The Cross of the South

Words: Kenneth Cook,
Tune: Traditional (Kelly the Boy From Killane)



'Twas the month of December, the year fifty-four
When the men of Eureka rebelled.
And they swore that the flag they had made for themselves
Ever proudly aloft would be held.
The miners took arms in the stockade that day,
The bold word passed from mouth to mouth
'We will stand by this flag and the stars that it bears,
White stars of the Cross of the South'.

The hot blood of the heroes ran fast in their veins,
There was but one man they obeyed.
The hero of heroes they chose from their ranks
Peter Lalor their hero they made.
Peter Lalor said, 'We must stand by our guns,
Fear not the cannon's fierce mouth!
For I see the soldiers are gathering now
To tear down the Cross of the South'.

Captain Thomas charged the Eureka Stockade,
Three hundred troops by his side.
Fire and steel met them there and they fell back again,
But the first of the miners had died.
The smoke from the battle had scarce cleared away
When the soldiers came charging once more,
The miners were killed as they stood 'round their flag
Or fell from the wounds they bore.

Bold Peter Lalor lay shot on the grund
Where the soldiers had left him for dead,
And the flag that he loved lay there by his side,
The white stars all stained with red.
Peter Lalor he rose on his knees in the dust,
Wild words poured from his mouth:
'You can murder us all in black tyranny's name,
But you can't kill the Cross of the South'.



Based on an American Civil War song of the same title.

The illustration for this post is an engraving by George Rossi Ashton (artist) and F. A. Sleap (engraver), 1888. Held in the State Library of Victoria Pictures Collection. It depicts the taking of the oath at the Eureka Stockade

The oath:

We swear by the Southern Cross to stand truly by each other and fight to defend our rights and liberties

Bold Jack Donohue

Unknown



In Dublin town I was brought up that city of great fame
My parents reared me tenderly there's many did the same
Being a wild colonial boy I was forced to cross the main
And for seven long years in New South Wales to wear a convict's chain

Oh I'd been no longer than six months upon Australian shores
When I turned out as a Tory boy as I'd often done before
There was Macnamara from yonder woods and Captain Mackie too
They were the chief associates of bold Jack Donahoe

As O'Donahoe was taken for a notorious crime
And sentenced to be hanged all on the gallows high
But when he came to Sydney gaol he left them in a stew
For when they came to call the roll they missed Jack Donahoe

As O'Donahoe made his escape to the woods he did repair
Where the tyrants dared not show their face by night and day
And every week in the newspapers there was published something new
Concerning that bold hero boy called brave Jack Donahoe

As O'Donahoe was walking one summer's afternoon
Little was his notion that his death should be so soon
When a sergeant of the horse police discharged his carabine
And loudly called to O'Donahoe to fight or else resign

“It never shall be said of me that Donahue the brave
Surrendered to a policeman or became an Englishman's slave"
For I'll range these woods and valleys like a wolf or kangaroo
Before I'll work for Government said bold Jack Donahoe

Nine rounds the horse policeman fired till at length a fatal ball
He lodged it in O'Donahoe's breast and it caused him to fall
As he closed his mournful eyes to this world he bid adieu
Good people all both great and small pray for Jack Donahoe



Irishman, convict, bushranger and multiple-escapee, Jack Donohue was one of Australia's most famous bushrangers.

From AL Lloyds Old Bush Songs:

Donahue came to Australia from Dublin on the transport “Ann & Amelia” in 1825. An old hand says: “He was only twenty when he arrived here, but he was a second Napoleon. He was short, but a model of muscle and bone... He often said he was never designed for a prisoner and whilst he lived he would be free...” Twice he escaped from the iron gang, and the second time he and his band terrorised the Nepan countryside for a brief two years before he was trapped and shot by the police. The ballad must have been made by an admiring Irish convict shortly after Donahue's death. It has a contempt for the law, a pride in the outlaw's independence, an appreciation of Donahue as the kind of man “who would fight till hell freezes over, and then write on the ice: Come on, you bastards!” It is this spirit which has kept the ballad of Jack Donahue going all these years since the troopers shot him in the Bringilly scrub on September 1st, 1830


The tune used here is taken from the Australian Folk Songs site:

This version collected by Alan Scott from Mr H. Beatty of Hawthorne Qld. In his booklet The Donahoe Ballads gives some 16 tunes that have been collected.

The illustration to this post is the famous pencil drawing of the dead Jack Donohue by Sir TL Mitchell. The original is held in the Mitchell Library, State Library of New South Wales.

Holy Dan

Words: Unknown
Tune: John Thompson



It was in the Queensland drought;
And over hill and dell,
No grass – the water far apart,
All dry and hot as hell.
The wretched bullock teams drew up
Beside a water-hole –
They’d struggled on through dust and drought
For days to reach this goal.
And though the water rendered forth
A rank, unholy stench,
The bullocks and the bullockies
Drank deep their thirst to quench.


