Hawking

    (Air: 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, well 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.

    Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c.

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 penmanships no requisite,
    Keep matters square by chalking
With pencil or with ruddle, thats
    Exact enough for hawking.

    Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c.

The hawkers gay for half the day,
    While others work hes 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.

    Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c.

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

    Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c.

Andrew Barton Paterson

Andrew Barton Paterson, also known as Banjo Paterson, was an Australian bush poet, journalist, and author. Renowned for his poignant and humorous depictions of rural Australia, he wrote iconic works like "Waltzing Matilda" and "The Man from Snowy River." His storytelling, deeply rooted in Australian culture, has cemented his legacy as one of the nation's most beloved literary figures.

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Come, all ye lads an list to me,
Thats left your homes an crossed the sea,
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A Ballad Of Ducks

The railway rattled and roared and swung
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Camouflage

Beside the bare and beaten track of travelling flocks and herds
The woodpecker went tapping on, the postman of the birds,
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With The Chiddingfolds

The horse is bedded down
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The hound is in the kennel;
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Oh, my name is Bob the Swagman, before you all I stand,
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            In an old bark hut.    In an old bark hut.
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The Swagman

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