fail at meals to utter,

That Bathurst stands unmatched for cheese,

And Wollongong for yellow butter.

Health, wealth and joyous, happy days,

To Wollongong and Illawarra,

They well deserve a poet's praise,

The honest folks of Illawarra.

From Ron Edwards' Big Book of Australian Folk Songs and Keesing and Stewart's Old Bush Songs.

Imagine the exhilarating time you could have with someone who never fails to mention at dinner that Bathurst makes the best cheese in the world.

The Basic Wage Dream

2011-11-29T18:46:00.001+10:00

Don Henderson

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I dreamed a doctor told a judge from the Arbitration Court
That he would only live to preside on one more case being fought.
The judge whose conscience was ill at ease thought if this case will be my last,
To hand down a fair decision might make up for his unjust past.

The next case that was to come before this very worried sage,
Was a request to raise by fifty-two bob the weekly basic wage.
The old chap granted the raise in full and to assure his place in heaven,
Made the payments retrospective to nineteen hundred and seven.

On the first pay day after the trial I couldn't believe my luck,
The paymaster brought my wages out on a fork lift truck,
I dreamed we got paid on a Friday and on that lovely night,
Mayne Nickless sent an armoured car to get me home all right.

On the way we stopped at the R.S.L. and as I walked inside,
A poker machine took a look at my pay and committed suicide.
I turned around when I heard a man behind me softly speak,
It was Dr. Coombs trying to borrow a quid to see him through the week.

The alarm went off and I recalled as I was waking up,
How people dream they saw the horse that won the Melbourne Cup,
But they can't remember what number it was, well my dream was just the same
For I can't for the very life of me think of that judge's name.

Another great song from the pen of one of the Australian folk movement's most prolific and powerful songwriters.

The Carrier's Song

2011-11-28T18:26:00.001+10:00

Words: Unknown
Tune: Traditional (Bow, Wow, Wow)

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To sing you all a pleasant song, I now feel in the mind, sir,
For travelling on the road each day, there's something strange you'll find, sir.
It's strange to know the once-good tracks, no longer we can trust, sir,
For every road we travel now, there's nothing there but dust, sir.

CHORUS:
Dust, dust, dust,
Along the roads there's nothing there but dust, dust, dust.

I pity those poor carriers, who on the road oft travel,
With gibs of horses quite knocked up by ruts and sand and gravel.
No water on the way they find, though they in vain may seek, sir,
For dust has filled each waterhole, each gully and dry creek, sir.

If to New England e'er they go, and take much heavy loading,
I fear they'll find their horses then will need some extra goading,
As stuck upon the Moonbi Range, in them they cannot trust, sir;
Do all they can they will not pull the high load through the dust, sir.

Now, too much rain's a different thing to what we do require
In rainy weather well you know, you can't keep in the fire;
As stuck upon the creek you ask to get a pull out,
From some bull-puncher who has just got his own team with wool out.

CHORUS:
Rain, rain, rain,
Along the road there's nothing there but rain, rain, rain.

So now I've sung in humble rhyme the trails of the road, sir,
Of what a driver must endure, who takes a heavy load, sir;
How he may be stuck fast enough, for many, many weeks, sir,
Though 'twould be naught if government would only bridge the creeks, sir.

From Warren Fahey's Australian Folk Songs and Bush Ballads.

The illustration is a photograph by AJ Campbell from around 1900 entitled, Bogged. From the collection of Museum Victoria.

The Kennedy Men

2011-11-28T17:47:00.001+10:00

Words: Unknown (Remos)
Tune: Traditional (Bonnie Dundee)

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The Northernmost part of bonnie Queensland
Is held in possession by stout heart and hand
Twas settled by us who came out here and then
We were known in the world as the Kennedy men.

CHORUS:
Then we'll up with our voices and cry out with glee,
We are lords of the bush, we are happy and free,
In future may poets with pride use their pen
On all that is done by the Kennedy men.

Through swamps, through scrub, over ranges and sand,
Dalrymple - he led us, and here made a stand,
Say's he, "This will do - for a city I ken -
So three cheers fro the queen and the Kennedy men"

We all pitched our tents on the ridge near the wells,
Our foes mustered near us with fierce shouts and yells,
Next night when 'twas dark, and very near ten,
The blacks danced like fiends round the Kennedy Men.

