The Wallaby Track

Unknown




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.

The Song Of The Thrush

Words:  Walter Hastings
Music:  George Le Brunn





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 Rabbit Trapper's Song

Words: Unknown
Tune: Traditional (The Roscrea Cows)



Well me traps are all a-jangle and in an easy swinging tangle
And I'm setting in a circle, keeping round a fringe of trees'
And I'm muck and gory splattered, and me clobber's torn and tattered,
But I'm carefree as those bunnies, 'til they fall for one of these;

And I'm under no man's orders and I recognise no borders;
But there's a welcome everywhere for me and my old dungarees.
I am a rabbit trapper and a canny bunny snapper,
And I whistle through the bushland, like the birds up in the trees.

It' been a fairly fresh old morning, I can hear the kookas calling
As I jingle through the bushland, wet grass up to the knees
And these bunnies that I'm stopping, well they fairly keep me hopping
And I think I'll have a smoko when I get up to the trees

While you blokes are courting tabbies, well I'm out among the rabbies;
And I can hear 'em buckin', squealin', well, a dozen traps ahead,
While you blokes at the pub are flirtin', at the last trap I am certain
To be bagging up me bunnies, keeping tally as I tread.

Well, come on, my old cobber, we'll put on some decent clobber
And we'll leave the bunnies hoppin', and playin' in the trees (Hup, Ginger!)
We'll make the railway early; there's a shy and dinkum girlie
And she juggles with those cream cans, while she writes cheques out for me.


Collected by Wendy Lowenstein and Dave de Hugard. From Therese Radic's Songs of Australian Working Life. These lyrics transcribed and posted by Bob Bolton on Mudcat, with the addition of the third verse which I transcribed from this youtube clip of Dave singing this song to a slightly adapted tune:

Four Little Johnny Cakes

Traditional



Hurrah for the Lachlan, boys, and join me in a cheer
That's the place to go to make an easy cheque each year
With my toad-skin in my pocket that I borrowed from a friend
Oh, isn't it nice and cosy to be camping in the bend?

CHORUS:
With my little round flour-bag sitting on the stump
My little tea-and-sugar bag looking nice and plump
I've a nice fat cod-fish just off the hook
And four little johnny-cakes, a credit to the cook

I've a half loaf or two of bread and some praties that I shook
Perhaps a loaf of brownie that I snaffled from a cook
A nice leg of mutton ... with a bit cut off the end
Oh, isn't it nice and cosy to be camping in the bend?

I have a good supply of books and some papers for to read
Plenty of matches and a good supply of weed
I wouldn't be a squatter as beside my fire I sit
With a paper in my hand and my old pipe lit

And when the shearing-time comes, I'm in all my glory then
I saddle up a horse and I soon scrounge up a pen
I ride o'er the mountains and I gallop o'er the plain
I shoot a turkey, stick a pig, and I'll be in the bend again

LAST CHORUS:
With my little round flour-bag sitting on a stump
My little tea-and-sugar bag looking nice and plump
A little fat cod-fish just off the hook
And four little johnny-cakes, I'm proud to be the cook!



This song is another from Paterson's Old Bush Songs. From Dave De Hugard's Freedom on the Wallaby album (1970).


This recipe from The Old Aussie Food Recipes Site:

Johnny Cakes
Ingredients
1 cup self-raising flour
1/4 teaspoon salt
warm water to make a workable dough.
Method
Mix well, roll out to 1/2 inch thickness and cut into quarters. Put a few tablespoons of beef fat into the warm camp-oven or frypan and when it is boiling drop in the mixture in spoonfuls and cook 8 to10 minutes.


The illustration to this post is from the National Library of Australia site:
Carter, Jeff, 1928-2010.
Drover and cook Azzi Fazulla mixes flour and raisins to make a Johnny Cake damper, Starvation Lake, South Australia, 1963

The Tent Poles Are Rotten

Words: Henry Lawson
Tune: Unknown (Dave de Hugard?)



The tent poles are rotten and the campfire’s dead
And the possums may ramble in the trees overhead
I’m humping my bluey far out in the land
And the prints of my bluchers sink deep in the sand
I am out on the wallaby humping my drum
And I come down the road where the sundowners come

It is nor’west by west o’er ridges and far
To the plains where the cattle and sheep stations are
With the sky for my roof and the earth for my bunk
And a calico bag for my damper and my junk
And scarcely a comrade my memory reveals
The spirit still tingles in my toe and my heels

When my tent is all torn and my blankets are damp
And the fast rising waters flow down by the camp
And the cold water rises in jets from the floor
I lie in my bunk and listen to it roar
And I think of tomorrow how my footsteps will lag
As I tramp ‘neath the weight of a rain sodden swag

But I think of the honest old light in my home
When the stars hang in clusters like lamps in a dome
And I think of the hearth where the dark shadows fall
And the campfire I build in the wildest place of all
But I’m following my fate for I know she knows best
I follow she leads and it’s nor’west by west

Though the way of a swagman is mostly uphill
There are joys to be found on the wallaby still
When the day has gone by with its tramp and its toil
Your campfire you build and the billy you can boil
There’s comfort and peace in the bowl of you clay
Or the yarn of a mate who is tramping that way

But beware of the city where it’s poison for years
In the pleasure you find in drinking long beers
Where a bushman gets bushed in the streets of the town
Where he loses his friends when his cheques are knocked down
He’s right ‘til his pocket is empty and then
He must waltz his old bluey up the country again


From Dave De Hugard's 1970 album, Freedom on the Wallaby. The words are a slight variation on the original by Lawson (See the Mudcat discussion on this topic here).