Two of the drivers cursed and swore
As only drivers can.
The other one, named Daniel,
Best known as Holy Dan,
Admonished them and said it was
The Lord’s all-wise decree;
And if they’d only watch and wait,
A change they’d quickly see.

’Twas strange that of Dan’s bullocks
Not one had gone aloft,
But this, he said, was due to prayer
And supplication oft.
At last one died but Dan was calm,
He hardly seemed to care;
He knelt beside the bullock’s corpse
And offered up a prayer.
"One bullock Thou has taken, Lord,
And so it seemeth best.
Thy will be done, but see my need
And spare to me the rest!"

A month went by. Dan’s bullocks now
Were dying every day,
But still on each occasion would
The faithful fellow pray,
"Another Thou has taken, Lord,
And so it seemeth best.
Thy will be done, but see my need,
And spare to me the rest!"

And still they camped beside the hole,
And still it never rained,
And still Dan’s bullocks died and died,
Till only one remained.
Then Dan broke down – good Holy Dan –
The man who never swore.
He knelt beside the latest corpse,
And here’s the prayer he prore.

"That’s nineteen Thou has taken, Lord,
And now You’ll plainly see
You’d better take the bloody lot,
One’s no damn good to me."
The other riders laughed so much
They shook the sky around;
The lightning flashed, the thunder roared,
And Holy Dan was drowned.

A Bushman's Song

Words: AB Paterson
Tune: Unknown



I'm travellin' down the Castlereagh, and I'm a station hand,
I'm handy with the ropin' pole, I'm handy with the brand,
And I can ride a rowdy colt, or swing the axe all day,
But there's no demand for a station-hand along the Castlereagh.

So it's shift, boys, shift, for there isn't the slightest doubt
That we've got to make a shift to the stations further out,
With the pack-horse runnin' after, for he follows like a dog,
We must strike across the country at the old jig-jog.

This old black horse I'm riding -- if you'll notice what's his brand,
He wears the crooked R, you see -- none better in the land.
He takes a lot of beatin', and the other day we tried,
For a bit of a joke, with a racing bloke, for twenty pounds a side.

It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn't the slightest doubt
That I had to make him shift, for the money was nearly out;
But he cantered home a winner, with the other one at the flog --
He's a red-hot sort to pick up with his old jig-jog.

I asked a cove for shearin' once along the Marthaguy:
`We shear non-union here,' says he. `I call it scab,' says I.
I looked along the shearin' floor before I turned to go --
There were eight or ten dashed Chinamen a-shearin' in a row.

It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn't the slightest doubt
It was time to make a shift with the leprosy about.
So I saddled up my horses, and I whistled to my dog,
And I left his scabby station at the old jig-jog.

I went to Illawarra, where my brother's got a farm,
He has to ask his landlord's leave before he lifts his arm;
The landlord owns the country side -- man, woman, dog, and cat,
They haven't the cheek to dare to speak without they touch their hat.

It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn't the slightest doubt
Their little landlord god and I would soon have fallen out;
Was I to touch my hat to him? -- was I his bloomin' dog?
So I makes for up the country at the old jig-jog.

But it's time that I was movin', I've a mighty way to go
Till I drink artesian water from a thousand feet below;
Till I meet the overlanders with the cattle comin' down,
And I'll work a while till I make a pile, then have a spree in town.

So, it's shift, boys, shift, for there isn't the slightest doubt
We've got to make a shift to the stations further out;
The pack-horse runs behind us, for he follows like a dog,
And we cross a lot of country at the old jig-jog.


From The Man From Snowy River And Other Verses by Banjo Paterson. The tune is that collected by John Manifold and included in the Penguin Australian Song Book and recorded by Dave De Hugard on Freedom On The Wallaby.

The prelude from Paterson's book:

I have gathered these stories afar,
In the wind and the rain,
In the land where the cattle camps are,
On the edge of the plain.
On the overland routes of the west,
When the watches were long,
I have fashioned in earnest and jest
These fragments of song.

They are just the rude stories one hears
In sadness and mirth,
The records of wandering years,
And scant is their worth
Though their merits indeed are but slight,
I shall not repine,
If they give you one moment's delight,
Old comrades of mine.

With My Swag All On My Shoulder

Traditional



When first I left Old England's shore
Such yarns as we were told
As how folks in Australia
Could pick up lumps of gold
So, when we got to Melbourne town
We were ready soon to slip
And get even with the captain
All hands scuttled from the ship


CHORUS:
With my swag all on my shoulder
Black billy in my hand
I travelled the bush of Australia
Like a true-born native man


We steered our course for Geelong town
Then north west to Ballarat
Where some of us got mighty thin
And some got sleek and fat
Some tried their luck at Bendigo
And some at Fiery Creek
I made a fortune in a day
And spent it in a week


For many years I wandered round
As each new rush broke out
And always had of gold a pound
Till alluvial petered out
'Twas then we took the bush to cruise
Glad to get a bite to eat
The squatters treated us so well
We made a regular beat


So round the lighthouse now I tramp
Nor leave it out of sight
I take it on my left shoulder
And then upon my right
And then I take it on my back
And oft upon it lie
It is the best of tucker tracks
So I'll stay here till I die


A variation of The Roving Journeyman, an English 19th Century broadside. (One version, printed between 1813 and 1838, can be viewed from the Bodleian Library collection here).

