Waltzing Matilda

Words:  Andrew Barton (Banjo) Paterson
Tune:  A variation on Thou Bonnie Wood of Craigielea by Robert Barr (1770-1836)





Oh, there once was a swagman camped in the billabong,
Under the shade of a coolibah tree,
And he sang as he looked at the old billy boiling,
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?

(Chorus:) Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda my darling,
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?
Waltzing Matilda and leading a waterbag,
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?

Down came the jumbuck to drink at the water-hole,
Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him with glee,
And he sang as he put him away in his tucker-bag,
You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.

Up came the Squatter a-riding his thoroughbred,
Up came Policemen - one, two and three,
Whose is that jumbuck you've got in the tucker-bag?
You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.

The swagman he up and he jumped in the water-hole,
Drowning himself by the coolibah tree,
And his ghost may be heard as it sings by the billabong,
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?




Australia's best known song has a rich history.  Written in 1895 by Banjo Paterson it has been adopted and adapted many times.  Dennis O'Keeffe's Waltzing Matilda site is a great place to start the journey of research into this fascinating subject.


I've printed the original lyrics above.  Observant listeners will note that the version sung here varies a little from the original.  These variations represent both the folk process and the varying ways in which this song is learnt by school-children around Australia.  (Any timing variations are my responsibility as conductor).  The suggestion at the very end of the recording came from James Rigby.


This recording was made on Friday, 20 January, 2012 at the Celtic Southern Cross Summer School in Victoria and was sung by all the attendees at the school.  I thank them all for their support and their contribution to the blog.  The illustration to this post is a photograph of the group by Phil Green.

The Billy-Goat Overland

Words: Banjo Paterson Tune: 
Traditional (The Lincolnshire Poacher)






Come all ye lads of the droving days, ye gentlemen unafraid,
I'll tell you all of the greatest trip that ever a drover made,
For we rolled our swags, and we packed our bags, and taking our lives in hand,
We started away with a thousand goats, on the billy-goat overland.


There wasn't a fence that'd hold the mob, or keep 'em from their desires;
They skipped along the top of the posts and cake-walked on the wires.
And where the lanes had been stripped of grass and the paddocks were nice and green,
The goats they travelled outside the lanes and we rode in between.


The squatters started to drive them back, but that was no good at all,
Their horses ran for the lick of their lives from the scent that was like a wall:
And never a dog had pluck or gall in front of the mob to stand
And face the charge of a thousand goats on the billy-goat overland.


We found we were hundreds over strength when we counted out the mob;
And they put us in jail for a crowd of theives that travelled to steal and rob:
For every goat between here and Bourke, when he scented our spicy band,
Had left his home and his work to join in the billy-goat overland.




The illustration to this post is the copy of the 1933 edition of Paterson's collection from which this poem comes, The Animals Noah Forgot.

John Gilbert

Words:  Unknown
Tune:  Unknown (Four and Twenty Blackbirds Baked in a Pie)



John Gilbert was a bushranger of terrible renown,
For sticking lots of people up and shooting others down.
John Gilbert said unto his pals, “Although they make a bobbery
About our tricks we have never done a tip-top thing in robbery.

“We have all of us a fancy for experiments in pillage,
Yet never have we seized a town, or even sacked a village.”
John Gilbert said unto his mates—“Though partners we have been
In all rascality, yet we no festal day have seen.”

John Gilbert said he thought he saw no obstacle to hinder a
Piratical descent upon the town of Canowindra.
So into Canowindra town rode Gilbert and his men,
And all the Canowindra folk subsided there and then.

The Canowindra populace cried, “Here’s a lot of strangers!!!”
But immediately recovered when they found they were bushrangers.
And Johnny Gilbert said to them, “You need not be afraid.
We are only old companions whom bushrangers you have made.”

And Johnny Gilbert said, said he, “We’ll never hurt a hair
Of men who bravely recognise that we are just all there.”
The New South Welshmen said at once, not making any fuss,
That Johnny Gilbert, after all, was “Just but one of us.”