Dal- our leader, stood firm as a rock in the storm,
Crying, "Those who are men and true Britons born,
Meet your foes hand to hand, drive the fiends to their den,"
Which was done with good will by the Kennedy Men.

If ever the hour of trial comes, 'twill be seen,
We'll be faithful and true to our God and our Queen,
And the base craven hearts that would hide themselves then,
May they never be known, as the Kennedy Men.

We pray that our Queens representatives here
May be honest and fair and give ear to our prayer;
And when the estimates pass from his minister's pen,
May they not cheat the faraway Kennedy Men

We have contended with sickness, with hunger and pain,
And we do not regret, we would do it again,
For our dear little town, the town of Bowen,
Is the pride of Queensland and the Kennedy Men

We have all that we could wish for, we have home, friends and health,
And in a short time, we'll have plenty of wealth,
Our ladies are fair, and there's one in England, I ken,
Is beloved by all true-hearted Kennedy Men.

Then here's to each friend of the pioneer band
That came out at first here in search of new land,
May we do what we ought, till the last day and then
May God bless the true-hearted Kennedy Men.

From the Queenslanders New Colonial Camp Fire Song Book. These words copied from John Meredith's transcription of same in the National Library of Australia collection.

George Dalrymple is the "Dalrymple" referred to in the lyrics:

GEORGE AUGUSTUS FREDERICK ELPHINSTONE DALRYMPLE (1826-1876) Explorer and Politician

George Dalrymple was born on 6 May 1826 at Aberdeenshire, Scotland. He arrived in Australia between 1856 and 1858 and went to the Darling Downs where he was unable to take up land as he had intended. The unoccupied north attracted him and in February 1859 he published in Brisbane Proposals for the Establishment of a New Pastoral Settlement in North Australia and organised an expedition to explore the Burdekin River watershed (Kennedy district). His party, including Ernest Henry and Philip Sellheim, set out from near Rockhampton in August and reached the site of Bowen.

In August he went with Lieutenant J. W. Smith in the Spitfire to explore the coast and examine Port Denison as a port of access for the Kennedy. As officer in charge of the proposed settlement of Bowen, Dalrymple then planned the expedition to establish the township and led the overland section. After he arrived Bowen was proclaimed on 11 April 1861. In March 1865 he was elected the first member for Kennedy in the Legislative Assembly. In 1867 he went to Britain to recover his health and returned to Queensland in 1869 and with A. J. Bogle took up Oxford Downs on the Upper Burdekin. The venture failed, as did his imported traction engine which proved impracticable on northern roads. Insolvent, he was lucky to get a government post as Assistant Gold Commissioner on the Gilbert diggings in October 1871. In September 1873 he led an official exploration of the coast north of Cardwell. They reached the Endeavour River in October, just before Cooktown sprang up as the port for the Palmer goldfields. They returned to Cardwell in December and Dalrymple, sick with fever, went to Brisbane. After a summer in Scotland he went to St Leonards, Sussex, where he died, unmarried, on 22 January 1876.

The TAB Punters' Song

2011-11-28T15:48:00.001+10:00

Words: John Dengate
Tune: WS Hays (Seamus O'Brien)

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Each Saturday morning I crawl out of bed
Hung-over from Friday's excess,
Feeling crook in the "comics" and crook in the head
With a mountain of sins to confess.
But then I remember it's race day again
I collect up my clothes from the floor
I tune into Mahoney's selections at ten -
The adrenalin's pumping once more

CHORUS:
At Warwick Farm, Randwick or Rosehill they race,
It's a sign of our moral decay,
But wipe that superior look off your face,
I expect a trifecta today.

I have a quick piss, I give breakfast a miss,
Wallet and form guide I grab,
Then I suddenly bolt like a two year old colt
Away down the road to the TAB.
It's number of units and number of race,
The numbers spin round in my brain,
And I stand there blaspheming and cursing the place
The biro is broken again.

Oh the long shots are rough and the favourites are short
And I never know what's running dead
So I ring up my mate, but he got home so loate
His mother won't rouse him from bed.
Ron Quinton could win on a horse made of tin
So I back everything that he rides
And the big Melbourne grey is a good thing each way
And a couple of others besides.

