Jimmy Dooley's Army

A Political Ballad by our Bolshevik Bard


There's a dashin' sort of boy
Which they call his Party's Joy,
And his smile-that-won't-come-off would quite disarm ye;
And he played the leadin' hand
In the Helter-Skelter Band,
Known as Jimmy Dooley's Circulating Army.
When the rank and file they found,
They were marchin' round and round,
They one and all began to act unruly;
And the letter that he wrote,
Sure it got the Labor goat,
So we set ourselves to deal with Captain Dooley.

Chorus

Whill-il-loo. High Ho!
We'll all be there you know,
The repartees and ructions they will charm ye;
And we'll see which we prefer,
Is it Dooley or McGirr,
To take command of Jimmy Dooley's Army.

When we're marchin' to the poll,
And we're under his control,
We sometimes feel a trifle unsalubrious;
For by one and all 'twas said
That if our objective's Red,
To call it claret-coloured makes us dubious.
Sure, the Fat Men one fine day
They chanced to come our way,
And we thought that we should bate them well and trooly;
But we let them pass us by
And not half a brick did fly,
'Twas then we tore our tickets up on Dooley.

Chorus

Whill-il-loo. High Ho!
We'll all be there you know,
The repartees and ructions they will charm ye;
And we'll see which we prefer,
Is it Dooley or McGirr,
To take command of Jimmy Dooley's Army.

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.

Andrew Barton Paterson

The Weather Prophet

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

Shearing At Castlereagh

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

Conroy's Gap

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

The Daylight is Dying

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

English

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Bold Jack Donahoo

In Dublin town I was brought up, in that city of great fame
My decent friends and parents, they will tell to you the same.
It was for the sake of five hundred pounds I was sent across the main,
For seven long years, in New South Wales, to wear a convicts chain.

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    Then come, my hearties, well roam the mountains high!
    Together we will plunder, together we will die!
    Well wander over    mountains and well gallop over plains
    For we scorn to live in slavery, bound down in iron chains.

Id scarce been there twelve months or more upon the Australian shore,
When I took to the highway, as Id oft-times done before.
There was me and Jacky Underwood, and Webber and Webster, too.
These were the true assoc...

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The Old Bullock Dray

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 in view,
From the little paddy-melon
    To the bucking kangaroo.

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    So its roll up your blankets,
        And lets make a push,
    Ill take you up the country,
        And show you the bush.
    Ill be bound you wont get
        Such a chance another day,
    So come and take possession
        Of my old bullock dray.

Now, Ive saved up a good cheque,
    I mean to buy a team,
And when I get a wife, boys,
    Ill be all-serene
For calling at the depôt.
    They say theres no delay
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Playing At Soldiers.

"Who'll serve the King?"


What little urchin is there never
Hath had that early scarlet fever,
Of martial trappings caught?
Trappings well call'd - because they trap
And catch full many a country chap
To go where fields are fought!

What little urchin with a rag
Hath never made a little flag
(Our plate will show the manner),
And wooed each tiny neighbor still,
Tommy or Harry, Dick or Will,
To come beneath the banner!

Just like that ancient shape of mist,
In Hamlet, crying "'List, oh, 'list!"
Come, who will serve the king,
And strike frog-eating Frenchmen dead,
And cut off Bonyparty's head? -
And all that sort of thing.

So used I, when I was a boy,
To march with military toy,
And ape the soldier's life; -

Thomas Hood

The Ballad Of Cockatoo Dock

Of all the docks upon the blue
There was no dockyard, old or new,
To touch the dock at Cockatoo.

Of all the ministerial clan
There was no nicer, worthier man
Than Admiral O'Sullivan.

Of course, we mean E. W.
O'Sullivan, the hero who
Controlled the dock at Cockatoo.

To workmen he explained his views,
"You need not toil unless you choose,
Your only work is drawing screws."

And sometimes to their great surprise
When votes of censure filled the skies
He used to give them all a rise.

"What odds about a pound or two?"
Exclaimed the great E. W.
O'Sullivan at Cockatoo.

The dockyard superintendent, he
Was not at all what he should be,
He sneered at all this sympathy.

So when he gave a man the sack
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Sydney Town In 91

Let us sing a song as not a
Solitary poet sings,
For our seething brain has got a
Mighty grip on earthly things;
We can feel the strength within us,
And our soul is bounding high,
And our hissing pen shall win us
Wealth and Beauty by-and-bye.

Listen to the thunder swelling
Till the mighty west vibrates!
Tis the horny-handed yelling
For the Labour candidates!
Hear the language of the frisky
Push assisting at the fun:
Liberty, and rum and whisky!
Sydney town in 91.

Whack the poor and cut a caper,
Turn the taps and shout wharroo!
For each Sydney leading paper
Has a candidate or two.
Every new one is an ember,
Lighting up this land of sin,
Clever little B, , k is member
For the Sydney Bulletin.

Wherefor...

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Booth's Drum

They were ratty they were hooted by the meanest and the least,
When they woke the Drum of Glory long ago in London East.
They were often mobbed by hoodlums, they were few, but unafraid,
And their Lassies were insulted, but they banged the drum, and prayed.
Prayed in public for the sinners, prayed in private for release,
Till they saved some brawny lumpers, then they banged the drum in peace.
(Saved some prize-fighter and burglars), and they banged the drum in peace.

Booths Drum.
He was hook-nosed, he was scrawny,
He was nothing of a Don.
And his business ways seemed Yiddish,
And his speeches kid, or kiddish;
And we doubted his convictions,
But his drum is going on.

Oh, they drummed it ever onward with old Blood-and-Fire unfurled,
And they drumm...

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