The Old Survey

Our moneys all spent, to the deuce went it!
    The landlord, he looks glum,
On the tap-room wall, in a very bad scrawl,
    He has chalked to us a sum.
But a glass well take, ere the grey dawn break,
    And then saddle up and away
Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.

With a measured beat fall our horses feet,
    Galloping side by side;
When the moneys done, and weve had our fun,
    We all are bound to ride.
Oer the far-off plain well drag the chain,
    And mark the settlers way
Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.

Well range from the creeks to the mountain peaks,
    And traverse far below;
Where foot never trod, well mark with a rod
    The limits of endless snow;

Each lofty crag well plant with a flag,
    To flash in the suns bright ray
Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.

Till with cash hard-earned once more returned,
    At The Beaver bars well shout;
And the very bad scrawl thats against the wall
    Ourselves shall see wiped out.
Such were the ways in the good old days!
    The days of the old survey!
Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.

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

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The Swagman's Rest

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

English

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Old Australian Ways

The London lights are far abeam
Behind a bank of cloud,
Along the shore the gaslights gleam,
The gale is piping loud;
And down the Channel, groping blind,
We drive her through the haze
Towards the land we left behind,
The good old land of "never mind",
And old Australian ways.

The narrow ways of English folk
Are not for such as we;
They bear the long-accustomed yoke
Of staid conservancy:
But all our roads are new and strange,
And through our blood there runs
The vagabonding love of change
That drove us westward of the range
And westward of the suns.

The city folk go to and fro
Behind a prison's bars,
They never feel the breezes blow
And never see the stars;
They never hear in blossomed trees
The music low and swee...

Andrew Barton Paterson

The Old Australian Ways

The London lights are far abeam
Behind a bank of cloud,
Along the shore the gaslights gleam,
The gale is piping loud;
And down the Channel, groping blind,
We drive her through the haze
Towards the land we left behind,
The good old land of `never mind',
And old Australian ways.

The narrow ways of English folk
Are not for such as we;
They bear the long-accustomed yoke
Of staid conservancy:
But all our roads are new and strange,
And through our blood there runs
The vagabonding love of change
That drove us westward of the range
And westward of the suns.

The city folk go to and fro
Behind a prison's bars,
They never feel the breezes blow
And never see the stars;
They never hear in blossomed trees
The music low and swee...

Andrew Barton Paterson

The First Surveyor

"The opening of the railway line!, the Governor and all!
With flags and banners down the street, a banquet and a ball.
Hark to 'em at the station now! They're raising cheer on cheer!
'The man who brought the railway through, our friend the engineer.'

They cheer his pluck and enterprise and engineering skill!
'Twas my old husband found the pass behind that big red hill.
Before the engineer was born we'd settled with our stock
Behind that great big mountain chain, a line of range and rock,
A line that kept us starving there in weary weeks of drought,
With ne'er a track across the range to let the cattle out.

"'Twas then, with horses starved and weak and scarcely fit to crawl,
My husband went to find a way across the rocky wall.
He vanished in the wilderness, God knows w...

Andrew Barton Paterson

A Voice From The Town

I thought, in the days of the droving,
Of steps I might hope to retrace,
To be done with the bush and the roving
And settle once more in my place.
With a heart that was well nigh to breaking,
In the long, lonely rides on the plain,
I thought of the pleasure of taking
The hand of a lady again.

I am back into civilization,
Once more in the stir and the strife,
But the old joys have lost their sensation,
The light has gone out of my life;
The men of my time they have married,
Made fortunes or gone to the wall;
Too long from the scene I have tarried,
And somehow, I'm out of it all.

For I go to the balls and the races
A lonely companionless elf,
And the ladies bestow all their graces
On others less grey than myself;
While the talk go...

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 Broken-Down Squatter

    (Air: Its a fine hunting day.)


Come, Stumpy, old man, we must shift while we can;
    All our mates in the paddock are dead.
Let us wave our farewells to Glen Evas sweet dells
    And the hills where your lordship was bred;
Together to roam from our drought-stricken home
    It seems hard that such things have to be,
And its hard on a hogs when hes nought for a boss
    But a broken-down squatter like me!

                                        Chorus

    For the banks are all broken, they say,
        And the merchants are all up a tree.
    When the bigwigs are brought to the Bankruptcy Court,
        What chance for a squatter like me.

No more shall we muster the river for fats,
    Or spiel on the Fifteen-mile plain,

Andrew Barton Paterson