CHORUS
And fellas, quinellas are always a chance
And doubles are sometimes a go
So when I walk out I feel light in the pants
For the TAB has got all of my dough

A short break for grub, then I'm into the pub
And I stand there and weep in my booze
For the horses I back veer all over the track
And they lose and they lose and they lose.
Oh seek not escape in the gambling my friend
Though life may be hum-drum and drab;
Seek solace in psalms or in fair ladies arms
But never go into a TAB.

Another from the wonderful Dengate.

The government-owned TAB (Totalisator Agency Boards) in each state conducted off-site legal betting on horse-racing in Australia. They were all eventually privatised.

To The West

2011-11-26T10:39:00.001+10:00

Unknown

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To the West, To the West, to the land of the lag
Where the broad arrow floats on the national flag;
Where a man is a man if he only won't lie,
Where promoters are booming and not a bit shy;
Where the prospector swears with no sign of a smile
That the width of a the reef is exactly a mile;
And though 'tis the owner who says it as shouldn't,
That the gold in the reef is like plums in a puddin'

To the West, to the West, where the mining expert
Is never once seen with a barmaid to flirt;
To successfully flirt with a barmaid so fine,
Only those who are skilful in lying can shine.
Yet the mining expert can tell to the grain
How much gold to the ton the reef will contain:
And merely by taking a casual peep
How much gold's in the reef a thousand feet deep.

To the West, to the West, to the land of bright gold,
Where the man who buys shares is never once sold;
Where the bland mining boss with the truth in his eye
Talks of lenses and winzes and shafts deep and dry.
How the reef underlies with a southerly dip -
An infallible sign of a rise in the scrip:
And the footwall, says he, which is just a bit bent,
Shows the shares will go up a good hundred per cent.

To the West, to the West, where there's plenty of fun,
Where the quartz fifty hundredweight goes to the ton;
Where the average is fully ten ounces or more,
Making shareholders dream of the bright golden shore;
And promoters they whisper "Now ain't we just smart
To collar in this world a big golden harp?
With the truthful prospectus we'll grab the bright gold,"
But the man who buys shares never dreams that he's sold.

I love this one from the Big Book of Australian Folk Songs. Ron Edwards published it with this note:

TO THE WEST came to me form West Australian author Ted Mayman on 28 November 1970. He had found it in the Coolgardie Miner for 1 January 1896, and it was noted as having already appeared in the Adelaide Observer. Below the ballad was the name John Richards, but it is not clear whether this is the author or only the person who contributed it to the paper.

The illustration to this post is a photograph by John Joseph Dwyer entitled A prospector and his horse in camp, c 1905.

Bloggers note: The style of performance of this track reflects my slow recovery from a chest infection, rather than solely artistic judgement (but I'm still quite fond of the result).

The Stockman's Lament

2011-11-24T17:02:00.001+10:00

Words: Stuart Marshall
Tune: Norbert Schulze (Lilli Marleen)

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Down beside the mail-box, near the station gate,
Every wintry night, so patiently I wait,
And there in the darkness, cold and blue,
I stand until the mail comes through,
I'm waiting for my trousers, they're so long overdue.

At last the truck comes thund'ring along the dusty road,
The driver climbs down from it and opens up his load,
He throws down parcels big and small,
I carefully check them one and all,
But no, there is no trousers, there's nothing there at all.

When the mail's departed, roaring through the night,
I sadly wend off homeward - a sorry looking sight,
The wind whistles through my pants forlorn,
Through gaps and rents where they've been torn,
I feel so cold and naked I wish I wasn't born.

Perhaps some day you'll send them - I hope it's not too late,
To save me from the breakdown that soon will be my fate,
I'm slowly sinking to despair,
I'm losing handfuls of my hair,
If they don't soon arrive here, my backside will be bare.

Sent to Ron Edwards by Stuart Marshall in 1968 with the following note:

To be sung to the tune of "Lilli Marlene." In the days of material and fuel shortages this was posted to one of Australia's best-known mail order houses.

I've assumed that Stuart was the writer of the lyrics. The original German song (Lilli Marleen) was set to its well-known tune in 1938.

Old TI

2011-11-24T15:35:00.001+10:00

Unknown

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CHORUS:
Old TI, my beautiful home,
That's the place where I was born;
The sun and the moon that shine,
Make me long for home,
Old TI, my beautiful home.

TI, my beautiful home,
TI, my home sweet home.
Darling, won't you take me,
Where the sun is sinking, farewell.

