Ballad of the Schooner "Eclipse"

John Dengate



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 Battle of Castle Hill

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



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.

The TAB Punters' Song

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




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.

Bare-Legged Kate

Words:  John Dengate
Tune: Bare legged Joe




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."      


   

The Meat Pie Song

Words: John Dengate (?)
Tune: Traditional (All Among the Wool)



When i was just a little lad
I was silly as can be
My old man calls me up to him, this he says to me.
If you want the light of wisdom to glisten in your eyes
You'll have to cheer for toohey's beer and eat meat pies


CHORUS:
All among the gravy
All among the crust
Show a little faith, boys
Show a little trust
I can eat a respectable tally myself, whenever I likes to try
I'm known from here to Blacktown as the Big Ben pie.


Well I've eat 'em up the middle when the centre starts to sag
I've washed 'em down with Resch's and with cans of Toohey's Flag
Oh cast your eyes upon my strides, you still can see the stains
Pass me the tomato sauce, here we go again.


Well I've 'em freezing cold and I've had 'em boiling hot
I've had 'em at the cricket ground, sitting on my blot
I've waved my pie in triumph when the tigers led to nil
And I've thrown them at the coppers on the scoreboard hill


A beauty from the singing of Declan Affley on the 1981 double album, While the Billy Boils - A Panorama of Australian Folklore.

The illustration to this post is meant to show the singular significance of the pie in Australian culture. It's very pie-ness defines us and alone is able to satisfy our hunger for cultural and culinary fulfilment. We like pies.

The Randwick Races

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.

The Terrorist Song

Words: John Dengate
Tune: Trad (The Knickerbocker Line)




As I was walking down the road, he suddenly appeared:
A bloody turbaned Moslem with a big Bin Laden beard;
I asked, "Are you a terrorist, is that your bloody lurk?"
He said, "No, I'm a carpenter, I'm on my way to work."

CHORUS:
I watched him, tracked him, rang up A.S.I.O.
I dobbed him into Alan Jones on talk-back radio.
I may not be a beauty and I don't have any sense
But, by God, I know my duty to the national defence!

They're going to bomb the Harbour Bridge then quiet as a mouse,
They'll sneak up with explosives and blow up the Opera House.
They're going to blow up Murphy's pub. I've heard about the plot…
I hope they get the pokies 'cause I'm losing quite a lot.

There's terrorism everywhere; it makes a man afraid…
I’m buying a machine gun and I'll build a barricade.
You'll have to know the password if you come and visit me.
Shoot first, ask questions later mate, that's my philosophy.

My Aunty May's eccentric; "You’re paranoid," she said.
She doesn't believe the terrorists are underneath the bed.
She reckons it's "hysteria"… I don’t know what she meant…
She said she’s far more frightened of the Federal Government.

John Howard will protect us, he is very strong and brave;
He's passing legislation that will make you all behave!
You won't be facing Mecca on that silly bloody mat
You'll all be Church of England, Abdul, cogitate on that!

Final Chorus
Watch them, track them…


Another parody from the wonderful pen of John Dengate.

The Answer's Ireland

John Dengate





Who gave Australia the tunes to sing, the tunes of songs so grand?
Songs to inspire, full of beauty and fire – the answer's Ireland.
Know when you sing of Jack Donahue, that he was a Dublin man
And Dennis O'Reilly is travelling still with a blackthorn in his hand.

Who raised a ruckus at Castle Hill, who there defied the crown?
'Twas the same rebel boys who in '98 'gainst odds would not lie down.
Oh, but they made Samuel Marsden fret and ruffled silver tails,
Why, the words "Croppy Pike" were enough to strike fear into New South Wales.

Who agitated at Ballarat for Joe Latrobe's death knell?
Who was it raised up the five-starred flag and damned the traps to hell?
Who was it gathered beneath that flag, where solemn oaths were sworn?
Who would not run from the redcoats' guns, upon Eureka morn?

Ned Kelly's dad was an Irish lad, the Kellys all died game.
Brave Michael Dwyer's bones are buried here, we'll not forget that name.
Who could resist Larry Foley's fist, and Foley wore the green.
Who led the anti-conscription ranks in 1917?


Today's song is in honour of St Patrick's Day.

NOTES FROM MUDCAT(contributed by "Simon"):

John Dengate is well-known in local Irish and folk music circles for his witty (often satirical) songs and poems, having had a lengthy history in those areas.

For those who don't know, John ('Bold Jack') Donohue (1806 – 1830) was a bushranger in the Sydney region until he was shot by police. (One version of The Wild Colonial Boy uses his name.) Dennis O'Reilly is the subject of an eponymous song by and about early Irish settlers in Australia.The second verse refers to the involvement in the convict uprising of 1804 of Irish transportees who had earlier taken part in the 1798 Rising in Ireland. The latter were called 'Croppies' by their enemies
and both groups often had only pikes for weapons – just long blades attached to poles.

