Words: Unknown Tune: Unknown (Betting the Roll on Roma)
The old man sat on the tractor seat There was dust in his hair and grease on his feet And he said, "This job has got me beat" Trying to get a quid"
The pressure's low and the engine's hot The tracks are crook and the gears are shot, But this old bitch is all I got Trying to get a quid
He charged down the slope with a mighty roar He turned on the taps as he hit the floor And he made the other side, full bore Trying to get a quid
The scoop got snagged on a big white rock And he raved and cursed as he did his block, With the governor over the safety stop, Trying to get a quid
But he was insured for twenty grand, Which the company paid on his wife's demand, And she said as she took the cash in hand, "At last he's earned a quid"
The moral here is plainly seen Don't mess about with an old machine Or cover yourself with diesoline Trying to get a quid
Collected in 1972 by Ron Edwards from Harry Dawkins, an informant from Cairns, who in turn learnt it from a friend.
Now some shearing I have done, and some prizes I have won Through my knuckling down so close on the skin But I'd rather tomahawk every day and shear a flock For that's the only way I make some tin
Chorus I am just about to cut out for the Darling To turn a hundred out I know the plan Give me sufficient cash, and you'll see me make a splash For I'm Tomahawking Fred, the lady's man
Put me on a shearing floor, and it's there I'm game to bet That I'd give to any ringer ten sheep start When on the whipping side far away from them I slide Just like a bullet or a dart.
Of me you might have read for I'm Tomahawking Fred My shearing laurels are known both near and far I'm the don of Riverine, midst the shearers cut a shine And our tar-boys say I never call for tar
Wire in and go ahead, for I'm Tomahawking Fred In a shearing shed, my lads, I cut a shine There is Roberts and Jack Gunn, shearing laurels they have won But my tally's never under ninety-nine
A variant of a nineteenth century music hall song, Fashionable Fred (noted by Warren Fahey as from the Australian Melodist Songster).
The following notes to Gary Shearston's, The Springtime It Brings On The Shearing Volume 2, are by Edgar Waters: There was a London music-hall song about Fashionable Fred:
Yes, I'm just about the cut for Belgravia, To keep the proper pace I know the plan. Wire in and go ahead then, for Fashionable Fred, I'm Fashionable Fred, the ladies' man.
Some shearer took the tune, and re-wrote the words so that they told about Tomahawking Fred the shearer. He was called Tomahawking Fred because he cut sheep whilst shearing.
Jack Bradshaw, who called himself the Last of the Bushrangers, published the words of this song in one of his books about bushranging, in the 1930s. But it was only recently that collectors from the Folk Lore Society of Victoria found an old bushman, Harvey Games, who remembered the tune as it was used in the bush. He remembered only some of the words, so this version uses his tune and Jack Bradshaw's words.
knuckling down so close upon the skin - shearing the wool off so close to the skin. tomahawk - shear unskilfully, so as to cut the sheep. tin - money. the don of Riverine - recognised as a man of importance in the Riverina, a region of southern New South Wales.
The illustration for this post is from the 1872, “Gazette of Fashion and Cutting-Room Companion”, a tailoring trade journal published during the 19th century in London. [Google Books]
I am a squatter bold and free, A man of thews and sinews No stockman harder rides than me, Nor longer out continues
My fleecy coats are thousands ten, My horned heads, ten hundred, I and twenty shepherd men, From local life are sundered.
No church, shop, tavern near the place, No letter bag goes through it, No lovely woman's smiling face For I can't afford to do it.
From Ron Edwards, Big Book of Australian Folk Song with the following notes:
I AM A SQUATTER BOLD AND FREE does not appear to have been collected before, although a few northern bushmen, including Mick Ryan of Cooktown, can recall having heard in the early days, around the turn of the century. It was collected by Wendy Lowenstein and me from Stan Boyd of Cooktown on 27 November, 1969.
At the time of taping the tune, he recalled learning it as a small child in Coen, northern Queensland. The reference to shepherds in relation to sheep and cattle would suggest that the song dates from the 1850s or even earlier.
Me name is Bobby Ambelet, to Glasgow I belong, I've just stepped in among you all to sing to you a song I've travelled about the counteree to places of renown. But now I'm anchored hard and fast In the hut that's upside down.
REFRAIN: The cook he danced the Highland fling, Oh, laddie plays the lute; The little boy from Burraway, He played upon the flute. Scotty sings "The Mulberry Tree" And all dull care is flown, We're happy as larks out in the park, In the hut that's upside down.