Why are you looking so sad, my dear,
Why are you feeling so blue?
I'm thinking of someone so far away,
In that beautiful place called TI.

Take me across the sea,
Over the deep blue sea,
Darling, won't you take me,
Back to my home TI.

When at the break of dawn,
Your dear face I cannot see,
You will always think,
Always think of me.

Up above the clouds,
Your dear face I cannot see,
But in your memories dear,
Never, never say goodbye.

Another from the Joy Durst Memorial Australian Song Collection (1980 edition), published by the Victorian Folk Music Club. Published with the following note:

Popularised by Joy Durst. From Thursday Islanders at Cairns, Queensland.

TI is the popular name for Thursday Island, the administrative centre of the Torres Strait Islands which lie off the Northern tip of Queensland. The islands have been part of Australia since their annexation by Queensland in 1879. The indigenous population are Melanesian islanders.

The Torres Strait Island flag.

When The Children Come Home

2011-11-24T13:21:00.001+10:00

Words: Henry Lawson
Tune: Traditional (The Mudgee Waltz)

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On a lonely selection far out in the West
An old woman works all the day without rest,
And she croons, as she toils 'neath the sky's glassy dome,
`Sure I'll keep the ould place till the childer come home.'

She mends all the fences, she grubs, and she ploughs,
She drives the old horse and she milks all the cows,
And she sings to herself as she thatches the stack,
`Sure I'll keep the ould place till the childer come back.'

It is five weary years since her old husband died;
And oft as he lay on his deathbed he sighed
`Sure one man can bring up ten children, he can,
An' it's strange that ten sons cannot keep one old man.'

Whenever the scowling old sundowners come,
And cunningly ask if the master's at home,
`Be off,' she replies, `with your blarney and cant,
Or I'll call my son Andy; he's workin' beyant.'

`Git out,' she replies, though she trembles with fear,
For she lives all alone and no neighbours are near;
But she says to herself, when she's like to despond,
That the boys are at work in the paddock beyond.

Ah, none of her children need follow the plough,
And some have grown rich in the city ere now;
Yet she says: `They might come when the shearing is done,
And I'll keep the ould place if it's only for one.'

This poem was combined with this tune by Mike Jackson in 1980 with a slight re-arrangement of the words. I've reverted to the original arrangement of the words but I believe the combination worth well.

The illustration to this post is Russell Drysdale's 1945 painting, The Drover's Wife.

O'Mulligan's Wallaby Drive

2011-11-24T12:21:00.001+10:00

Words: Unknown
Tune: Traditional (Villikins and His Dinah)

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Mister Peter O'Mulligan often had thought
That he hadn't been nearly so good as he ought
In dispensing good cheer to his neighbours and friends,
So he hit on a scheme that would make them amends

He said, "Molly, my darling, we'll go the whole hog,
You must lay in a stock of provisions and grog.
We'll invite all the neighbours and try to contrive
Just to give them an iligant wallaby drive".

He invited the Murphy's, both Johnny and Matt,
And old Sandy MacDougall from Tumbledown Flat,
There was Barney O'Grady, and Jones from the mill,
And old Paddy the Stockman, from Cabbage Tree Hill.

And they came with their wives and their sweethearts, and som
Came alone, and a few were unable to come.
But it did Molly's heart good to see them arrive
To Peter O'Mulligan's wallaby drive.

There was game in abundance and plenty of sport
And the old gum trees shook with the rattling report
Of old Paddy's big musket, as furious and fast
He blazed with his eyes shut at all that went past.

At the end of the day, when they counted the score,
Paddy hadn't shot one, while MacDougall had four.
Johnny Murphy was top, for he shot twenty-five
At Peter O'Mulligan's wallaby drive.

When the sun had gone down and the shooting was done,
There was dancing and feasting and flirting and fun.
Johnny Murphy got drunk, while his young brother Matt,
Courted Kitty MacDougall, from Tumbledown Flat.

While Peter himself, quite unknown to his lady,
Sat on the verandah with Biddy O'Grady
They danced till poor Jones was more dead than alive
At Peter O'Mulligan's wallaby drive.

O'Grady sought Biddy the moment he missed her,
And came on the pair as O'Mulligan kissed her
Their joy was diluted; O'Grady showed fight
While O'Mulligan's missus made Biddy look white.

