Showing posts with label The Stockman's Last Bed. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Stockman's Last Bed. Show all posts

Friday, September 16, 2011

The Stockman



Words: Unknown
Tune: Allan Cunningham (A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea)




A bright sun and a loosened rein,
A whip whose pealing sound
Rings forth amid the forest trees
As merrily forth we bound—
As merrily forth we bound, my boys,
And, by the dawn’s pale light,
Speed fearless on our horses true
From morn till starry night.

“Oh! for a tame and quiet herd,”
I hear some crawler cry;
But give to me the mountain mob
With the flash of their tameless eye—
With the flash of their tameless eye, my boys,
As down the rugged spur
Dash the wild children of the woods,
And the horse that mocks at fear.

There’s mischief in you wide-horned steer,
There’s danger in you cow;
Then mount, my merry horsemen all,
The wild mob’s bolting now—
The wild mob’s bolting now, my boys,
But ’twas never in their hides
To show the way to the well-trained nags
That are rattling by their sides.

Oh! ’tis jolly to follow the roving herd
Through the long, long summer day,
And camp at night by some lonely creek
When dies the golden ray.
Where the jackass laughs in the old gum tree,
And our quart-pot tea we sip;
The saddle was our childhood’s home,
Our heritage the whip.


This parody of Allan Cunningham's A Wet Sheet and A Flowing Sea is from Paterson's Old Bush Songs.



Allan Cunningham portrait by Henry Room (1840)

Thursday, February 24, 2011

The Stockman's Last Bed


Trad.



Be ye stockmen or no, to my story give ear.
Alas! for poor Jack, no more shall we hear
The crack of his stockwhip, his steed's lively trot,
His clear "Go ahead, boys," his jingling quart pot.

Chorus
For we laid him where wattles their sweet fragrance shed,
And the tall gum trees shadow the stockman's last bed.

Whilst drafting one day, he was horned by a cow.
"Alas!", cried poor Jack. "It's all up with me now!
For I never again shall my saddle regain,
Or bound like a wallaby over the plain."

His whip it is silent, his dogs, they do mourn;
His steed looks in vain for his master's return.
No friend to bemoan him, unheeded he dies.
Save Australia's dark sons no one knows where he lies.

Now, stockmen, if ever on some future day,
After the wild mob you happen to stray,
Ride softly the creek beds where trees make a shade,
For perhaps it's the spot where poor Jack's bones are laid.


From the Queensland Native Companion Songster (1865). Recorded by Burl Ives on his 1958 album, Australian Folk Songs.