So Johnny Gilbert took the town (including public houses),
And treated all the “cockatoos” and shouted for their spouses.
And Miss O’Flanagan performed in manner quite gintailly
Upon the grand planner for the bushranger O’Meally.

And every stranger passing by they took, and when they got him
They robbed him of his money and occasionally shot him.
And Johnny’s enigmatic feat admits of this solution,
That bushranging in New South Wales is a favoured institution.

So Johnny Gilbert ne’er allows an anxious thought to fetch him,
For well he knows the Government don’t really want to ketch him.
And if such practices should be to New South Welshmen dear,
With not the least demurring word ought we to interfere.


Another from Paterson's Old Bush Songs.  A strange song with some spectacular rhymes (I apologise for the butchering of "Canowindra" that this song requires).

Strangely this song focusses on the occupation of Canowindra by Ben Hall's gang but places John Gilbert at the centre of the action.

Waltzing Matilda (Queensland Version)

Words:  Banjo Paterson



Oh there once was a swagman camped in the billabongs,
  Under the shade of a Coolibah tree;
And he sang as he looked at the old billy boiling
  "Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me."

  Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling.
    Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
  Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag.
    Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.

Up came the jumbuck to drink at the waterhole,
Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him with glee;
And he sang as he put him away in his tucker-bag,
"Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me."

Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.

Up came the squatter a-riding his thoroughbred;
Up came the policeman - one, two, and three.
"Whose is the jumbuck you've got in the tucker-bag?
You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with we."

Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.

Up sprang the swagman and jumped into the waterhole,
Drowning himself by the Coolibah tree;
And his voice can be heard as it sings in the billabongs,
"Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me."

Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.

The Queensland version of this great song.

Loads of information exists on the web surrounding this song.  A decent starting point is this National Library of Australia site: Who'll Come A'Waltzing Matilda With Me?  The notes on this version (The Buderim Variant) include the following:

The Buderim tune was collected from an oral source by John Manifold in 1955 and discussed in Who Wrote the Ballads: Notes on Australian Folksong and included in Manifold's 1964 The Penguin Australian Song Book. Manifold's informant was John O'Neill from Buderim in south-east Queensland, thus lending the names ‘Buderim’ or ‘O'Neill’ to this variant of the Queensland version. This tune seems to have been widely disseminated not long after ‘Waltzing Matilda’ had become well known in the Winton district. O'Neill remembered his father singing this version when he was a boy under ten years old.

After his contact with Manifold, O'Neill also handed down the tune to a Mrs Joy Durst, who played in the Melbourne Billabong Band in 1956 (Harry Pearce Papers, NLA MS2765 Box 13). From there it passed into the hands of other folk revival bands and took on a new performance life. During the folk revival this tune more generally became known as the ‘Queensland version’.

There is of course an extensive discussion of this one on Mudcat.


And now is as good a time as any to include my favourite version of the alternative (and better known tune).  This from Ali Mills:

Hawking

Words:  Anonymous
Tune:  Traditional (Bow, Wow, Wow)



Now, shut your mouths, you loafers all,
You vex me with your twaddle,
You own a nag or big or small,
A bridle and a saddle;
I you advise at once be wise
And waste no time in talking,
Procure some bags of damaged rags
And make your fortune hawking.

CHORUS
Hawk, hawk, hawk.
Our bread to win, we’ll all begin
To hawk, hawk, hawk.

The stockmen and the bushmen and
The shepherds leave the station,
And the hardy bullock-punchers throw
Aside their occupation;
While some have horses, some have drays,
And some on foot are stalking;
We surely must conclude it pays
When all are going hawking.

A life it is so full of bliss
’Twould suit the very niggers,
And lads I know a-hawking go
Who scarce can make the figures
But penmanship’s no requisite,
Keep matters square by chalking
With pencil or with ruddle, that’s
Exact enough for hawking.