In a moment the house was like Donnybrook Fair,
There were heads in the fireplace, and heels in the air.
And though Paddy, the stockman, to part them did strive,
He got floored - at O'Mulligan's wallaby drive.

Poor Kitty MacDougall lost all her false hair,
While O'Grady got scalped with the leg of a chair;
Johnny Murphy struck Paddy, who called him a liar
And, upsetting the lamp, set the whole house on fire.

There was fire in the parlour, a smoke in the hall,
And a blaze in the room that was cleared for the ball,
And the ladies who'd fainted, they had to revive
Or be baked - at O'Mulligan's wallaby drive.

Then they rallied round Peter, their friendship returning,
And they pulled down his house to prevent it from burning;
When the fire was put out, they all shouted "Goodnight"
And, then saddling their horses, were soon out of sight.

When the last one was gone, Mrs O'Mulligan rose
And she said, as she wiped a big tear from her nose,
"When ye want more divarsion to kape you alive,
I presume, faith! ye'll get up a wallaby drive".

Then, as phoenix-like Peter arose from the ashes
With his whiskers all singed, and his eyebrows and lashes,
He exclaimed, "By the ghost of Saint Patrick, I swear,
If I ever recover my eyebrows and hair,

That there's only one small piece of hunting I'll do,
Faith! I'll hunt for O'Grady and give him his due,
As for you, Divil take you! I'll skin you alive,
If you evermore mention a wallaby drive.

From Singabout, (The Journal of Australian Folksong, Published in Sydney by the Bush Music Club) 1960, Volume 4, Number 1.

Published with the following note:

Collected and recorded by William Crosdale, of South Yarra, from the singing of Jack (Bottle-O) Carter, who learned it as a boy around the Moree district.

The illustration to this post is a photograph of wallaby hunting on King Island around 1897.

The Steeplechase Riders

2011-11-24T11:36:00.001+10:00

Words: Unknown
Tune: Florian Pascal

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We will deck them in cream and in crimson
In chocolate and tartan and blue
And speed them away from the barrier
And trust them to struggle it through

CHORUS (first and last verses)
Oh, the riders, the steeplechase riders
They carry their lives in their hands

We come with the best of our sportsmen
And the fairest fair girls of the land,
To speed them away from the barrier
And cheer them in front of the stand.

They don't have a fair lady wearing
Their colors of crimson and blue
But they'll put up their silk for a living,
And ride for a guinea or two.

There's a roar from the crowd on the corner,
A shout from the crowd on the hill.
For the green-and-white hoops have turned over:
A loose horse and a man lying still.

But the crimson and black's going strongly,
With the blue leading as they land,
And the horses must strain at the fences,
And the riders hold death in their hands.

For the fences are big ones and solid,
They make it top speed from the start,
And the man who rides out over Flemington
Needs more than the average heart.

Then here's to the luck of the winner,
And here's better luck to the last,
Here's to the pluck at the timber,
And here's to the Post flying past.

From the Joy Durst Memorial Song Collection. Published with the following note:

Collected by Arthur and Kath Lumsden from Mrs Belle Brown, who learned the words about 1910.

The illustration to this post links to a 1940 British Pathe newsreel from 1940 of a steeplechase race at Melbourne's Flemington racecourse.

The Cook's Revenge

2011-11-24T10:14:00.001+10:00

Arthur Croydon

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Once I took a job of cooking
For some poddy-dodging cows,
But of all the little jobs I had,
It took the cake for rows

The bloody meat was gone bad,
And the cake it was a sod,
For the damper had gone ropey
It was, so help me Bob.

The tea it looked like water
And the pudding just as bad,
And every time we fork it on,
It made us fellows mad.

One day I thought, "I'll square things,"
And let them see no mug was I,
So I mixed some sniftin' pea soup,
To make them fellows cry.

Half a tin of curry,
To give the stuff a grip,
And half a tin of pepper,
The make them fellows shit.

And half a tin of cow dung,
Singed to make it look like toast,
The stink of it would knock you down,
Like Jesus Holy Ghost.

So the stockmen came in early,
If no tucker - look out for fight,
And "Just hop in here you stockman boys,
For I'll bring some soup to light."

So the plate full each they took,
By cripes it tastes all right,
But nothing like the second helping
To make them bastards shite.

