"Then cut down a couple of saplings, Place one at my head and my toe, Carve on them cross, stockwhip, and saddle, To show there's a stockman below.

Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.

"Hark! there's the wail of a dingo, Watchful and weird-I must go, For it tolls the death-knell of the stockman From the gloom of the scrub down below.

Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.

"There's tea in the battered old billy; Place the pannikins out in a row, And we'll drink to the next merry meeting, In the place where all good fellows go.

Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.

"And oft in the shades of the twilight, When the soft winds are whispering low, And the dark'ning shadows are falling, Sometimes think of the stockman below."

Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.

MY MATE BILL

That's his saddle on the tie-beam, And them's his spurs up there On the wall-plate over yonder- You ken see they ain't a pair.

For the daddy of all the stockmen As ever come mustering here Was killed in the flaming mulga, A-yarding a bald-faced steer.

They say as he's gone to heaven, And shook off all worldly cares But I can't sight Bill in a halo Set up on three blinded hairs.

In heaven! what next I wonder, For strike me pink and blue, If I see whatever in thunder They'll find for Bill to do.

He'd never make one of them angels, With faces as white as chalk, All wool to the toes like hoggets, And wings like an eagle-hawk.

He couldn't 'arp for apples, His voice had tones as jarred, And he'd no more ear than a bald-faced steer, Or calves in a branding yard.

He could sit on a bucking brumbie Like a n.o.b in an easy chair, And chop his name with a greenhide fall On the flank of a flying steer.

He could show them saints in glory The way that a fall should drop, But sit on a throne-not William, Unless they could make it prop.

He mightn't freeze to the seraphs, Or chum with the cherubim, But if ever them seraph johnnies Get a-poking it like at him-

Well! if there's hide in heaven, And silk for to make a lash, He'll yard 'em all in the Jasper Lake In a blinded lightning flash.

If the heavenly hosts get boxed now, As mobs most always will, Who'll cut 'em out like William, Or draft on a camp like Bill?

An 'orseman would find it awkward At first with a push that flew, But blame my cats if I know what else They'll find for Bill to do.

It's hard if there ain't no cattle, And perhaps they'll let him sleep, And wake him up at the judgment To draft those goats and sheep.

It's playing it low on William, But perhaps he'll buckle to, To show them high-toned seraphs What a Mulga man can do.

If they saddles a big-boned angel, With a turn of speed, of course, As can spiel like a four-year brumbie, And prop like an old camp horse,

And puts Bill up with a snaffle, A four or five inch spur, And eighteen foot of greenhide To chop the blinded fur-

He'll yard them blamed Angoras In a way that it's safe to swear Will make them tony seraphs Sit back on their thrones and stare.

SAM HOLT

(Air: "Ben Bolt.")

Oh! don't you remember Black Alice, Sam Holt- Black Alice, so dusky and dark, The Warrego gin, with the straw through her nose, And teeth like a Moreton Bay shark.

The terrible sheepwash tobacco she smoked In the gunyah down there by the lake, And the grubs that she roasted, and the lizards she stewed, And the damper you taught her to bake.

Oh! don't you remember the moon's silver sheen, And the Warrego sand-ridges white?

And don't you remember those big bull-dog ants We caught in our blankets at night?

Oh! don't you remember the creepers, Sam Holt, That scattered their fragrance around?

And don't you remember that broken-down colt You sold me, and swore he was sound?

And don't you remember that fiver, Sam Holt, You borrowed so frank and so free, When the publican landed your fifty-pound cheque At Tambo your very last spree?

Luck changes some natures, but yours, Sammy Holt, Was a grand one as ever I see, And I fancy I'll whistle a good many tunes Ere you think of that fiver or me.

Oh! don't you remember the cattle you duffed, And your luck at the Sandy Creek rush, And the poker you played, and the bluffs that you bluffed, And your habits of holding a flush?

And don't you remember the pasting you got By the boys down in Callaghan's store, When Tim Hooligan found a fifth ace in his hand, And you holding his pile upon four?

You were not the cleanest potato, Sam Holt, You had not the cleanest of fins.

But you made your pile on the Towers, Sam Holt, And that covers the most of your sins.

They say you've ten thousand per annum, Sam Holt, In England, a park and a drag; Perhaps you forget you were six months ago In Queensland a-humping your swag.

But who'd think to see you now dining in state With a lord and the devil knows who, You were flashing your dover, six short months ago, In a lambing camp on the Barcoo.

When's my time coming? Perhaps never, I think, And it's likely enough your old mate Will be humping his drum on the Hughenden-road To the end of the chapter of fate.

THE BUSHMAN

(Air: "Wearing of the Green.")

When the merchant lies down, he can scarce go to sleep For thinking of his merchandise upon the fatal deep; His ships may be cast away or taken in a war, So him alone we'll envy not, who true bushmen are.

Chorus: Who true bushmen are, Who true bushmen are, So him alone we'll envy not, who true bushmen are!