Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo

    (Air: Wearing of the Green.)


If you want a situation, Ill 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 aristocraticJimmy Sago, Jackaroo.

When you get on to the station, of small things youll make a fuss,
And in speaking of the station, mind, its 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 youll do a sneak,
And don a paper collar on your fifteen bob a week.
Then at the lamb-marking a boss theyll make of you.
Now thats the way to get on, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.

A squatter in the future Ive no doubt you may be,
But if the banks once get you, theyll 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.

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

Fur And Feathers

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

Paddys Letter, 1857

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

The Pannikin Poet

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

The Incantation

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

English

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A Bushman's Song

I'm traveling 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 pound a side.

It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn't the...

Andrew Barton Paterson

The Squatter Of The Olden Time

    (Air: A fine old English gentleman.)


Ill sing to you a fine new song, made by my blessed mate,
Of a fine Australian squatter who had a fine estate,
Who swore by right pre-emptive at a sanguinary rate
That by his rams, his ewes, his lambs, Australia was made great
    Like a fine Australian squatter, one of the olden time.

His hut around was hung with guns, whips, spurs, and boots and shoes,
And kettles and tin pannikins to hold the tea he brews;
And here his worship lolls at ease and takes his smoke and snooze,
And quaffs his cup of hysouskin, the beverage old chums choose
    Like a fine Australian squatter, one of the olden time.

And when shearing time approaches he opens hut to all,
And though ten thousand are his flocks, he featly shears them ...

Andrew Barton Paterson

The Squatters Man

Come, all ye lads an list to me,
Thats left your homes an crossed the sea,
To try your fortune, bound or free,
    All in this golden land.
For twelve long months I had to pace,
Humping my swag with a cadging face,
Sleeping in the bush, like the sable race,
    As in my song youll understand.

Unto this country I did come,
A regular out-and-out new chum.
I then abhorred the sight of rum
    Teetotal was my plan.
But soon I learned to wet one eye
Misfortune oft-times made me sigh.
To raise fresh funds I was forced to fly,
    And be a squatters man.

Soon at a station I appeared.
I saw the squatter with his beard,
And up to him I boldly steered,
    With my swag and billy-can.

I said, Kind sir, I want a job!
Sai...

Andrew Barton Paterson

The Murrumbidgee Shearer

Come, all you jolly natives, and Ill relate to you
Some of my observationsadventures, too, a few.
Ive travelled about the country for miles, full many a score,
And oft-times would have hungered, but for the cheek I bore.

Ive coasted on the Barwonlow down the Darling, too,
Ive been on the Murrumbidgee, and out on the Paroo;
Ive been on all the diggings, boys, from famous Ballarat;
Ive loafed upon the Lachlan and fossicked Lambing Flat.

I went up to a squatter, and asked him for a feed,
But the knowledge of my hunger was swallowed by his greed.
He said I was a loafer and for work had no desire,
And so, to do him justice, I set his shed on fire.

Oh, yes, Ive touched the shepherds hut, of sugar, tea, and flour;
And a tender bit of mutton I always coul...

Andrew Barton Paterson

An Answer to Various Bards

Well, I've waited mighty patient while they all came rolling in,
Mister Lawson, Mister Dyson, and the others of their kin,
With their dreadful, dismal stories of the Overlander's camp,
How his fire is always smoky, and his boots are always damp;
And they paint it so terrific it would fill one's soul with gloom,
But you know they're fond of writing about "corpses" and "the tomb".
So, before they curse the bushland, they should let their fancy range,
And take something for their livers, and be cheerful for a change.
Now, for instance, Mr Lawson, well, of course, we almost cried
At the sorrowful description how his "little 'Arvie" died,
And we lachrymosed in silence when "His Father's mate" was slain;
Then he went and killed the father, and we had to weep again.
Ben Duggan and Jack ...

Andrew Barton Paterson

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.

                                            Chorus

    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...

Andrew Barton Paterson