They shit upon the table
They shit upon the floor
The rotten dirty bastards
They never asked for more.

So I snatched my time, went down the line
To try and beat the mob,
And if you're looking for a first class cook
I'm waiting for the job.

Collected by Ron Edwards from the author, then 65-year-old Arthur Croydon of Cairns on 23 January, 1970. Arthur worked as a stockman across the Gulf country.

From the Big Book of Australian Folk Songs.

Kangarooing

2011-11-18T08:33:00.000+10:00

Words: Unknown
Tune: Traditional (Barbara Allen)

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Good people I am going to sing
Of something that's been doing
It's vat befel a poor young man
Who vent out kangarooing

This young man's name vos Villiam Vite
A horphan boy vas he, sir,
He loved a girl named Betsy Black
A horphan girl vas she, sir.

This girl one morning said to him,
"Bill, if you loves me true now,
You'll rise up at the break of day
And catch a kangaroo now."

"O Betsy, Betsy," Villiam said,
"To mount an 'os I stickles,
For a varning woice says if I does,
"Tvill be a case of pickles."

Said she, "If 'bout this kangaroo,
My will is not obeyed sir,
I never will your bride become
But die a horphan maid, sir."

Then Villiam all for this girl's love
An 'os hires in a trice sir
Of a man who said, "he'd go like vind"
Vos sound and free from wice, sir.

And straightway early in the morn,
All for to speed his vooing
He mounted on this 'os's back,
And vent out kangarooing.

A mile from home his 'os stopped still
Though he nearly kicked his rib in,
"Twall all no use he vouldn't go
"Ho now," says he, "he's jibbin."

Then Villiam vipped this vicked 'os
And at his head kept chucking,
Which made him jump up just like mad,
"Ho now," says he, "he's bolting."

This 'orrid 'os came home quite safe
At twelve o'clock at night sir,
It's master stared, for on his back
There vos no Villiam Vite, sir

And at the wery self same time
Beside young Betsy's stretcher,
Stands Villiam Vite's un'appy ghost
And says, "he's come to fetch her"

This ghost a face like Villiam's does
Expose to Betsy's view sir
But both his body and his legs
Are like a kangaroo, sir.

And first he kisses Betsy's lips,
Next her fair body raises,
Then vith his tail knocks three times
And slithers in blue blazes.

And now this young man kangaroo
Amongst the bush so green sir,
Vith Betsy Black still in his arms,
Is by lovyers often seen, sir.

An unusual (to say the least) song from Coxon's Comic Songster.

I've given the words as printed but couldn't bring myself to record it with a German accent.

Coxon's Comic Songster was published in Ballarat c. 1858-59

The Only Land For Me (A Currency Lad)

2011-11-17T19:54:00.001+10:00

Words: Unknown
Tune: John Thompson

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Prate not to me of foreign strand
Of beauty o'er the sea
This is my own - my native land
The only land for me

The only land for me
The only land for me

This is my own - my native land
The only land for me

I love to bound like a wild gazelle
O'er my native mountains blue
And wildly, through the woody dell
Chase the bounding kangaroo

The bounding kangaroo
The bounding kangaroo

And wildly, through the woody dell
Chase the bounding kangaroo

I've rode upon the stormy wave
And danced aboon the sea
And where's the pleasure that it gave
Like my native land to me

My native land to me
My native land to me

And where's the pleasure that it gave
Like my native land to me

Children of convicts were known as a "currency lads and lasses". These unattributed words from this site. The only other information I can find on this one is a note on another site that it dates from 1832.

The illustration to this post is a settler's house from around 1880.

Hawking

2011-11-16T16:08:00.001+10:00

Words: Anonymous
Tune: Traditional (Bow, Wow, Wow)

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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.

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.

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.

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.

Another from Banjo Paterson's Old Bush Songs.

