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)

Bound For Darling Harbour

Merv Lilley



Northern Queensland is my home,
Fire away, fire away
Northern Queensland is my home,
We're bound for Darling Harbour
Fire away, fire away
Fire away, you stokehole crew
We're bound for Darling Harbour

Queensland mills are crushing now,
Raw sugar stacked up to the bow

Down that deep and gloomy hole
A thousand tons of Bowen coal

Coal burning ships have seen their day
Oil is here and come to stay

Our hearts are sad, our hearts are sore
To see old firemen left ashore

Our ships will sail inland one day
To float the nations goods away

Now fare you well and fare you well
A last farewell to the stokehole hell.


Published as "A new song to an old shanty tune" in Singabout, Volume 1, Number 1, Summer 1956.


The illustration to this post is from Bonzle.com and shows cargo being loaded in Townsville in 1910.

Colonial Experience

Words: Unknown
Tune: So Early in the Morning





When first I came to Sydney Cove
And up and down the streets did rove,
I thought such sights I ne’er did see
Since first I learnt my A, B, C.

Chorus

Oh! it’s broiling in the morning,
It’s toiling in the morning,
It’s broiling in the morning,
It’s toiling all day long.

Into the park I took a stroll—
I felt just like a buttered roll.
A pretty name “The Sunny South!”
A better one “The Land of Drouth!”

Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &c.

Next day into the bush I went,
On wild adventure I was bent,
Dame Nature’s wonders I’d explore,
All thought of danger would ignore.

Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &c.

The mosquitoes and bull-dog ants
Assailed me even through my pants.
It nearly took my breath away
To hear the jackass laugh so gay!

Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &c.

This lovely country, I’ve been told,
Abounds in silver and in gold.
You may pick it up all day,
Just as leaves in autumn lay!

Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &c.

Marines will chance this yarn believe,
But bluejackets you can’t deceive.
Such pretty stories will not fit,
Nor can I their truth admit.

Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &c.

Some say there’s lots of work to do.
Well, yes, but then, ’twixt me and you,
A man may toil and broil all day—
The big, fat man gets all the pay,

Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &c.

Mayhap such good things there may be,
But you may have them all, for me,
Instead of roaming foreign parts
I wish I’d studied the Fine Arts!

Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &c.



From Banjo Paterson's Old Bush Songs (1906).

The illustration to this post is from the National Library of Australia collection:

Moore, E. C. (Edward Charles)
[A new chum and a dirty man having a discussion] [picture]
[1854?]

The Jolly Puddlers

 

Charles Thatcher 

They want to stop our puddling as many of you know 

Contractors say that of our slush there is an overflow 

But if they stop us they'll be sure to injure Bendigo 

 CHORUS: 

Drive on my lads, heigho, wash on my lads, heigho 

For who can lead the life that we jolly puddlers do. 

These blessed road contractors are trying us to crush 

They say that they're impeded by our muddy dirty slush 

They want to make us knock off but they'll find it is no go 

Why have our escorts fallen off, the questions pray don't shirk 

'Tis because it's been so dry and our machines have had no work, 

'Tis puddling not quartz reefing now that keeps up Bendigo. 

If you crush the puddling interest and stay the puddler's hand, 

What becomes of your fine buildings here that on the township stand? 

The commerce of the this district then would sink down precious low. 

The winter soon is coming and our dams will then be full. 

We'll run the stuff through the machines and then we'll have a pull 

And it its pristine glory will shine forth Bendigo. 

The days of tub and cradle, alas, alas are past, 

An ounce to every tub of course, was far too good to last, 

But still we get a crust for now we wash the stuff below. 

When puddling ceases for all here 'twill be a bitter cup, 

Heffernan and Thatcher too may both of them dry up, 

And to some other diggings they both will have to go. 

From The Joy Durst Memorial Australian Song Collection, published by the Victorian Folk Music Club, 1980.

The illustration to this post is from the Victorian Department of Primary Industries website, with the following caption: 

A horse-driven puddling machine in Central Victoria in the 1880s. Horse puddlers processed four times more sludge than a hand puddler. They created havoc in the creeks of Central Victoria as the fine sludge they produced was the consistency of batter. This clogged up waterways, flooding towns and goldfields.

Mazlin's Mill

Words: Unkown

Tune: Traditional (Freedom's on the Wallaby)

Now I'm a bullock driver and I work for Mazlin's Mill
And pulling timber from Vine Creek I've nearly had my fill
And when the rain it comes at last, the roads they are like glue
It's dig her out, or double-bank to find the balance due

The cutters are no better off, at us they cannot grin
For when they get their timber cut they cannot get it in
And my advice to you my boys, please do not take it ill
Far better turn your bullocks out than work for Mazlin's Mill

Ron Edward's notes:

Mazlin's Mill was collected by John Meredith, and appeared in "Challenge" 10 February, 1954. According to Meredith's correspondent this particular Vine Creek is near Ravenshoe, N.Q., and the song dates from the thirties.

The tune is given as "Freedom on the Wallaby", (better known as "Australia's on the Wallaby").

The four Mazlin brothers were pioneer timbermen in the Atherton area of North Queensland, and the creek that runs through the town of Atherton is named after one of them.

Will Mazlin's timber mill was on Cedar Creek, Ravenshoe, and a recent informant tells me that Will may still be alive. When last heard of he was living in Brisbane. In "Folksongs of Australia" the title is given as MAZLIM"S MILL, but this is an error.

The illustration to this post is a photograph of the Mazlin Creek Bridge, Atherton.

No Man's Land.

Eric Bogle




Well, how'd you do, Private Willie McBride,
D'you mind if I sit down down here by your graveside?
I'll rest for awhile in the warm summer sun,
Been walking all day, Lord, and I'm nearly done.
I see by your gravestone you were only nineteen
When you joined the glorious fallen in 1916,
I hope you died quick and I hope you died "clean,"
Or, Willie McBride, was it slow and obscene?

CHORUS:
Did they beat the drum slowly, did they sound the fife lowly?
Did the rifles fire o'er ye as they lowered ye down?
Did the bugles sing "The Last Post" in chorus?
Did the pipes play the "Flowers O' The Forest"?

And did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind
In some faithful heart is your memory enshrined?
And, though you died back in 1916,
To that loyal heart are you forever nineteen?
Or are you a stranger, without even a name,
Forever enshrined behind some glass pane,
In an old photograph, torn and tattered and stained,
And fading to yellow in a brown leather frame?

Well, the sun's shining down on these green fields of France;
The warm wind blows gently, the red poppies dance.
The trenches have vanished long under the plow;
No gas and no barbed wire, no guns firing now.
But here in this graveyard it's still No Man's Land;
The countless white crosses in mute witness stand
To man's blind indifference to his fellow man.
And a whole generation who were butchered and damned.

And I can't help but wonder now, Willie McBride,
Do all those who lie here know why they died?
Did you really believe them when they told you "the cause?"
Did you really believe that this war would end wars?
Well the suffering, the sorrow, the glory, the shame,
The killing, the dying, it was all done in vain,
For Willie McBride, it's all happened again,
And again, and again, and again, and again.


One of Eric's best-known songs.

Last Work, We Go Home

Unknown



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.