Words: Unknown Tune: Traditional (Pretty Polly Perkins)
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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
Big pot-shots for ever
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 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.
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".
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).
Words: Stuart Marshall Tune: Norbert Schulze (Lilli Marleen)
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.
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.
Words: Unknown (Javey) Tune: Traditional (The Wearing of the Green)
If you talk of locomotives and would like to know the star,
Step up here on the footplate for a trip to Waratah.
Oh, I drive the finest engine - I can prove the statement true,
They've neither man or engine equals me and Twenty - Two.
There's the four-wheeled coupled Fairburns, Numbers One, and Two, and Three,
They're as fleet as Flying Dutchmen, but they're weak as any flea:
For speed and strength and steaming, and likewise for running true,
There's a happy combination in old Number Twenty - Two.
Look at Billy Martin when he is running late,
A- ripping and a -whipping Doctor is his mate;.
Drive, Billy, drive, but no matter what you do
You couldn't hold a candle to old Number Twenty - Two.
There's Four, Five, Six and Seven, Number Eight and Number Nine,
They could all hook on behind me and I'd tow them up the line;
Ten, Eleven, Twelve and Thirteen - I can only name a few -
And I'd gladly do without them if they'd give me Twenty - Two.
There's the Thirties and the Forties, they are Beyer Peacock's make,
They're easy on the lever, they're handy with the brake,
With improvements and inventions, and with everything that's new;
But the bully engine of them all is Number Twenty - Two.
What's the use of Norman, bothering his pole,
Sighing and a crying about his oil and coal.
Drive Freddy drive, but no matter what you do
For economising fuel, you can't beat old Twenty - Two.
There's the bogies, Beyer and Peacocks, and some more by Dubs supplied,
And the new Mogul goods engines, with their cylinders outside,
With their air brakes and their steam brakes, give me the good old screw,
I can pull up in a jiffy, when I'm driving Twenty - Two.
There's Bill Gold and Jack McNulty, and there's Sam and Billy Brown,
Sure they blow about their Moonbies, and the gradients up and down.
There's Matt Coburn, Pierce and Saxon and the Murrurundi crew,
But they all play second fiddles, when I'm driving Twenty - Two.
Take a trip with Wrightson, Number thirty eight,
Always on the knocker, not a minute late.
Drive Geordie drive, but no matter what you do,
The darling of the Northern Line, is Number Twenty - Two.
There's Bill Neal and Tom his brother, Harry Wallace and old Nat
Matthews, Sanderson and Blundells, Stewart King and Billy Pratt
Oh they skite about their sheep trains and the work they have to do,
But I'd pull their loads and engines with old Number Twenty - Two.
There's Fred Bracey, Doug and Dedman, brother Tom and brother Dick,
Sure they talk of Micky Reynolds, 'til they'd make a fella sick,
Of expansion and combustion, they can prate 'til all is blue,
But when they want real science, they must come to Twenty - Two.
Cabby runs to Maitland, little seventeen,
Dancin' and a prancin', like a ballet queen.
Drive cabby drive, but no matter what you do,
You know you couldn't foot it, with old Number Twenty - Two.
There's Jim Massie and Jack Howden, Johnny Boyd and Harry Bell
There's the coal men and the goods men, half their names I couldn't tell,
But if you want a driver that is sure to pull you through,
Just ask for Thomas Plunkett and old Number Twenty - Two.
I can work the staff and ticket and keep time with any train,
I can pull the best amongst them and I'll tell you once again,
You may search the Northern Railway, you may search it through and through,
And the devil blast the engine, equals Number Twenty - Two.
Look at Billy Martin, doctor looking sour,
Ripping and a slipping, sixty miles an hour,
Drive Billy drive, but no matter what you do,
You know it's "Faugh a Ballagh",
When I'm out with Twenty - Two.
Published in The Locomotive Journal (Journal of the Australian Federated Union of Enginemen) in 1880 under the pen-name of "Javey" of Murrurundi.
Words: Keighley Goodchild Tune: Traditional (The Dreadnought)
I sing of a capting not unknown to fame;
A naval commander, Bill Jinks was his name,
Who sailed where the Murray’s clear waters do flow,
Did this freshwater shellback, with his Yeo heave a yeo.
(Derry down, down, down derry down)
To the Port of Wahgunyah his wessel was bound
When night comes upon him and darkness around;
Not a star on the waters its clear light did throw;
But the wessel sped onward with a Yeo heave a yeo.
“Oh! Capting, oh! Capting, let’s make for the shore,
For the winds they do rage and the winds they do roar!”
“Nay, nay,” said the capting, “though the fierce winds may blow
I will stick to my vessel with a Yeo heave a yeo.”
“Oh! Capting, oh! Capting, the waves sweep the deck,
Oh Capting, oh! Capting, we’ll soon be a wreck —
To the river’s deep bosom each seaman will go!”
But the capting laughed lightly, with his Yeo heave a yeo.
“Farewell to the maiding — the girl I adore;
Farewell to my friends — I shall see them no more!”
The crew shrieked in terror, the capting he swore —
They had stuck on a sandbank, so the men walked ashore.
From Ron Edward's Big Book of Australian Folk Songs, with the following note:
A NAUTICAL YARN was originally published in 1883 in a volume of poems "Who Are You" by Keighley Goodchild. Although it comes under Goodchild's name Ian Mudie in his book, "Riverboats" suggests that "-it is so different from the rest of Goodchild's work that it seems quite likely that he heard in on the riverboats or in the pubs of Echuca - and wrote it down as his own".