The hawker’s gay for half the day,
While others work he’s spelling,
Though he may stay upon the way,
His purse is always swelling;
With work his back is never bent
His hardest toil is talking;
Three hundred is the rate per cent.
Of profit when a-hawking.

Since pedlaring yields more delight
Than ever digging gold did,
And since to fortune’s envied height
The path I have unfolded,
We’ll fling our moleskins to the dogs
And don tweeds without joking,
And honest men as well as rogues
We’ll scour the country hawking.


Another from Banjo Paterson's Old Bush Songs.

The Stockmen of Australia

Words: Unknown
Tune: Traditional (The British Grenadiers)



The stockmen of Australia, what rowdy boys are they,
They will curse and swear a hurricane if you come in their way.
They dash along the forest on black, bay, brown, or grey,
And the stockmen of Australia, hard-riding boys are they.

By constant feats of horsemanship, they procure for us our grub,
And supply us with the fattest beef by hard work in the scrub.
To muster up the cattle they cease not night nor day,
And the stockmen of Australia, hard-riding boys are they.

Just mark him as he jogs along, his stockwhip on his knee,
His white mole pants and polished boots and jaunty cabbage-tree.
His horsey-pattern Crimean shirt of colours bright and gay,
And the stockmen of Australia, what dressy boys are they.

If you should chance to lose yourself and drop upon his camp,
He's there reclining on the ground, be it dry or be it damp.
He'll give you hearty welcome, and a stunning pot of tea,
For the stockmen of Australia, good-natured boys are they.

If down to Sydney you should go, and there a stockman meet,
Remark the sly looks cast on him as he roams through the street.
From the shade of lovely bonnets steal forth those glances gay,
For the stockmen of Australia, the ladies' pets are they.

Whatever fun is going on, the stockman will be there,
Be it theatre or concert, or dance or fancy fair.
To join in the amusements be sure he won't delay,
For the stockmen of Australia, light-hearted boys are they.

Then here's a health to every lass, and let the toast go round,
To as jolly a set of fellows as ever yet were found.
And all good luck be with them, for ever and to-day,
Here's to the stockmen of Australia-hip, hip, hooray!


This jaunty number is another from Banjo Paterson's Old Bush Songs, coupled with the tune of The British Grenadiers by the inimitable Warren Fahey.

The Stringybark Cockatoo

Unknown



I’m a broken-hearted miner, who loves his cup to drain,
Which often times has caused me to lie in frost and rain.
Roaming about the country, looking for some work to do,
I got a job of reaping off a stringy-bark cockatoo.


CHORUS:
Oh, the stringy-bark cockatoo,
Oh, the stringy-bark cockatoo,
I got a job of reaping off a stringy-bark cockatoo.

Ten bob an acre was his price—with promise of fairish board.
He said his crops were very light, ’twas all he could afford.
He drove me out in a bullock dray, and his piggery met my view.
Oh, the pigs and geese were in the wheat of the stringy-bark cockatoo.


The hut was made of the surface mud, the roof of a reedy thatch.
The doors and windows open flew without a bolt or latch.
The pigs and geese were in the hut, the hen on the table flew,
And she laid an egg in the old tin plate for the stringy-bark cockatoo.


For breakfast we had pollard, boys, it tasted like cobbler’s paste.
To help it down we had to eat brown bread with vinegar taste.
The tea was made of the native hops, which out on the ranges grew;
’Twas sweetened with honey bees and wax for the stringy-bark cockatoo.


For dinner we had goanna hash, we thought it mighty hard;
They wouldn’t give us butter, so we forced down bread and lard.
Quondong duff, paddy-melon pie, and wallaby Irish stew
We used to eat while reaping for the stringy-bark cockatoo.


When we started to cut the rust and smut was just beginning to shed,
And all we had to sleep on was a dog and sheep-skin bed.
The bugs and fleas tormented me, they made me scratch and screw;
I lost my rest while reaping for the stringy-bark cockatoo.


