Words: PS Raphael Tune: Trad (The Maid of Llangollen)
Though torn is my tent and my bed is a sack I pity that cove with a swag on his back From rush to new rush away scampers he While I'm here snugly taking my damper and tea While I'm here snugly taking my damper and tea
At morn to my work as I go I oft think What a great many duffers 'tis my fate to sink And wonder if ever a nugget there'll be To afford me aught else with my damper and tea To afford me aught else with my damper and tea
That red-belted coon found a nugget close by He cuts it fat with sardines, and drinks porter when dry But with book or pen no pleasure has he So i'd rather have only my damper and tea So i'd rather have only my damper and tea
The dreamtime folk are stirring now They have laid their claim To a part of the land their fathers roamed That carries their tribal name
Where Vesty's cattle brands are scored And stockmans whips are cracked The dreamtime folk are holding out, There'll be no going back
Will you fight, will you dare, will you give, will you care Will you help to mend the wrong? Will you stand up now for the dreamtime folk By joining their freedom song
Where the muddy Murray's waters pour Where tomatoes rule the weed And the dreamtime folk that planted them Have seen where the road could lead
They could leave behind the pickers' hats They could leave the fringe of the town They could take their place in this lucky land If you let them, then they can.
Will you fight, will you dare, will you give, will you care Will you help to mend the wrong? Will you stand up now for the dreamtime folk By joining their freedom song
Do they have to reach some famous height Before you let them grow? Will you shelter first the tall gumtree Or spring-flowers from the snow
Well the plant is young, but the plant will grow And its fruit will sweeten the tongue Of the dreamtime folk whose bitter bread Has choked their freedom song
Will you fight, will you dare, will you give, will you care Will you help to mend the wrong? Will you stand up now for the dreamtime folk By joining their freedom song
The Wave Hill walk-off was a significant event in the assertion of the rights of Australia's aboriginal people. This song from Phyl Lobl's Bronzewing album
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
I like a game at croquet or bowling on the green, I like a little boating to pull against the stream; But of all the games that I love best to fill me with delight, I like to take a ramble upon a starry night.
CHORUS: It's a starry night for a ramble, In a flow'ry dell, Thro' the bush and the bramble, Kiss, but never tell.
Talk about your bathing and strolling on the sands, Or some unseen verandah where gentle zephyr fans, Or rolling home in the morning, boys, and very nearly tight, Could never beat a ramble upon a starry night.
I like to take my sweetheart, "of course you would," said he, And softly whisper in her ear, "how dearly I love thee!" And when you picture to yourselves the scenes of such delight, You'll want to take a ramble upon a starry night.
Some will choose velocipede, and others take a drive, And some will sit and mope at home, half dead and half alive, And some will choose a steamboat, and others even fight, But I'll enjoy my ramble upon a starry night.
Mudcat (Bob Bolton) has this from an undated broadside in Glasgow, collected by Ron Edwards. John Hopkins University has a published copy authored by Samuel Bagnal, which I have used here.
The tune is a popular waltz for dances in Australia.
Words: David Charles and Douglas Tainsh (?) Tune: Traditional (?) (Fanny Bay)
Tell her I'm droving down Camooweal way Or signed with pearlers for seas far away You can tell her I've gone, I'll be back some day Please don't tell her they hanged me in old Fannie Bay.
You can say I've gone on the old 'River Queen' It's whistle a-haunting the bullockies' dream, Down the Murray I've gone, I'll be back some day Please don't tell her they hanged me in old Fannie Bay.
Chorus: And on Thursday Island the sun wams the air As the breeze from the sea blows her hair And she sits by her window and calls me Yes, she calls me.
You can say the bush has called me away And I'm riding the fences for ten bob a day, Yes, I needed a job, I needed the pay Please don't tell her they hanged me in old Fannie Bay
Chorus: And they came to the door and they dragged me away From all that I love and I pray That it won't reach her ear 'cause I love her And she'd die for sure
Just say the gold has taken me down To the places where fortunes are easily found Yes, I've gone but tell her I'll be back some day Just don't tell her they hanged me in old Fannie Bay
Recorded by the Bushwackers Band on their album, Bushfire (1979), where they credited the song to A & D Tainsh. This site has the song was apparently written for episode 226 of the Australian police show, Division 4 which aired in 1974. (I will happily stand corrected on this).
It has a distinctly modern feel to it. It's not a song I'd heard before but comments to my earlier post of the parody, Fanny Bay, alerted me to this one.
The illustration is a photograph of Fanny Bay Gaol from around 1900.
A Sergeant and three constables set out from Mansfield town Near the end of last October for to hunt the Kellys down; They started for the Wombat Hills and thought it quite a lark When they camped upon the borders of a creek called Stringybark.
