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;
To teach them better sensewhy, Set fire to their fence
Is the war cry of the Wallaby Brigade.

    Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &c.

The squatters thought us done when they fenced in all their run,
But a prettier mistake they never made;
Youve only to sport your dover and knock a monkey over
Theres cheap mutton for the Wallaby Brigade.

    Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &c.

Now when the shearings in our harvest will begin,
Our swags for a spell down will be laid;
But when our cheques are drank we will join the Tag-rag rank,
Limeburners in the Wallaby Brigade.

    Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &c.

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 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 ma...

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

Boots

We've travelled per Joe Gardiner, a humping of our swag
In the country of the Gidgee and Belar.
We've swum the Di'mantina with our raiment in a bag,
And we've travelled per superior motor car,
But when we went to Germany we hadn't any choice,
No matter what our training or pursuits,
For they gave us no selection 'twixt a Ford or Rolls de Royce
So we did it in our good Australian boots.

They called us "mad Australians"; they couldn't understand
How officers and men could fraternise,
Thay said that we were "reckless", we were "wild, and out of hand",
With nothing great or sacred to our eyes.
But on one thing you could gamble, in the thickest of the fray,
Though they called us volunteers and raw recruits,
You could track us past the shell holes, and the tracks were a...

Andrew Barton Paterson

The Australian Stockman

The sun peers oer you wooded ridge and thro the forest dense,
Its golden edge oer the mountain ledge looks down on the stockyard fence,
Looks down, looks down, looks down on the stockyard fence;
And dark creeks rush thro the tangled brush, when their shuddering shadows throng
Until they chime in the rude rough rhyme of the wild goburras song.

                                    Chorus

    Till they chime, ha! ha! till they chime, ha! ha! in the wild goburras song;
    Till they chime, ha! ha! till they chime, ha! ha! in the wild goburras song.

The night owl to her home hath fled, to shun the glorious pomp
Of golden day she speeds away to her nest in the tea-tree swamp;
Away, away to her nest in the tea-tree swamp.

The dingo looks with a timid stare as he...

Andrew Barton Paterson

The Stockmen Of Australia

The stockmen of Australia, what rowdy boys are they,
They will curse and swear an hurricane if you come in their way.
They dash along the forest on black, bay, brown, or grey,
And the stockmen of Australia, hard-riding boys are they.

            Chorus: And the stockmen, &c.

By constant feats of horsemanship, they procure for us our grub,
And supply us with the fattest beef by hard work in the scrub.
To muster up the cattle they cease not night nor day,
And the stockmen of Australia, hard-riding boys are they.

            Chorus: And the stockmen, &c.

Just mark him as he jogs along, his stockwhip on his knee,
His white mole pants and polished boots and jaunty cabbage- tree.
His horsey-pattern Crimean shirt of colours bright and gay,
And the st...

Andrew Barton Paterson

Australia Today 1916

They came from the lower levels
Deep down in the Brilliant mine;
From the wastes where the whirlwind revels,
Whirling the leaves of pine.

On the western plains, where the Darling flows,
And the dust storms wheel and shift,
The teamster loosened his yokes and bows,
And turned his team adrift.

On the western stations, far and wide,
There's many an empty pen,
For the "ringers" have cast the machines aside
And answered the call for men.

On the lucerne flats where the stream runs slow,
And the Hunter finds the sea,
The women are driving the mowers now,
With the children at their knee.

For the men have gone, as a man must go,
At the call of the rolling drums;
For the men have sworn that the Turks shall know
When the old battali...

Andrew Barton Paterson