At night when work was over I’d nurse the youngest child,
And when I’d say a joking word, the mother would laugh and smile.
The old cocky, he grew jealous, and he thumped me black and blue,
And he drove me off without a rap—the stringy-bark cockatoo.



From Old Bush Songs where Paterson notes:

"...“The Stringy-bark Cockatoo,” though rough in style and versification, is a splendid hit at the new squireens. A “cockatoo,” it should be explained, is a small settler, and the stringy-bark tree is an unfailing sign of poor land; and the minstrel was much worse treated when working for “The Stringy-bark Cockatoo” than when he was a “Squatter’s man.”

The Wallaby Brigade

Words: Unknown
Tune: George Frederick Root (Tramp, Tramp, Tramp)



You often have been told of regiments brave and bold,
But we are the bravest in the land;
We’re called the Tag-rag Band, and we rally in Queensland,
We are members of the Wallaby Brigade.

Chorus

Tramp, tramp, tramp across the borders,
The swagmen are rolling up, I see.
When the shearing’s at an end we’ll go fishing in a bend.
Then hurrah! for the Wallaby Brigade.

When you are leaving camp, you must ask some brother tramp
If there are any jobs to be had,
Or what sort of a shop that station is to stop
For a member of the Wallaby Brigade.

Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &c.

You ask me if they want men, you ask for rations then,
If they don’t stump up a warning should be made;
To teach them better sense—why, “Set fire to their fence”
Is the war cry of the Wallaby Brigade.

Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &c.

The squatters thought us done when they fenced in all their
run,
But a prettier mistake they never made;
You’ve only to sport your dover and knock a monkey over—
There’s cheap mutton for the Wallaby Brigade.

Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &c.

Now when the shearing’s in our harvest will begin,
Our swags for a spell down will be laid;
But when our cheques are drank we will join the Tag-rag
rank,
Limeburners in the Wallaby Brigade.

Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &c.


To knock a monkey over is to kill a sheep, monkey being
slang for sheep in many parts of the bush.


Note and lyrics from Paterson's Old Bush Songs.

Another parody of Root's Tramp, Tramp, Tramp, the original being published in 1864.

The illustration to this post is a drawing entitled On A Hungry Track by Frank Mahoney with the caption:

Mutton, mutton everywhere
And not a bite to eat!

My Religion

Words: Unkown
Tune: John Thompson




Let Romanists all at the Confessional kneel,
Let the Jew with disgust turn from it,
Let the mighty Crown Prelate in Church pander zeal,
Let the Mussulman worship Mahomet.

From all these I differ—truly wise is my plan,
With my doctrine, perhaps, you’ll agree,
To be upright and downright and act like a man,
That’s the religion for me.

I will go to no Church and to no house of Prayer
To see a white shirt on a preacher.
And in no Courthouse on a book will I swear
To injure a poor fellow-creature.

For parsons and preachers are all a mere joke,
Their hands must be greased by a fee;
But with the poor toiler to share your last “toke”*
That’s the religion for me.

[Footnote: “Toke” is a slang word for bread.]

Let Psalm-singing Churchmen and Lutheran sing,
They can’t deceive God with their blarney;
They might just as well dance the Highland Fling,
Or sing the fair fame of Kate Kearney.

But let man unto man like brethren act,
My doctrine this suits to a T,
The heart that can feel for the woes of another,
Oh, that’s the religion for me.


Another from Banjo Paterson's Old Bush Songs.

The illustration to this post is a photograph of the Uniting Church at Aitkenvale in Townsville in the 1920s.

Tomorrow I'm Losing My Darling.

Words: Unknown
Tune: Samuel Lover (Rory O'More)



I'm very unhappy, tho' nothing I've done.
I'll tell you the cause of my sorrow;
To-morrow my darling is leaving the run,
She goes from the station to-morrow.
The missus and she had a bit of a row
About something or other this morning;
The missus she started abusing her so,
My darling at last gave her warning.


CHORUS
Oh, bother the missus, and bother her tongue,
And bother her snapping and snarling;
Through wagging her jaws, without any cause,
To-morrow I'm losing my darling.

