Then he hears a wool-team pa.s.sing with a rumble and a lurch, And, although the work is pressing, yet it brings him off his perch.

For it stirs him like a message from his station friends afar And he seems to sniff the ranges in the scent of wool and tar; And it takes him back in fancy, half in laughter, half in tears, To a sound of other voices and a thought of other years, When the woolshed rang with bustle from the dawning of the day, And the shear-blades were a-clicking to the cry of "Wool away!"

Then his face was somewhat browner and his frame was firmer set-- And he feels his flabby muscles with a feeling of regret.

But the wool-team slowly pa.s.ses, and his eyes go sadly back To the dusty little table and the papers in the rack, And his thoughts go to the terrace where his sickly children squall, And he thinks there's something healthy in the bush-life after all.

But we'll go no more a-droving in the wind or in the sun, For our fathers' hearts have failed us and the droving days are done.

There's a nasty dash of danger where the long-horned bullock wheels, And we like to live in comfort and to get our reg'lar meals.

For to hang around the townships suits us better, you'll agree, And a job at washing bottles is the job for such as we.

Let us herd into the cities, let us crush and crowd and push Till we lose the love of roving and we learn to hate the bush; And we'll turn our aspirations to a city life and beer, And we'll slip across to England--it's a nicer place than here;

For there's not much risk of hardship where all comforts are in store, And the theatres are plenty and the pubs are more and more.

But that ends it, Mr. Lawson, and it's time to say good-bye, We must agree to differ in all friendship, you and I; So we'll work our own salvation with the stoutest hearts we may, And if fortune only favours we will take the road some day, And go droving down the river 'neath the sunshine and the stars, And then return to Sydney and vermilionize the bars.

T.Y.S.O.N.

Across the Queensland border line The mobs of cattle go; They travel down in sun and shine On dusty stage, and slow.

The drovers, riding slowly on To let the cattle spread, Will say: "Here's one old landmark gone, For old man Tyson's dead."

What tales there'll be in every camp By men that Tyson knew; The swagmen, meeting on the tramp, Will yarn the long day through, And tell of how he pa.s.sed as "Brown", And fooled the local men: "But not for me--I struck the town, And pa.s.sed the message further down; That's T.Y.S.O.N.!"

There stands a little country town Beyond the border line, Where dusty roads go up and down, And banks with pubs combine.

A stranger came to cash a cheque-- Few were the words he said-- A handkerchief about his neck, An old hat on his head.

A long grey stranger, eagle-eyed-- "Know me? Of course you do?"

"It's not my work," the boss replied, "To know such tramps as you."

"Well, look here, Mister, don't be flash,"

Replied the stranger then, "I never care to make a splash, I'm simple--but I've got the cash, I'm T.Y.S.O.N."

But in that last great drafting-yard, Where Peter keeps the gate, And souls of sinners find it barred, And go to meet their fate, There's one who ought to enter in, For good deeds done on earth; Such deeds as merit ought to win, Kind deeds of sterling worth.

Not by the strait and narrow gate, Reserved for wealthy men, But through the big gate, opened wide, The grizzled figure, eagle-eyed, Will travel through--and then Old Peter'll say: "We pa.s.s him through; There's many a thing he used to do, Good-hearted things that no one knew; That's T.Y.S.O.N."

As Long as your Eyes are Blue

Wilt thou love me, sweet, when my hair is grey And my cheeks shall have lost their hue?

When the charms of youth shall have pa.s.sed away, Will your love as of old prove true?

For the looks may change, and the heart may range, And the love be no longer fond; Wilt thou love with truth in the years of youth And away to the years beyond?

Oh, I love you, sweet, for your locks of brown And the blush on your cheek that lies-- But I love you most for the kindly heart That I see in your sweet blue eyes.

For the eyes are signs of the soul within, Of the heart that is leal and true, And mine own sweetheart, I shall love you still, Just as long as your eyes are blue.

For the locks may bleach, and the cheeks of peach May be reft of their golden hue; But mine own sweetheart, I shall love you still, Just as long as your eyes are blue.

Bottle-O!

I ain't the kind of bloke as takes to any steady job; I drives me bottle cart around the town; A bloke what keeps 'is eyes about can always make a bob-- I couldn't bear to graft for every brown.

There's lots of handy things about in everybody's yard, There's c.o.c.ks and hens a-runnin' to an' fro, And little dogs what comes and barks--we take 'em off their guard And we puts 'em with the Empty Bottle-O!

Chorus--

So it's any "Empty bottles! Any empty bottle-O!"

You can hear us round for a half a mile or so.

And you'll see the women rushing To take in the Monday's washing When they 'ear us crying, "Empty Bottle-O!"

I'm drivin' down by Wexford-street and up a winder goes, A girl sticks out 'er 'ead and looks at me, An all-right tart with ginger 'air, and freckles on 'er nose; I stops the cart and walks across to see.

"There ain't no bottles 'ere," says she, "since father took the pledge;"

"No bottles 'ere," says I, "I'd like to know What right you 'ave to stick your 'ead outside the winder ledge, If you 'aven't got no Empty Bottle-O!"

I sometimes gives the 'orse a spell, and then the push and me We takes a little trip to Chowder Bay.

Oh! ain't it nice the 'ole day long a-gazin' at the sea And a-hidin' of the tanglefoot away.

But when the booze gits 'old of us, and fellows starts to "sc.r.a.p", There's some what likes blue-metal for to throw: But as for me, I always says for layin' out a "trap"

There's nothin' like an Empty Bottle-O!

The Story of Mongrel Grey

This is the story the stockman told, On the cattle camp, when the stars were bright; The moon rose up like a globe of gold And flooded the plain with her mellow light.

We watched the cattle till dawn of day And he told me the story of Mongrel Grey.

He was a knock-about station hack, Spurred and walloped, and banged and beat; Ridden all day with a sore on his back, Left all night with nothing to eat.

That was a matter of every-day Common occurrence to Mongrel Grey.

We might have sold him, but someone heard He was bred out back on a flooded run, Where he learnt to swim like a waterbird,-- Midnight or midday were all as one.

In the flooded ground he could find his way, Nothing could puzzle old Mongrel Grey.

'Tis a special gift that some horses learn; When the floods are out they will splash along In girth-deep water, and twist and turn From hidden channel and billabong.