A Pub Without Beer

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.

The Broken-Hearted Shearer

Unknown



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.

Peter Clarke

Words:  Unknown
Tune:  Traditional (Look Out Below)




On Walden's range at morning time
The sun shone brightly down;
It shone across the winding Page
Near Murrurundi town.

It glittered o'er the burning mount
Where murky shadows fell,
Across a path to travelers known,
To some, alas, too well.

There stands a simply block of stone
Erected as a mark
To show the spot where he fought and died,
The gallant Peter Clarke.

And if you will but listen a while,
To you I will relate
What happened there to Peter Clarke
And Jimmy Clarke, his mate.

They camped one night close by the range;
In songs the hours flew past,
And little did poor Peter think
That night would be his last.

At dawn they toiled the steep ascent,
They had scarcely reached the top
When a voice in accents stern and bold
Commanded them to stop.

"Hand up your money, watch, and chain,"
The robber sternly cried.
"Who takes my money takes my life,"
The angry Clarke replies.

Then laughed the robber loud in scorn
As he his pistol drew.
Said he, "My hand is firm and strong,
My aim is ever true.

"And he who would my word gainsay,
Though he be earl or knight,
I swear by all I sacred hold,
He'll ne'er see morning light.

"So give up your money now, my lad,
And do not idly rave;
Resist, and by the God above,
This night you'll fill the grave."

"These are but words, and idle words,"
The daring Clarke replied,
And with one rapid bound he strode
Close by the robber's side.

And now commenced the struggle
For life between them both;
One hand of Clarke's the pistol grasped
And the other grasped his throat.

Now haste you, haste you, Jimmy Clarke,
And seek for help in need.
Your comrade's welfare, nay, his life
Depends on your good speed.

But hark to that loud pistol shot
In a second rends the skies;
A human being on the sod
In his death struggle lies.

But still in his last dying gasp
Poor Peter seemed to say,
"Revenge, revenge for Peter Clarke,"
And so he passed away.

But the robber frightened by his deed
In terror now did lie;
For the hand of Clarke upon his throat
Grows tighter as he died.

And so indeed was Clarke avenged,
For God has set it so,
"Who takes a life must yield a life,"
And the murderer met his doom.


Reprinted in Singabout, Volume 6,  Number 1 in 1966 from the original 1955 publication in Speewah, journal of the Australian Folklore Society.  Printed with the following note:

It was collected from Mrs Gladys Scrivener who said:

"The story as I heard it was that Peter Clarke and Jimmy Clarke (who were not related) had camped on the banks of the Page River, and were attacked by an unidentified robber.  Peter Clarke made an effort to sieze the robber's gun while Jimmy Clarke sought help from the camp they had left.  When he returned, he found that Peter Clarke had been shot dead, but in dying, had not relaxed his hold on his assailant's throat and so had prevented him from escaping."

The illustration to this post is the cover of the 1959 Smithsonian Folkways album Australian Folksongs and Ballads by John Greenway.  The song was also recorded by Marian Henderson on a 1964 EP released through Pix magazine (with Don Burrows among the accompanists).

Concerning A Conscript's Death In Vietnam

Unknown



Come all you sons and daughters of this rich, wide land,
Lift up your voices and lift up your hands,
They are selling this country to America and then
They are sealing the bargain with conscripted men.

The first Australian conscript is barely one day dead
When HMAS Sydney goes sailing through the Heads
With four hundred more, four hundred more,
To murder and be murdered for the madmen who want war.

We did not know the dead man, we know he once drew breath,
We know nobody's freedom was paid for with his death,
And how many more, how many more,
Will murder and be murdered for the madmen who want war?

There's a man with a smile who sympathy extends
To all the grieving relatives and all the grieving friends,
In this nation's highest interest, he says this conscript died,
We are shamed by his death, we are shamed by the man who lied.


Anonymously contributed to Singabout, Volume 6, Number 1, 1966.


Errol Wayne Noack was the first Australian conscript to die in service in the Vietnam War.

Follow this link to the Adelaide Advertiser story reporting his death.

Dungenyul Song

Unknown



I met an old man called Rovrie
I was talking to him the other day
When I asked what was his opinion
To me these words he did say

"Now I'm just a common old swaggie
I wonder, like some people say,
But I like me grog and my dungenyul--
I guess I was brought up that way.

"Now beer is all froth and all bubble,
And whisky will make a man moan
And plonk's just another word for trouble
But the dungenyul is out on its own."


From Singabout, Volume 5, Number 2, October 1964, with the following note:

Dungenyul = methylated spirits

Collected by Barbara Gibbons from Chris Woodland who learnt it from Aboriginal friends in Bourke, N.S.W.


Though poisonous, methylated spirits is cheaper than drinking alcohol and so its misuse is not unknown.

Robbed Of All His Pay

Words: Alan Scott
Tune: Traditional



I've worked around this country at many a different trade,
But I cannot show a penny of the money I have made;
So if you'll pay attention, a song I'll sing to you,
About a young apprentice in nineteen-fify-two.

I started in a factory, 'twas early in the year,
But by the end of April some things were very clear --
The orders were all cancelled, the work was getting slack,
And so to cut expenses they gave five of us the sack.

As I was but a single man, it didn't worry me,
The married men were hardest hit, but the worst was yet to be,
An apprentice in his final year was robbed of all his pay,
Some dingo stole it from him in the dressing room that day.

The police came round next morning, and made an awful fuss,
And we were under notice so they thought 'twas one of us,
They didn't find who stole it but five men shared the blame,
I was glad that we were leaving, for I was filled with shame.

So listen all you people, don't steal a workmate's pay,
But if you want more money, there is another way,
If you back up your union, you'll get your just demands,
And thieving from the working man will vanish from the land.


From the Bush Music Club's Singabout, Volume 2, Number 4, May 1958.

The Border Fence

Unknown



I work on the border fence, a boundary rider's mission
And you should see the old Dodge and me when her engine starts a-missin'
I wind and crank all day, to get her on her way,
but the damned old thing, she needs new rings and valves ground all her way

And the station owners say, they can get no sleep
Instead they're chasing dingoes that are killing lots of sheep
They brag about the holes they find, where the dogs just gallop through
Then go to report to the Sydney heads and half of its not true

You get no flaming meat, depend on myxo rabbits
A knagaroo, a g'lah or two, or a snake if you can grab it.
But we are paid so well, or that what the big boys think.
But they way they treat the border boys, I reckon that the whole show stinks.

You'll never keep the dingo out, it's fifty that I'm betting
For every time he strikes a fence he'll pull and chew the netting
Until he makes a hole to squeeze his carcass through
Then he howls all night in New South Wales, "I've got the best of you"

Mister Commissioner you're the trump of the Western lands
Supply the boys a four wheel drive to pull through the drifting sands
An extra 44 each month, a quid or two more pay
We'd feel relief, and banish grief and work like mad each day.


Another from the October 1964 edition of Singabout:

This song was collected by Glen Hamilton from an unknown person who was born in 1927. He has wandered about the bush, droving, fencing, wood-cutting, tank sinking etc, and first started to write songs when his girl friend shot-off with his best mate. This is sung to a tune popular a few years ago, "She Wore Red Feathers And A Hula-Hula Skirt".

The illustration to this post is Lionel Lindsay's The Border Rider's Home.