The Swagman

Kind friends, pray give attention
    To this, my little song.
Some rum things I will mention,
    And Ill not detain you long.
Up and down this country
    I travel, dont you see,
Im a swagman on the wallaby,
    Oh! dont you pity me.
Im a swagman on the wallaby,
    Oh! dont you pity me.

At first I started shearing,
    And I bought a pair of shears.
On my first sheep appearing,
    Why, I cut off both its ears.
Then I nearly skinned the brute,
    As clean as clean could he.
So I was kicked out of the shed,
    Oh! dont you pity me, &c.

I started station loafing,
    Short stages and took my ease;
So all day long till sundown
    Id camp beneath the trees.
Then Id walk up to the station,
    The manager to see.
Boss, Im hard up and I want a job,
    Oh! dont you pity me, &c.

Says the overseer: Go to the hut.
    In the morning Ill tell you
If Ive any work about
    I can find for you to do.
But at breakfast I cuts off enough
    For dinner, dont you see.
And then my name is Walker.
    Oh! dont you pity me.
Im a swagman, &c.

And now, my friends, Ill say good-bye,
    For I must go and camp.
For if the Sergeant sees me
    He may take me for a tramp;
But if theres any covey here
    Whats got a cheque, dye see,
Ill stop and help him smash it.
    Oh! dont you pity me.
Im a swagman on the wallaby,
    Oh! dont you pity me.

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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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

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 Swagman And His Mate

From north to south throughout the year
The shearing seasons run,
The Queensland stations start to shear
When Maoriland has done;
But labours cheap and runs are wide,
And some the track must tread
From New Years Day till Christmastide
And never get a shed!
North, west, and south, south, west and north,
They lead and follow Fate,
The stoutest hearts that venture forth,
The swagman and his mate.

A restless, homeless class they are
Who tramp in Borderland.
They take their rest neath moon and star,
Their bed the desert sand,
On sunset tracks they ride and tramp,
Till speech has almost died,
And still they drift from camp to camp
In silence side by side.
They think and dream, as all men do;
Perchance their dreams are great,
Ea...

Henry Lawson

The Old Bark Hut

Oh, my name is Bob the Swagman, before you all I stand,
And Ive had many ups and downs while travelling through the land.
I once was well-to-do, my boys, but now I am stumped up,
And Im forced to go on rations in an old bark hut.

                                    Chorus

            In an old bark hut.    In an old bark hut.
            Im forced to go on rations in an old bark hut.

Ten pounds of flour, ten pounds of beef, some sugar and some tea,
Thats all they give to a hungry man, until the Seventh Day.
If you dont be moighty sparing, youll go with a hungry gut
For thats one of the great misfortunes in an old bark hut.

                                    Chorus

            In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
            For that...

Andrew Barton Paterson

On The Wallaby

Now the tent poles are rotting, the camp fires are dead,
And the possums may gambol in trees overhead;
I am humping my bluey far out on the land,
And the prints of my bluchers sink deep in the sand:
I am out on the wallaby humping my drum,
And I came by the tracks where the sundowners come.

It is nor'-west and west o'er the ranges and far
To the plains where the cattle and sheep stations are,
With the sky for my roof and the grass for my bunk,
And a calico bag for my damper and junk;
And scarcely a comrade my memory reveals,
Save the spiritless dingo in tow of my heels.

But I think of the honest old light of my home
When the stars hang in clusters like lamps from the dome,
And I think of the hearth where the dark shadows fall,
When my camp fire is built...

Henry Lawson

The Wallaby Brigade

You often have been told of regiments brave and bold,
But we are the bravest in the land;
Were called the Tag-rag Band, and we rally in Queensland,
We are members of the Wallaby Brigade.

                                        Chorus

    Tramp, tramp, tramp across the borders,
    The swagmen are rolling up, I see.
    When the shearings at an end well go fishing in a bend.
    Then hurrah! for the Wallaby Brigade.

When you are leaving camp, you must ask some brother tramp
If there are any jobs to be had,
Or what sort of a shop that station is to stop
For a member of the Wallaby Brigade.

    Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &c.

You ask me if they want men, you ask for rations then,
If they dont stump up a warning should be made;

Andrew Barton Paterson