The shearing, it has now begun, the machines are doing well, The little shears, they go "click-click", and the wool rolls off pell-mell, The tramway runs around the board, the boys are flying 'round, And the cook is lashing the brownie out, In the hut that's upside down.
At night we pass the hours away at euchre, nap and bluff, Some will rhyme to kill their time, while others blow their stuff, There was prime roast beef for dinner, and the duff was served around; We're getting as fat as poisoned pups In the hut that's upside down.
The other night I went to read and went to sleep quite sound, I thought the hut was all "a-jee" and I was on the ground, When I awoke to my surprise, the boys were standing round, And gave three cheers for Willie the cook, In the hut that's upside down.
From Authentic Australian Bush Ballads, edited by John Meredith and Alan Scott for the Bush Music Club.
Collected from Mary and Tom Byrnes and published with the following note:
A shearer's song composed at the time when machine shearing was first introduced. It gives a good description of life in the men's hut after the day's work was over.
The illustration to this post is a wood engraving, SHEARERS' HUT AT NIGHT TIME (December 26, 1884) from the State Library of Victoria collection.
Come all you jovial fellows and listen to me chums,
And I'll relate to you the story of two professional hums,
Who travelled England, Ireland; all over Scotland too,
And took an oath in Bendigo, no more work they would do.
No more work they would do boys, troll old army dough boys,
Humming a drink where 'ere we could, sing fol the righty-o,
For we are hums and jolly good chums, we live like Royal Turks,
And if we've luck we'll hum our cheques and shoot the man who works.
We asked a lady, the other day, for something for to eat,
A little bit of chicken or a little bit of meat,
A little bit of turkey or a little bit of ham,
A half-a-dozen loaves of bread and a bucket full of jam.
Or anything at all, Mam, for we're nearly starving,
Anything to help a poor joker on his way,
For we are hums and jolly good chums, we live like Royal Turks,
And if we've luck we'll hum our cheques and shoot the man who works.
A farmer asked me the other day, "If I would go to graft?"
Says I, "What is the work ?", says he, "A-cutting of some chaff"
Says I, "What is the payment?" - 'A dollar and a half's the sum"
Says I, "Why don't you go shoot yourself! For we would rather hum
Than work upon the harvest and let the cockles starve us."
Humming a drink where 'ere we go, singing fol the righty-o,
For we are hums and jolly good chums, we live like Royal Turks,
And if we've luck we'll hum our cheques and shoot the man who works.
So to conclude and finish, the remainder of my song,
The song that was proposed, me boys, by two professional hums.
Who travelled England, Ireland; all over Scotland too,
And took an oath in Bendigo, no more work they would do.
No more work they would do boys, troll old army dough boys,
Humming a drink where 'ere they could, sing fol the righty - o
For we are hums and jolly good chums, we live like Royal Turks,
And if we've luck we'll hum our cheques and shoot the man who works.
Warren Fahey collected this song from Harry Chaplin as well as a snippet of the same from Matron Williams, both from the Broken Hill area. Warren gives the following note with the lyrics:
Matron Williams knew a version of 'Three Jolly Lads Are We', which is a song that appeared in A B Paterson's 1905 collection of Old Bush Songs. The fact that I also collected a full text of the song from Harry Chaplin, also of Broken Hill, points to widespread popularity of the song in that particular district. The interesting aspect is that both versions differ considerably.
I've been unable to track down the original song in the version of Old Bush Songs to which I have access. Any help would be appreciated to round out this post.
Words: Unknown
Tune: Traditional Irish (The Bonny Irish Boy)
Come now, ye sighing washers all,
Join in my doleful lay,
Mourn for the times none can recall,
With hearts to grief a prey.
We’ll mourn the washer’s sad downfall
In our regretful strain,
Lamenting on the days gone by
Ne’er to return again.
When first I went a-washing sheep
The year was sixty-one,
The master was a worker then,
The servant was a man;
But now the squatters, puffed with pride,
They treat us with disdain;
Lament the days that are gone by
Ne’er to return again.
From sixty-one to sixty-six,
The bushman, stout and strong,
Would smoke his pipe and whistle his tune,
And sing his cheerful song,
As wanton as the kangaroo
That bounds across the plain.
Lament the days that are gone by
Ne’er to return again.
Supplies of food unstinted, good,
No squatter did withhold.
With plenty grog to cheer our hearts,
We feared nor heat nor cold.
