Words: Dan Sheehan Tune: A variation of Beautiful Dreamer by Stephen Foster
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.
By the sluggish River Gwydir lived a wicked redbacked spider, He was just about as vicious as could be; And the place that he was camped in was a rusty Jones's jam-tin, In a paddock by the showground at Moree.
Near him lay a shearer snoozing, he had been on the grog and boozing All the night - and all the previous day, And the 'kooking' of the kookas and the noise of showground spruikers Failed to wake him from the trance in which he lay.
Then a crafty looking spieler with a dainty little sheila, Came along collecting wood to make a fire; Said the spieler, "There's a boozer and he's going to be a loser. If he isn't, you can christen me a liar!
Wriggle round and keep nit, honey, while I fan the mug for money, And we'll have some luxuries for tea." She answered, "Don't be silly! You go back and boil the billy: You can safely leave the mug to little me."
So she circled ever nearer till she reached the dopey shearer, With his pocket bulging, fast asleep and snug But she didn't see the spider that was ringing just beside her, For her mind was on the money and the mug.
Now the spider wanted dinner; he was daily growing thinner. He'd been fasting and was hollow as an urn; As she eyed the bulging pocket he just darted like a rocket And he bit the spieler's sheila on the stern.
Like a flash she raced off squealing and her clothes began unpeeling; To hear her yells would make you feel forlorn. On the bite, one hand was pressing while the other was undressing And she reached the camp the same as she was born!
Then the shearer, pale and haggard woke, and back to town he staggered; Where he caught the train and gave the booze a rest, And he'll never know a spider, that was camping by the Gwydir, Had saved him sixty-seven of the best.
This version and the following notes from Mudcat. More of the tireless work of Bob Bolton.
Glossary: Gwydir: The river passing Moree Redbacked spider: Small venomous spider, latrodectus hasellti. First cousin of the Black Widow Spider, latrodectus maculatus. (Jam)-tin: Can, previously holding fruit jam (conserve). Moree: Inland town in New South Wales Kookas: Australian abbreviation of kookaburras (our national bird, "The Great Kingfisher", "The Laughing Jackass" ... and a lot of other things, when they wake you before dawn with a maniacal cackle of laughter!). Spieler: A suspicious type – city bloke probably, keep you money out of sight ... Shiela: Common Australianism for a girl ... not usually to her face. Spruikers: Showground professional crowd-pullers, describing the delights of various sideshows. Keep nit: Keep a good look-out. Billry: the ubiqitous tin can, with a fence-wire handle, used to boil water for tea ... or cook up a stew. Mug: Anyone a spieler might turn to a profit. Sixty-seven of the best: 67 pound notes – about $130 in today's currency, but the payment for weeks of backbreaking work when this poem was written.
This is the version originally found by John Meredith in a notebook of the late R J Blumer, now in the possession of his son Eric Blumer, of the Vale of Clwydd. The poem was first published in the Bush Music Club's magazine Singabout, volume 3, number 2, Autumn 1959.
The tune I've used here was collected by Ron Edwards from Buddy Weston in 1972.
For more on redback spiders, check out Wikipedia (they are tiny)
Words: John Dengate
Tune: Traditional (Galway Races)
We arrived at Randwick races, by taxi from Clovelly.
I had money in my trousers, boys, and schooners in my belly.
Well the bookies saw us coming and they panicked in a crisis;
They tinkered with the odds and they shortened all their prices.
CHORUS:
With my whack, fol the do, fol the diddley idle day.
Well the hunger it was gnawing and the thirst was in us rising
While the crowd’s excited roaring reached a level quite surprising.
Oh, we swallowed several middies and demolished pies and sauces
And we set to work comparing prices, jockey’s weights and horses.
CHORUS:
Denis Kevans said, “I reckon we will finish rich as Pharaoh
If we back the chestnut filly from the district of Monaro.
She’s a trier, she’s a flier, never knock her or decry her -
She’s sixty-six to one; when she wins we’ll all retire.”
CHORUS:
There was every kind of punter from illiterates to scholars;
I struggled through the betting ring and wagered twenty dollars -
Then the horses were away; from the barrier they thundered
And we hoped that very day to collect the thirteen hundred.
CHORUS:
We shouted in despair; Denis Kevans tore his hair,
O’Dea began to swear at the filly from Monaro.
She was struggling in the pack and our very hearts were bleeding;
She was falling further back and the favourite was leading.
CHORUS:
It seems the filly heard us for suddenly she sprinted.
She raced around the ruck with a purpose quite unstinted.
At the ledger she was third, oh you should have seen her flying;
I got so damned excited that I choked upon my pie, singing –
CHORUS:
They stormed into the straight like cavalry invading;
The filly was improving and the favourite was fading:
“She’s won it by a nose ... but a protest has been entered;
The stewards have upheld it; curse the day they were invented!’
CHORUS:
We walked back to Clovelly from the blasted Randwick races,
With ulcers in our bellies, boys, and gloom upon our faces.
We cursed the filly’s jockey and we cursed the Randwick stewards
Then drowned our disappointment in a flood of amber fluids.
CHORUS:
A beauty from John Dengate. With thanks to Bob Bolton for transcribing the lyrics from John's book, My Shout, published by Bob and the Bush Music Club in 1982.