She went in the kitchen and kicked up a row,
She said that my darling was lazy;
My poor little darling had nothing to say —
She thought that the missus was crazy.
'Tis jealousy, boys, was the cause of it all,
For my darling had done well her duty;
The missus, confound her, is scraggy and tall,
My darling a plump little beauty.


I went in the office and picked up a book,
And sadly was turning the pages,
When the missus came in, and said she, with a look,
"Pay up this young woman her wages."
"It cannot be done, ma'am," said I with a grin,
"Your husband his cheque-book has taken:"
To tell an untruth was not much of a sin,
Especially when your heart is aching.



The boss is expected home by the next mail,
And the missus, confound her and dang her,
Of course with her husband is sure to prevail;
What woman would not in her anger?
My darling is packing as fast as she can,
She vows she will go in the morning,
Was ever a man tormented as I am?
My heart will seek solace in mourning.


Collected by Paterson in Old Bush Songs.

The origin of the tune is far removed from this tale of a lover's frustration. These notes from The Fiddler's Companion:

Colonel Roger “Rory” O’More (c. 1620-1655) was a minor Irish noble and the titular King of Laois, who rose to fame as the scourge of the English during the reign of Charles I. The jig was composed by Samuel Lover and became the "hit tune" of 1837. Although initially a dance tune (a popular Scottish country dance is called "Rory O'More"), it was absorbed as a common march in the Victorian era British army and can be found in martial manuscript books dating from the 1850's (Winscott). “Rory O’More” also appears in English fiddler’s manuscripts from the same era (see Ellis Knowles and Joshua Gibbons, referenced below). The melody was picked up by morris dancers from the village of Adderbury, Oxfordshire, in England's Cotswolds and used as a rural dance vehicle sometimes called by morris musicians as “Haste to the Wedding” and played in the key of ‘F’.

The Bushman

Words: Unknown
Tune: Traditional (The Wearing of the Green)



When the merchant lies down, he can scarce go to sleep
For thinking of his merchandise upon the fatal deep;
His ships may be cast away or taken in a war,
So him alone we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are.

Chorus: Who true bushmen are,
Who true bushmen are,
So him alone we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are!

When the soldier lies down, his mind is full of thought
O’er seeking that promotion which so long he has sought;
He fain would gain repose for mortal wound or scar,
So him also we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are.

Chorus: Who true bushmen are, &c.

When the sailor lies down, his mind he must prepare
To rouse out in a minute if the wind should prove unfair.
His voyage may be stopped for the want of a spar,
So him also we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are.

Chorus: Who true bushmen are, &c.

When the bushman lies down, his mind is free from care,
He knows his stock will furnish him with meat, wear and tear.
Should all commerce be ended in the event of a war,
Then bread and beef won’t fail us boys, who true bushmen are.

Chorus: Who true bushmen are, &c.

Then fill, fill your glasses, a toast I’ll give you, then,
To you who call yourselves true-hearted men.
Here’s a health to the soldier and e’en the jolly tar,
And may they always meet as good friends as we bushmen are.

Chorus: Who true bushmen are,
Who true bushmen are,

And may they always meet as good friends as we bushmen are.


From Paterson's Old Bush Songs


The illustration to this post is by Edgar May (1867-1920) from the National Library of Australia collection.

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)

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 Sheep-Washers Lament

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.

River Bend

Words: Unknown
Tune: J. H. McNaughton

At River Bend, in New South Wales,
All alone among the whales,
Busting up some post and rails,
Sweet Belle Mahone.
In the blazing sun we stand,
Cabbage-tree hat, black velvet band,
Moleskins stiff with sweat and sand,
Sweet Belle Mahone.

Chorus: Sweet Belle Mahone, &c.

In the burning sand we pine,
No one asks us to have a wine,
’Tis a jolly crooked line,
Sweet Belle Mahone.
When I am sitting on a log,
Looking like a great big frog,
Waiting for a Murray cod,
Sweet Belle Mahone.