With six-and-six per man per day
We sought not to complain.
Lament the days that are gone by
Ne’er to return again.
With perfect health, a mine of wealth,
Our days seemed short and sweet,
On pleasure bent our evenings spent,
Enjoyment was complete.
But now we toil from morn till night,
Though much against the grain,
Lamenting on the days gone by,
Ne’er to return again.
I once could boast two noble steeds,
To bear me on my way,
My good revolver in my belt,
I never knew dismay.
But lonely now I hump my drum
In sunshine and in rain,
Lamenting on the days gone by
Ne’er to return again.
A worthy cheque I always earned,
And spent it like a lord.
My dress a prince’s form would grace.
And spells I could afford.
But now in tattered rags arrayed,
My limbs they ache with pain,
Lamenting on the days gone by,
Ne’er to return again.
May bushmen all in unity
Combine with heart and hand,
May cursed cringing poverty
Be banished from the land.
In Queensland may prosperity
In regal glory reign,
And washers in the time to come
Their vanished rights regain.
From Paterson's Old Bush Songs, this complaint of declining conditions from the perspective of a dying industry.
These notes from Wikipedia:
Up until the 1870s squatters washed their sheep in nearby creeks prior to shearing.[4] Later some expensive hot water installations were constructed on some of the larger stations for the washing.[5] Sheep washing in Australia was influenced by the Saxony sheep breeders in Germany who washed their sheep and by the Spanish practice of washing the wool after shearing. There were three main reasons for the custom in Australia:
The English manufacturers demanded that Australian woolgrowers provide their fleeces free from vegetable matter, burrs, soil, etc.
The dirty fleeces were hard to shear and demanded that the metal blade shears be sharpened more often.
Wool in Australia was carted by bullock team or horse teams and charged by weight. Washed wool was lighter and did not cost as much to transport.
The practice of washing the wool rather than the sheep evolved from the fact that hotter water could be used to wash the wool, than that used to wash the sheep. When the practice of selling wool in the grease occurred in the 1890s, wool washing became obsolete.
The illustration to this post is a photograph of sheep-washing in the West Sussex village of Burnham around the turn of the twentieth century.
Come all young girls, both far and near and listen unto me
While unto you I do unfold what proved my destiny
My mother died when I was young, it caused me to deplore
And I did get my way too soon upon my native shore
Sarah Collins is my name most dreadful is my fate
My father reared me tenderly the truth I do relate
Till enticed by bad company along with many more
It led to my discovery upon my native shore
My trial it approached fast before the judge I stood
And when the judge's sentence passed it fairly chilled my blood
Crying you must be transported for fourteen years or more
And go from hence across the seas unto Van Diemen's shore
It hurt my heart when on a coach I my native town passed by
To see so many I did know it made me heave a sigh
Then to a ship was sent with speed along with many more
Whose aching hearts did grieve to go unto Van Diemen's shore
The sea was rough ran mountains high with us poor girls 'twas hard
No one but God to us came nigh no one did us regard
At length alas we reached the land it grieved us ten times more
That wretched place Van Diemen's Land far from our native shore
They chained us two by two and whipped and lashed along
They cut off our provisions if we did the least thing wrong
They march us in the burning sun until our feet are sore
So hard's our lot now we are got to Van Diemen's shore
We labour hard from morn to night until our bones do ache
Then every one they must obey their mouldy beds must make
We often wish when we lay down we ne'er may rise no more
To meet our savage Governor upon Van Diemen's shore
Every night when I lay down I wet my straw with tears
While wind upon that horrid shore did whistle in our ears
Those dreadful beasts upon that land around our cots do roar
Most dismal is our doom upon Van Diemen's shore
Come all young men and maidens do bad company forsake
If tongue can tell our overthrow it will make your heart to ache
Young girls I pray be ruled by me your wicked ways give o'er
For fear like us you spend your days upon Van Diemen's shore
Printed in Geoffrey C. Ingleton's True Patriots All , taken from the rare broadside in the Mitchell Library, Sydney. Nearly 25,000 women and girls were transported half to NSW and half to Van Diemen's Land. About half of them were from Ireland. The women were often transported with their children. This tune was collected by Lucy Broadwood in England with the song 'Van Dieman's Land'.
The illustration to this post is a painting by Augustus Earle (1793-1838), Female Penitentiary or Factory, Parramatta, Rex Nan Kivell Collection NK12/47, National Library of Australia.
