The Governor told me I justly was served, That Commissioners never from duty had swerved; But that if I’d a fancy for any more land For one pound an acre he’d plenty on hand.
I’m not very proud! I can dig in a bog, Feed pigs or for firewood can split up a log, Clean shoes, riddle cinders, or help to boil down— Or whatever you please, but graze lands of the Crown.
The saddle was hung on the stockyard rail, And the poor old horse stood whisking his tail, For there never was seen such a regular screw As Wallabi Joe, of Bunnagaroo; Whilst the shearers all said, as they say, of course, That Wallabi Joe’s a fine lump of a horse; But the stockmen said, as they laughed aside, He’d barely do for a Sunday’s ride.
Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe. O—oh! poor Wallabi Joe.
“I’m weary of galloping now,” he cried, “I wish I were killed for my hide, my hide; For my eyes are dim, and my back is sore, And I feel that my legs won’t stand much more.”
Now stockman Bill, who took care of his nag, Put under the saddle a soojee bag, And off he rode with a whip in his hand To look for a mob of the R.J. brand.
Now stockman Bill camped out that night, And he hobbled his horse in a sheltered bight; Next day of old Joe he found not a track, So he had to trudge home with his swag on his back. He searched up and down every gully he knew, But he found not a hair of his poor old screw, And the stockmen all said as they laughed at his woe, “Would you sell us the chance of old Wallabi Joe.”
Now as years sped by, and as Bill grew old, It came into his head to go poking for gold; So away he went with a spade in his fist, To hunt for a nugget among the schist. One day as a gully he chanced to cross, He came on the bones of his poor old horse; The hobbles being jammed in a root below Had occasioned the death of poor Wallabi Joe.
I’ll 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.