Land of snakes and cockatoos,
Native bears and big emus,
Ugly blacks and kangaroos,
Sweet Belle Mahone.
Paddymelons by the score,
Wild bulls, you should hear them roar,
They all belong to Johnny Dore,
Sweet Belle Mahone.


A parody of a popular sentimental song from 1867, Belle Mahone.

From Paterson's Old Bush Songs, where he notes:

“River Bend.”—This song certainly cannot boast of antiquity, as it is a parody on a recent sentimental song, but so many correspondents sent it in that it was decided to include it. Perhaps it is to its obvious sincerity of sentiment that it owes its popularity.

(I especially like the whales that are apparently found at the river bend!)

The harmonies for this post are those from the original published arrangement.

Jimmy Sago, Jackeroo

Words: Anonymous
Tune: Traditional (The Wearing of the Green)

If you want a situation, I’ll just tell you the plan
To get on to a station, I am just your very man.
Pack up the old portmanteau, and label it Paroo,
With a name aristocratic—Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.

When you get on to the station, of small things you’ll make a fuss,
And in speaking of the station, mind, it’s we, and ours, and us.
Boast of your grand connections and your rich relations, too
And your own great expectations, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.

They will send you out on horseback, the boundaries to ride
But run down a marsupial and rob him of his hide,
His scalp will fetch a shilling and his hide another two,
Which will help to fill your pockets, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.
Yes, to fill your empty pockets, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.

When the boss wants information, on the men you’ll do a sneak,
And don a paper collar on your fifteen bob a week.
Then at the lamb-marking a boss they’ll make of you.
Now that’s the way to get on, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.

A squatter in the future I’ve no doubt you may be,
But if the banks once get you, they’ll put you up a tree.
To see you humping bluey, I know, would never do,
’Twould mean good-bye to our new chum, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.
Yes, good-bye to our new chum, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.


From Paterson's, Old Bush Songs.

New England Cocky

Traditional


'Twas a New England Cocky, as late I've been told,
Who died, so 'tis said, on account of the cold.
When dying he called to his children "Come here!
"As I'm dying, I want you my fortune to share.

"Dear children, you know I've toiled early and late,
"I've struggled with Nature, and wrestled with Fate.
"Then all do your best to my fortune repair;
"And to my son John I leave a dear native bear.

"To Mary I give my pet kangaroo,
"May it prove to turn out a great blessing, too;
"To Michael I leave the old cockatoo,
"And to Bridget I'll give her the piebald emu.

"To the others whatever is left I will leave —
"Don't quarrel, or else my poor spirit will grieve;
"There's the fish in the stream, and the fowl on the lake,
"Let each have as much as any may take

"And now, my dear children, no more can I do,
"My fortune I've fairly divided with you,"
And these were the last words his children did hear —
"Don't forget that I reared you on pumpkin and beer."


From Paterson's Old Bush Songs. Several versions can be found, including the Inglewood Cocky, collected by John Manifold.

The illustration to this post is a drawing entitled "The Dying Man" by John Guile Millais from The Life and Letters of John Everett Millais, President of the Royal Academy. 2 vols. New York: Frederick A. Stokes, 1899.

Four Little Johnny Cakes

Traditional



Hurrah for the Lachlan, boys, and join me in a cheer
That's the place to go to make an easy cheque each year
With my toad-skin in my pocket that I borrowed from a friend
Oh, isn't it nice and cosy to be camping in the bend?

CHORUS:
With my little round flour-bag sitting on the stump
My little tea-and-sugar bag looking nice and plump
I've a nice fat cod-fish just off the hook
And four little johnny-cakes, a credit to the cook

I've a half loaf or two of bread and some praties that I shook
Perhaps a loaf of brownie that I snaffled from a cook
A nice leg of mutton ... with a bit cut off the end
Oh, isn't it nice and cosy to be camping in the bend?