They had grub and ammunition there to last them many a week, And next morning two of them rode out, all to explore the creek, Leaving Mclntyre behind them at the camp to cook the grub And Lonergan to sweep the floor and boss the washing-tub.
It was shortly after breakfast Mac thought he heard a noise So gun in hand he sallied out to try and find the cause, But he never saw the Kellys planted safe behind a log So he sauntered back to smoke and yarn and wire into the prog.
But Ned Kelly and his comrades thought they'd like a nearer look, For being short of grub they wished to interview the cook; And of firearms and cartridges they found they had too few, So they longed to grab the pistols and ammunition too.
Both the troopers at a stump alone they were well pleased to see Watching as -the billies boiled to make their pints of tea; There they joked and chatted gaily never thinking of alarms Till they Heard the fearful cry behind, "Bail up, throw up your arms!"
The traps they started wildly and Mac then firmly stood While Lonergan made tracks to try and gain the wood, Reaching round for his revolver, but before he touched the stock Ned Kelly pulled the trigger, fired, and dropped him like a rock.
Then after searching McIntyre all through the camp they went- And cleared the guns and cartridges and pistols from the tent, But brave Kelly muttered sadly as he loaded up his gun, "Oh, what a ... pity that the ... tried to run."
'Twas later in the afternoon the sergeant and his mate Came riding blithely through the bush to meet a cruel fate. "The Kellys have the drop on you!" cried McIntyre aloud, But the troopers took it as a joke and sat their horses proud.
Then trooper Scanlan made a move his rifle to unsling, But to his heart a bullet sped and death was in the sting; Then Kennedy leapt from his mount and ran for cover near, And fought, a game man to the last, for all that life held dear.
The sergeant's horse raced from the camp alike from friend and foe, And McIntyre, his life at stake, sprang to the saddle-bow And galloped far into the night, a haunted, harassed soul, Then like a hunted bandicoot hid in a wombat hole.
At dawn of day he hastened forth and made for Mansfield town To break the news that made men vow to shoot the bandits down, So from that hour the Kelly gang was hunted far and wide, Like outlawed dingoes of the wild until the day they died.
From Stewart & Keesing's excellent Australian Bush Ballads. Radio National in Australia recently had a great show about Nancy Keesing - well worth a listen - link.
The illustration to this post is Sidney Nolan's Death of Sergeant Kennedy at Stringybark Creek (1946).
Oh, I used to have a doggie and I called him little Gomez Because he was a Mexican Chihuahua Though there wasn’t much to him what there was all cojones In fact he was a randy little fella big dogs, small dogs were all the same to him The canine equivalent of Errol Flynn At the drop of a sombrero he’d jump up and get stuck in Taking Gomez out for walkies was embarassin’
I remember one day in the park his tally rose by four An enviable score he was amassing, two very patient poodles and an Irish Labrador And a wombat who just happened to be passing I tried every way to curb his carnal appetite I kept him on a leash by day, I locked him up at night I even put some bromide in his chunky meaty bites But the only thing that might have worked was Kryptonite
Then came the fateful day when he tried to consummate A liaison with a Saint Bernard from Dublin And although he was quite clearly fighting well above his weight He didn’t let that minor detail stop him He nearly pulled it off, oh, what an acrobat! But the bitch got bored and down she sat Well, they say that after making love you sometimes feel quite flat I’m sure that little Gomez would agree with that
I buried Gomez in the park, his happy hunting ground a sad but fitting finale Though I had to make a grave that was very flat and round ‘Cause he looked like squashed tamale But oh, how I missed my wee Chihuahua chum I went down to the pet shop to find another one I went there feeling happy, but I left there feeling glum Because the man behind the counter loved corny puns
And he said “Yes, we have no Chihuahuas we have no Chihuahuas today We have Alstations, Dalmatians, fruits of all flirtations, An alpine Pekinese in a toupee But yes, we have no Chihuahuas we have no Chihuahuas today”
The first song I ever sang with Martin Pearson, shortly before we met in Kuranda in 1990. We eventually formed Never the Twain releasing two albums and the double album from which this track originated: The Almost Legendary Wine Bar Breakfasts, Vol 1 & 2, made up of recordings of our breakfast show at the Troubadour Winebar at the Woodford Folk Festival in 2003.
NB. While these albums are no longer available for sale, downloadable mp3s of all the tracks from all three albums are available here. Enjoy.
The illustration for this post features Jayne Mansfield and her pet chihuahua from Life (March 1956). The search for an illustration brought to me to a site advertising one of the weirder products available to the world today: the Hotdoll. While I advise bracing yourself before investigating this product further, I also recommend this promotional video. The juxtaposition of music and what might be termed "soft-paw porn" photography is, I believe, magnificent. Surely this is the purpose of the internet.
