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.

                        CHORUS

    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
To get an off-sider
    For the old bullock dray.

Oh! well live like fighting cocks,
    For good living, Im your man.
Well have leather jacks, johnny cakes,
    And fritters in the pan;
Or if youd like some fish
    Ill catch you some soon,
For well bob for barramundies
    Round the banks of a lagoon.

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

Oh! well have plenty girls,
    We must mind that.
Therell be flash little Maggie,
    And buckjumping Pat.
Therell be Stringy bark Joe,
    And Green-hide Mike.
Yes, my Colonials, just
    As many as you like.

Now well stop all immigration,
    We wont need it any more;
Well be having young natives,
    Twins by the score.
And I wonder what the devil
    Jack Robertson would say
If he saw us promenading
    Round the old bullock dray.

Oh! its time I had an answer,
    If theres one to be had,
I wouldnt treat that steer
    In the body half as bad;
But he takes as much notice
    Of me, upon my soul,
As that old blue stag
    Off-side in the pole.

Oh! to tell a lot of lies,
    You know, it is a sin,
But Ill go up country
    And marry a black gin.
Oh! Baal gammon white feller,
    This is what shell say,
Budgery you
    And your old bullock dray.

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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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...

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Song Of The Old Bullock-Driver

Far back in the days when the blacks used to ramble
In long single file neath the evergreen tree,
The wool-teams in season came down from Coonamble,
And journeyed for weeks on their way to the sea,
Twas then that our hearts and our sinews were stronger,
For those were the days when the bushman was bred.
We journeyed on roads that were rougher and longer
Than roads where the feet of our grandchildren tread.

With mates who have gone to the great Never-Never,
And mates whom Ive not seen for many a day,
I camped on the banks of the Cudgegong River
And yarned at the fire by the old bullock-dray.
I would summon them back from the far Riverina,
From days that shall be from all others distinct,
And sing to the sound of an old concertina
Their rugged old songs wher...

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Song Of The Old Bullock-Driver

Far back in the days when the blacks used to ramble
In long single file neath the evergreen tree,
The wool-teams in season came down from Coonamble,
And journeyed for weeks on their way to the sea,
Twas then that our hearts and our sinews were stronger,
For those were the days when the bushman was bred.
We journeyed on roads that were rougher and longer
Than roads where the feet of our grandchildren tread.

With mates who have gone to the great Never-Never,
And mates whom Ive not seen for many a day,
I camped on the banks of the Cudgegong River
And yarned at the fire by the old bullock-dray.
I would summon them back from the far Riverina,
From days that shall be from all others distinct,
And sing to the sound of an old concertina
Their rugged old songs wher...

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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 ...

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Mustering Song

    (Air: So Early in the Morning.)


The boss last night in the hut did say
We start to muster at break of day;
So be up first thing, and dont be slow;
Saddle your horses and off you go.

                            Chorus

    So early in the morning, so early in the morning,
    So early in the morning, before the break of day.

Such a night in the yard there never was seen
(The horses were fat and the grass was green);
Bursting of girths and slipping of packs
As the stockmen saddled the fastest hacks.

    Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.

Across the plain we jog along
Over gully, swamp, and billabong;
We drop on a mob pretty lively, too
We round em up and give em a slue.

    Chorus: So early in...

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The Gundaroo Bullock

Oh, there's some that breeds the Devon that's as solid as a stone,
And there's some that breeds the brindle which they call the "Goulburn Roan";
But amongst the breeds of cattle there are very, very few
Like the hairy-whiskered bullock that they breed at Gundaroo.

Far away by Grabben Gullen, where the Murrumbidgee flows,
There's a block of broken country-side where no one ever goes;
For the banks have gripped the squatters, and the free selectors too,
And their stock are always stolen by the men of Gundaroo.

There came a low informer to the Grabben Gullen side,
And he said to Smith the squatter, "You must saddle up and ride,
For your bullock's in the harness-cask of Morgan Donahoo,
He's the greatest cattle-stealer in the whole of Gundaroo."

"Oh, ho!" said Smith,...

Andrew Barton Paterson