The Rev. Samuel Marsden was a wealthy landowner and magistrate at Parramatta when our Battle of Vinegar Hill took place, known and feared as 'the Flogging Parson'.

Charles Joseph Latrobe was Governor of Victoria during the Eureka Stockade confrontation of 1854, of which no more should need to be said.

The reference to Michael Dwyer (1722? – 1825) is of interest, as he was a leader of the 1798 Rising whom the British were unable to capture until he surrendered on his own terms. He and his family were sent to Sydney in 1806 and were received 100 acres of uncleared land in the Liverpool region. Dwyer and his wife are buried under the Irish Monument at Waverly Cemetery, the building of which commenced in 1898 to commemorate the Rising.

Laurence Foley (1849 – 1917) was a professional boxer who never lost a fight and retired at the age of 32 with sufficient prize money to open a hotel and a boxing academy in Sydney. As far as we can determine, his only Green credentials came from being the leader of a Catholic 'larrikin' gang in Inner Sydney as a young man. In 1871, he fought his Protestant (Orange) counterpart, Sandy Owens, in a street for 71 rounds before the police intervened – Foley was considered the likely winner.
Lastly, attempts to introduce conscription during World War I were fiercely opposed by many groups, not least by those of Irish extraction whose priority it was to complete the work of the 1916 Easter Rising rather than to go to war 'for King and Country'.

I Can't Abide

Trad/John Dengate




I can't abide the government's front bench, send them away to the Germans or the French
I can't abide Costello's shallow sneer - won't someone make the bastard disappear?

I can't abide that bloody awful Kemp, bring back the gallows, the hangman and the hemp
Take Peter Reith and dump him in the tide. Him I particularly can't abide

Poor little John deserves our sympathy, born neath the star of mediocrity
Pat his wee head and send him off to bed, then hide the key lest he abide with me

I can't abide the government's ministry, Senator Vanstone's worse than dysentry
Send her away without the least delay - dont pour the tea lest she abide with me

Sink them the swine, an iceberg would be fine. Far, far away in distant Hudson Bay
As they go down they'll warble while they drown, flat and off-key, they'll be despised by me

I can't abide the government's front bench, send them away to the Germans or the French
Take Peter Reith and dump him in the tide. Him I particularly can't abide


A great bit of political satire by John Dengate. Written during the fiercely divisive Australian waterfront dispute in 1998, between Patrick Stevedores and the Maritime Union of Australia. You'll find a review of events from one perspective in Tom Bramble'sWar on the Waterfront published by the Brisbane Defend Our Unions Committee.

Cast of characters:

"Poor little John" - John Howard (Prime Minister)
Peter Costello (Treasurer)
Peter Reith (Industrial Relations Minister)
David Kemp (Education Minister)
Amanda Vanstone (Employment Minister)

Bill From Erskineville

By John Dengate



I'm pleased to meet you, my name's Bill,
I'm working in a factory in Erskinville.
You have to crawl and conditions are a crime
But you get a few dollars worth of overtime.
Hooray, ain't life grand;
I'm saving the deposit on a block of land.

I met a young fellow selling real estate -
He's running from the coppers in another state.
And he's the friend of a generous gent
Who's lending money at twenty percent.
Hooray, life's a lark;
I'm swimmin' in the water with a finance shark.

I had a couple of dollars on a short-priced horse
Running in a welter on the Rosehill course
But too much weight and too little pace
And the bugger finished twelfth in a twelve-horse race.
Hooray, faithful nag;
Ferryin' the money to the bookie's bag.

I had a little flutter on the poker machines
And I won a dollar forty when it paid three Queens,
So I chases the aces around the wheels
Now I can't afford the money for to pay for meals.
Hooray, feed the slot;
Haul upon the handle till you lose the lot.

Lottery tickets have me up shit creek;
I was twenty off a five-dollar prize last week.
The tyres on my car are all worn through
And the registration's overdue.
Hooray, hip-hurrah
For a worn-out, second-hand Holden car.

I said to my wife, "We've reached the stage
Where we cannot manage on a single wage."
Now she pulls beer in the pub saloon
And the kids run wild in the afternoon.
Hooray, name your brand,
I'm drinkin' the deposit for a block of land.

I'm pleased to meet you, my name's Bill
I'm working in a factory in Erskineville


Used with the kind permission of the author. John recalls writing this song in 1972 or 1973, when it won a song-writing competition run by the Newcastle Trades and Labour Council. A well-known identity on the Australian folk scene, John continues to write and to busk around Sydney. The National Library of Australia holds some great recordings of both his songs and biographical interviews (link). I learnt this one from the singing of Glen Donald.