Goodchild gave the tune of the song as "The Dreadnought" but when it first appeared in print with the music attached, in the "Burl Ives Folio of Australian Songs" 1953, the tune used was "Villikins and his Dinah."
Edwards notes that this error has been carried on into other collections.
Tune: Traditional (When the Kye Comes Home)/arranged John Thompson
Come all ye wealthy brewers that make colonial ale, Let us mix the decoction that has such a ready sale: come hither with your drugs; hope and barley are too dear. And we'll mix the swipers up a dose of pure colonial beer.
Oh! the brewing of the beer, Oh! the brewing of the beer. Success to chemistry, and to the art of brewing beer.
First fill the vat with water, put some molasses in, With vitroil and opium we may just as well begin; Put in some camomile, it's a wholesome thing I hear And may counteract the 'bacco that we'll now put in the beer.
Put in some alum, salt, and ginger, now to make it nice And to pleasure the poor devils here's some grains of paradise; And don't spare the nux vomica, tho' strychnine is dear But we must use it to give a hoppy flavour to the beer.
Here is coculus indicus to make their heads go round, Here's quassia and here's multum too — don't be nice to a pound, Put nutgalls in to colour it, and potash too is clear, And to hinder it from scouring put some jalap in the beer.
Let the farmer feed his cattle and his poultry and his grain, We do not want his barley while we've fox-glove and herbane; Give us copperas, and wormwood, and hartshorn, and don't fear That lushingtons need ever go without colonial beer.
Oh! the brewing of the beer, Oh! the brewing of the beer. Success to chemistry, and to the art of brewing beer.
Warren Fahey has this one as from Sam Slick Magazine (October 1879), while Ron Edwards came across it in a Colonial Songster two years later.
While set to "When the Kye Comes Home", I've changed the tune slightly to taste.
A version appears on cloudstreet's 2010 album, The Circus of Desires.
The dogs all had a party They came from near and far And some dogs came by aeroplane And some by motor car And when they arrived Each one had a look And each had to take his arsehole off And hang it on a hook
And hardly were they seated there Each mother, son and sire, When a dirty little yellow dog Began to holler ´Fire!´ Out they rushed in panic They didn't stop to look Each dog he grabbed an arsehole From off the nearest hook
And that's the reason why you see On walking down the street Each dog will stop and swap a smell With every dog he meets And that's the reason why a dog Will leave a good fat bone To go and smell an arsehole In the hope it is its own
John Meredith's collected version, via Ron Edwards (the first verse and fragments of the rest being collected from Allan Miller of Mossman in 1972). A joke old enough to have developed many versions.
Ron notes that many of both his and John Meredith's informants claim Henry Lawson as the author, however there is no evidence that this is the case.
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)
Come all you wild and wicked youths wherever you may be, I pray you give attention and listen unto me, The fate of us poor transports as you shall understand The hardships we do undergo upon Van Diemen's Land.
CHORUS: Young men be aware Lest you fall into a snare.
My parents reared me tenderly, good learning gave to me, But bad companions did me spoil, which proved my destiny; In Lancashire I was bred, near Bolton town did dwell, My name it is young Henry, in Chorley known full well.
I and five more went one night into a squire's park, In expectation of some game- the night being very dark, But to our great misfortune they trepanned us with speed, And sent us off to Lancashire which made our hearts to bleed.
It was at the March assizes we then did repair, Like Job we stood with patience to hear our sentence there; There being some old offenders, which made our case go bad, My sentence was for fourteen years - I was quickly sent on board.
The ship that bore us from the land, the Speedwell was her name, For full five months and upwards, boys, we ploughed the foaming main, Neither land nor harbour could we see - believe me it is true All around us black water, above the sky of blue.
I often looked behind me towards my native shore That cottage of contentment that I never shall see more, Nor yet my own dear father who tore his hoary hair, Likewise my tender mother, the womb that did me bear.
On the fifteenth of September we soon did make the land, At four o'clock we went on shore, all chained hand to hand, To see our fellow-sufferers I felt I can't tell how - Some chained unto a barrow and others to a plough.
No shoes nor stocking they had on, no hat had they to wear, But a harden frock and linsey drawers - their feet and hands were bare. They chained them up two and two, like horses in a team; Their driver he stood over them with his Malacca cane.
We had a female servant, Rosanna was her name, For fourteen years a convict was, from Liverpool she came, We often told our tales of love when we were blest at home, Now we are rattling of our chains in a foreign land to roam.
Then I was marched off to Sydney town, with little more delay, Where a gentleman bought me his book-keeper to be; I took this occupation, my master liked me well, My joys were out of measure, more than my tongue can tell.
Described by Ron Edwards as "a little-known variant of the popular transportation ballad Van Diemen's Land" from a broadside at the Mitchell Library and set by Ron to "one of the most attractive of the Van Diemen's Land tunes".
We been leaving Mackay, Going to Bell Cay, eh For our work, our work, Last work this year now, eh. Last work, we go home, Last work, we go home, Back again, eh, For our home, our home far away, I won't come back any more, South, eh Last work, we go home, Last work, we go home, Back again, eh, For our home, our home far away, I won't come back any more, South, eh
From Ron Edwards Big Book of Australian Folk Song with the following notes:
LAST WORK WE GO HOME is a homesick cry from the trochus boats. It was sung to me by Mat. Savage, who learned it while working as a shell diver. The song tells of the final trip before the close of season after which the luggers will head north to Thursday Island and home, before the coming of the monsoons.