I have a good supply of books and some papers for to read
Plenty of matches and a good supply of weed
I wouldn't be a squatter as beside my fire I sit
With a paper in my hand and my old pipe lit

And when the shearing-time comes, I'm in all my glory then
I saddle up a horse and I soon scrounge up a pen
I ride o'er the mountains and I gallop o'er the plain
I shoot a turkey, stick a pig, and I'll be in the bend again

LAST CHORUS:
With my little round flour-bag sitting on a stump
My little tea-and-sugar bag looking nice and plump
A little fat cod-fish just off the hook
And four little johnny-cakes, I'm proud to be the cook!



This song is another from Paterson's Old Bush Songs. From Dave De Hugard's Freedom on the Wallaby album (1970).


This recipe from The Old Aussie Food Recipes Site:

Johnny Cakes
Ingredients
1 cup self-raising flour
1/4 teaspoon salt
warm water to make a workable dough.
Method
Mix well, roll out to 1/2 inch thickness and cut into quarters. Put a few tablespoons of beef fat into the warm camp-oven or frypan and when it is boiling drop in the mixture in spoonfuls and cook 8 to10 minutes.


The illustration to this post is from the National Library of Australia site:
Carter, Jeff, 1928-2010.
Drover and cook Azzi Fazulla mixes flour and raisins to make a Johnny Cake damper, Starvation Lake, South Australia, 1963

The Old Keg of Rum

Anonymous



My name is old Jack Palmer, and I once dug for gold
And the song I'm going to sing you recalls the days of old
When I'd plenty mates around me, and the talk would fairly hum
As we all sat together round the old keg of rum

CHORUS
The old keg of rum, the old keg of rum
As we all sat together round the old keg of rum

There was Bluey Watt, the breaker, and old Tom Hynes
And little Doyle, the ringer, who now in glory shines
And many more hard doers, all gone to Kingdom Come
We were all associated round the old keg of rum

When the shearing time was over in the sheds on the Bree
We'd raise a keg from somewhere, and we'd all have a spree
We'd sit and sing together till we got that blind and dumb
That we couldn't find the bung-hole of the old keg of rum

There was some would last the night out, and some would have a snooze
And some were full of fight, boys, but all were full of booze
Till often in a scrimmage I have corked it with my thumb
Just to stop the life from ebbing from the old keg of rum.

Well, now my song is ended, I've got to travel on
Just an old buffer skiting of days dead and gone
But I hope you youngsters round me will, perhaps in years to come
Remember Jack Palmer and the old keg of rum



A version of this song was published in Paterson's Old Bush Songs. This version is from An Anthology of Australian Poetry to 1920 , edited by John Kinsella in 2007 (link)

The Sandy Maranoa

Words: A.W.Davis
Tune: Traditional (Little Sally Waters)



The night is dark and stormy and the sky is clouded o'er
Our horses we will mount and ride away
To watch the squatters' cattle through the darkness of the night
And we'll keep them on the camp till break of day

Chorus
For we're going going going to Gunnedah so far
And we'll soon be into sunny New South Wales
We shall bid farewell to Queensland with its swampy coolibah
Happy drovers from the sandy Maranoa

When the fires are burning bright through the darkness of the night
And the cattle camping quiet well I'm sure
That I wish for two o'clock when I call the other watch
This is droving from the sandy Maranoa

Our beds made on the ground we are sleeping all so sound
When we're wakened by the distant thunder's roar
And the lightning's vivid flash followed by an awful crash
It's rough on drovers from the sandy Maranoa

We are up at break of day and we're all soon on the way
For we always have to go ten miles or more
It don't do to loaf about or the squatter will come out
He's strict on drovers from the sandy Maranoa

We shall soon be on the Moonie and we'll cross the Barwon too
Then we'll be out upon the rolling plains once more
We'll shout hurrah for old Queensland with its swampy coolibah
And the cattle that come off the Maranoa


Also known as Maranoa Drovers. Another from Paterson's Old Bush Songs.