Showing posts with label The Dying Stockman. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Dying Stockman. Show all posts

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

The Dying Fettler



Unknown




A strapping young fettler lay dying,
With a shovel supporting his head,
The ganger and crew round him crying,
And he let go his pick handle and said....

CHORUS::
Wrap me up in a tent or a fly, boys,
And bury me deep down below,
Where the trolley and trains won’t molest me,
To show there’s a navvy below.

There’s tea in the battered billy-can,
Place the dog spike out in a row,
And we’ll spike to the next merry meeting,
To show there’s a navvy below.

Hark! There’s the wail of a trolley,
Far, far away it seems clear,
It sounds like the inspector is coming
And hopes to see all of us here.

So, back to your shovels, my boy-lads,
And bed your backs with a will,
This inspector has no time of judgment,
But there’ll be a navvy who will.


Obviously a parody of The Dying Stockman. This one set to the more common tune for that song. I think the lyrics as collected are obviously incomplete.

You'll find this one in the collection of another great Mark Gregory site, Australian Railway Songs.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

The Dying Stockman


Words: Horace Flower
Tune: Unknown



A strapping young stockman lay dying
His saddle supporting his head
His two mates around him were crying
As he rose on his pillow and said

CHORUS:
Wrap me up with my stockwhip and blanket
And bury me deep down below
Where the dingoes and crows can't molest me
In the shade where the coolibahs grow

Oh had I the flight of the bronzewing
Far over the plains would I fly
Straight to the land of my childhood
And there I would lay down and die

Then cut down a couple of saplings
Place one at my head and my toe
Carve on them cross stockwhip and saddle
To show there's a stockman below

Hark there's the wail of a dingo
Watchful and weird--I must go
For it tolls the death-knell of the stockman
From the gloom of the scrub down below

There's tea in the battered old billy
Place the pannikins out in a row
And we'll drink to the next merry meeting
In the place where all good fellows go

And oft in the shades of the twilight
When the soft winds are whispering low
And the darkening shadows are falling
Sometimes think of the stockman below


From Mark Gregory's excellent, Australian Folk Songs site.