From the 1924 edition of Paterson's Old Bush Songs. Mark Gregory notes that the tune is a variation of The Boys of Wexford.

The illustration for this post is a photograph by Alex Poignant from the National Gallery of Australia collection.

The Old Bullock Dray

Trad



Oh! the shearing is all over and the wool is coming down
And I mean to get a wife, boys, when I go up to town,
Everything that has two legs represents itself to view,
From the little paddy-melon to the bucking kangaroo

CHORUS::
So, it's roll up your blankets and let's make a push,
I'll take you up the country and I'll show you the bush.
I'll be bound you won't get such a chance another day,
So come on and take possession of my old bullock dray.

I've saved up a good cheque I mean to buy a team,
And when I get a missus, boys, I will be all serene,
For, in calling at the depot they say there's no delay,
To get an off-sider for the old bullock dray.

Oh, we'll live like fighting cocks, for good living I'm your man,
We'll have leather-jacks, johnny cakes and fritters in the pan,
And if you'd like some fish, I'll catch you some soon,
For we'll bob for barramundies round the banks of a lagoon.

Oh, yes, of beef and damper I'll take care we'll have enough,
We'll boil in the bucket such a whopper of a duff,
And our friends will dance, in the honour of the day,
To the music of the bells of the old bullock dray.

Oh, we'll have plenty girls, yes, you must mind that,
There'll be flash little Maggie, and Buck-jumping Pat,
There'll be Stringy-Bark Joe, and Greenhide Mike,
Yes, my colonials, just as many as you like.

Now we'll stop all immigration, we won't need it any more,
We'll be having young colonials, twins by the score,
And I wonder what the devil Jack Robertson would say,
If he saw us promenading round the old bullock dray.


Bob Bolton posted this version of the lyrics on Mudcat in 1999 (see discussion here). The tune is from the singing of Declan Affley presented as part of Warren Fahey's ABC presentation "Cupid Was A Digger".

Bob notes:



The first field-collected version was probably that published in 1956 in Singabout, Journal of Australian Folk Song v.1, #1, p16 and on the other side of Alan Scott's 78rpm Wattle record - the one and only folk song record to penetrate the local hit charts ... in 1956. (And which seems to have been missed by Ron, in his otherwise magnificent index.)

This version was collected from Stan Wakefield and is essentially the same as Chris quoted above, except for the change of one stanza for another and the fact that a few phrases seem to flow more easily - or it may just be that they are the more familiar versions today. The tune is also the same as Ron Edwards published 13 years later; essentially the "A" part of Old Zip Coon or Turkey in the Straw slowed right down.



There are many versions of this song (as noted on the 'cat). You'll find another here.


The illustration was taken in 1918 and is from the Dalton Family Papers, held by the University of Newcastle Cultural Collections.

The Black Sheep

Words: Will H Ogilvie
Tune: The Overlanders (?)



They shepherd their Black Sheep down to the ships,
Society's banned and cursed ;
And the boys look back as the old land dips —
Some with a reckless laugh on their lips,
And some with a prayer reversed.


CHORUS:
And it's Goodbye, England! and farewell, Love
And maybe it's just as well
When a man falls short of his Heaven above
That he drops to the uttermost Hell.


And the anchor lifts and the sails are set :
Now God to your help. Black Sheep !
For the gay world laughs " They will soon forget !"
But fired in the embers of old regret
The brand of the world bites deep.


They turn their Black Sheep over the side
To land on a stranger's shores ;
To drift with the cities' human tide,
Or wander away where the rovers ride
And the flagless legion wars.


And Hope for some is a broken staff
And for others a golden stair,
Who live for the echo of Love's low laugh
Or Somebody's face in a photograph.
Or a coil of Somebody's hair.


And some that have carried a parting gift
May kiss it and fling it away
Far over the clouds that no winds lift
To follow where our dead hopes drift
And rest where dead hopes may.


They bury the Black Sheep out in the Bush,
And buiy them none too deep
On the cattle camps and the last gold rush,
And the grasses grow over them green and lush
And the bush- winds sing them to sleep.


Aiid it's goodbye struggle and farewell strife
And maybe it's just as well
When a man goes down in the Battle of Life
That he shorten his road to Hell


From the Overlanders 1978 double album, Songs of the Great Australian Balladists.

Words from Will H. Ogilvie's Fair Girls and Gray Horses With Other Verses (1907). (Full text linked here).