Banjo Bill

2011-11-15T20:12:00.001+10:00

Words: Vic Williams
Tune: Ian Conochie

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My mates all call me Banjo Bill
And sing this song as we throw and fill
Our backs are bent but our arms are strong
And swing in time to our drawling song

Banjo Bill, Banjo Bill
Shovelled for years and shovelling still
Where a railway runs or a building stands
The hard hills split in his driving hands

The Japs came South with cast-iron schemes
They thought we'd stoke their puffed-up dreams
That called for strong and willing slaves
But we blocked their road and dug their graves

Banjo Bill, Banjo Bill
Soldiered for years and shovelling still
Their armies cracked but our coast stands
Where he shovelled them back with work-strong hands

The bosses bang the drum for war
They make big dough and plan for more
We'll hammer our shovels like a gong
Call on our mates to sing this song

Banjo Bill, Banjo Bill
Changed the world and we'll change it still
Our spades will cut through the roots of war
And peace will blossom from shore to shore

Found in John Meredith's notebooks in the National Library of Australia. John noted that there were two tunes to this one, with the tune used here included in his notes.

Any further information about the writers or the subject would be appreciated.

The Flying Pieman

2011-11-14T19:27:00.001+10:00

Unknown

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'Twas the close of a heavy drinking bout on port and sherry (Cape)
From public, half-seas over, we had just made our escape;
Our infant in its cradle was peacefully asleep,
And merrily we rolled along the street of Church Hill steep.

At length Bill Tompkins gave a shout of terror and fear,
As though he just had gazed upon some stern policeman near;
We looked all down the pavement, cried Tompkins, “well, I'm blowed,
See where the Flying Pieman comes bounding o'er the road.”

He comes! The Flying Pieman comes! And terrible his pace,
He scuds along the flinty path as though he ran a race;
The cards and placards in his hat all pasted on awry,
Are circulated quickly, as the Pieman dashes by.

He scudded on too speedily to mark his rapid flight,
In fear and consternation then we staggered off, half tight;
Quoth Tompkins, “When we travel home, I fear there'll be a breeze,
Our better-halves will put an end to these delightful sprees.”

Then mark the Flying Pieman comes, for comical his doom,
He scuds about from morn till night, queer costumes doth assume;
Around the town he beats about, forever, night and day,
And boys admiring shout, “There goes the Flying Pieman, hip! hooray!”

With thanks to Warren Fahey.

The Flying Pieman (William Francis King) and his bizarre feats of pedestrianism deserve greater attention.

These lyrics from Colonial Society Magazine - Feb. 1865

The Graves Out West

2011-11-13T21:17:00.001+10:00

Words: Will Ogilvie
Tune: Graham Jenkin

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If the lonely graves are scattered in that fenceless vast God's Acre,
If no church bells chime across them, and no mourners tread between —
Yet the souls of those sound sleepers go as swiftly to their Maker,
And the ground is just as sacred, and the graves are just as green.

If we chant no solemn dirges to the virtue of their living.
If we sing no hymn words o'er them in the glory of the stars
They can hear a grander music than was ever ours for giving,
God's choristers invisible - the winds in the belars.

If we set them up no marble, it is none the less we love them:
If we carved a million columns would it bring them better rest
If no gentle hands have fashioned snow-white wreaths to lay above them,
God has laid His own wild flowers on the lonely graves out West.

From the Overlander's 1979 album, Tribute to Western Australia. Written by Graham Jenkin.

Words from Will H. Ogilvie's Fair Girls and Gray Horses With Other Verses(1907). (Full text linked here).

The illustration to this post is a photograph of miners' graves near Chillagoe.

The Band Played Waltzing Matilda

2011-11-12T12:48:00.001+10:00

Eric Bogle

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When I was a young man I carried me pack
And I lived the free life of the rover
From the Murray's green basin to the dusty outback
I waltzed my Matilda all over
Then in 1915 my country said: Son,
It's time to stop rambling, there's work to be done
So they gave me a tin hat and they gave me a gun
And they sent me away to the war

And the band played Waltzing Matilda
As the ship pulled away from the quay
And amidst all the tears, flag waving and cheers
We sailed off for Gallipoli

How well I remember that terrible day
When our blood stained the sand and the water
And how in that hell they call Suvla Bay
We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter
Johnny Turk, he was ready, he'd primed himself well
He rained us with bullets, and he showered us with shell
And in five minutes flat, we were all blown to hell
He nearly blew us back home to Australia

And the band played Waltzing Matilda
As we stopped to bury our slain
We buried ours and the Turks buried theirs
Then it started all over again

Oh those that were left, we tried to survive
In that mad world of blood, death and fire
And for ten weary weeks I kept myself alive
While around me the corpses piled higher
Then a big Turkish shell knocked me arse over head
And when I awoke in me hospital bed
And saw what it had done, I wished I was dead
I never knew there was worse things than dying

Oh no more I'll go Waltzing Matilda
All around the green bush far and free
For to hump tent and pegs, a man needs both legs
No more waltzing Matilda for me

They collected the wounded, the crippled, the maimed
And they shipped us back home to Australia
The armless, the legless, the blind and the insane
Those proud wounded heroes of Suvla
And when the ship pulled into Circular Quay
I looked at the place where me legs used to be
And thanked Christ there was no one there waiting for me
To grieve and to mourn and to pity

And the Band played Waltzing Matilda
When they carried us down the gangway
Oh nobody cheered, they just stood there and stared
Then they turned all their faces away

Now every April I sit on my porch
And I watch the parade pass before me
I see my old comrades, how proudly they march
Reviving old dreams and past glories
But the old men march slowly, old bones stiff and sore
Those weary old heroes of a forgotten war
And the young people ask "What are they marching for?"
And I ask myself the same question

And the band plays Waltzing Matilda
And the old men still answer the call
But year after year, more old men disappear
Someday, no one will march there at all

Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda
Who'll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me?
And their ghosts may be heard as they march by the billabong
So who'll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me?

Written in 1971 by Eric Bogle.

The illustration to this post is a photograph of an artwork by Melbourne sculptor, Peter Corlett, entitled, Man in the Mud, from the Australian War Memorial collection.

Bare-Legged Kate

2011-11-12T11:46:00.001+10:00

Words: John Dengate
Tune: Bare legged Joe

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First Verse and Chorus:
Bare legged Kate with your natural grace,
The big big sad eyes in the Irish face.
A poor bush girl when the summer is high
In the stony hills of Gundagai.

Bare legged Kate why do you weep
When the men ride by with the travelling sheep?
Does the sight of the drover make you sad?
Do you think of the father you never had?

Bare legged Kate why do you run,
Down to the creek in the setting sun?
Down where the eyes of the world cannot see -
Run Kate, run, from poverty.

Bare legged Kate, there is gold in the hills
But you know that the cyanide process kills.
Poisons the miners and cuts them down
In the mean little homes below the town.

Bare legged Kate, when the floods come down,
It's the poor on the creeks are the ones who drown:
When the great Murrumbidgee is thundering by
Through the haunted hills of Gundagai.

Published by the Bush Music Club in the 1982 collection, My Shout! with the dedication:

"Written for my mother, Born Kathleen Mary Kelly, Gundagai, NSW, 1914."

Green Leaves Upon The Green

2011-11-10T10:52:00.000+10:00

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There was a little squatter and he lived close by
Upon the green leaves, upon the green,
And he had a son of a very rough kind
And you know very well what I mean
And you know very well what I mean

And there was another cocky and he lived close by
Upon the green leaves, upon the green,
And he had a daughter of a very rough kind
And you know very well what I mean
And you know very well what I mean

And they placed them both to bed one night
Upon the green leaves, upon the green,
To see which one would tempt the other first,
And you know very well what I mean,
And you know very well what I mean.

She placed her hand upon his hip,
Upon the green leaves, upon the green,
And said, “what is this that stands so stiff?
And you know very well what I mean,
Well you know very well what I mean.

That is my horse that drinks at the well
Upon the green leaves, upon the green.
Yes that is my nag which rears and swells
And you know very well what I mean,
And you know very well what I mean,

But what is this hangs under his chin
Upon the green, leaves upon the green
That's the bags he puts his fodder in
And you know very well what I mean,
And you know very well what I mean,

Said he, "What's this?", "It is a well
Upon the green, leaves upon the green
Where your nag can drink and drink his fill
And you know very well what I mean,
And you know very well what I mean,

But what if he should chance to slip in
Upon the green, leaves upon the green
Then catch hold of the grass that grows on the brim
And you know very well what I mean,
And you know very well what I mean,

But what if the grass should chance to fail
Upon the green, leaves upon the green.
Shove him in by the head, pull him out by the tail
And you know very well what I mean,
And you know very well what I mean.

With the kind assistance of Warren Fahey. Recorded in Adelaide in 1962 from the singing of Bill Harney and transcribed by Warren from the collection of the State Library of South Australia.

A confusing song. I have little idea as to what it describes. Something about horses....