When the soldier lies down, his mind is full of thought O'er seeking that promotion which so long he has sought; He fain would gain repose for mortal wound or scar, So him also we'll envy not, who true bushmen are.

Chorus: Who true bushmen are, &c.

When the sailor lies down, his mind he must prepare To rouse out in a minute if the wind should prove unfair.

His voyage may be stopped for the want of a spar, So him also we'll envy not, who true bushmen are.

Chorus: Who true bushmen are, &c.

When the bushman lies down, his mind is free from care, He knows his stock will furnish him with meat, wear and tear.

Should all commerce be ended in the event of a war, Then bread and beef won't fail us boys, who true bushmen are.

Chorus: Who true bushmen are, &c.

Then fill, fill your gla.s.ses, a toast I'll give you, then, To you who call yourselves true-hearted men.

Here's a health to the soldier and e'en the jolly tar, And may they always meet as good friends as we bushmen are.

Chorus: Who true bushmen are, Who true bushmen are,

And may they always meet as good friends as we bushmen are.

HAWKING

(Air: "Bow, Wow, Wow.")

Now, shut your mouths, you loafers all, You vex me with your twaddle, You own a nag or big or small, A bridle and a saddle; I you advise at once be wise And waste no time in talking, Procure some bags of damaged rags And make your fortune hawking.

Chorus

Hawk, hawk, hawk.

Our bread to win, we'll all begin To hawk, hawk, hawk.

The stockmen and the bushmen and The shepherds leave the station, And the hardy bullock-punchers throw Aside their occupation;

While some have horses, some have drays, And some on foot are stalking; We surely must conclude it pays When all are going hawking.

Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c.

A life it is so full of bliss 'Twould suit the very n.i.g.g.e.rs, And lads I know a-hawking go Who scarce can make the figures But penmanship's no requisite, Keep matters square by chalking With pencil or with ruddle, that's Exact enough for hawking.

Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c.

The hawker's gay for half the day, While others work he's spelling, Though he may stay upon the way, His purse is always swelling; With work his back is never bent His hardest toil is talking; Three hundred is the rate per cent.

Of profit when a-hawking.

Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c.

Since pedlaring yields more delight Than ever digging gold did, And since to fortune's envied height The path I have unfolded, We'll fling our moleskins to the dogs And don tweeds without joking, And honest men as well as rogues We'll scour the country hawking.

Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c.

COLONIAL EXPERIENCE

[By A New Chum]

(Air: "So Early in the Morning.")

When first I came to Sydney Cove And up and down the streets did rove, I thought such sights I ne'er did see Since first I learnt my A, B, C.

Chorus

Oh! it's broiling in the morning, It's toiling in the morning, It's broiling in the morning, It's toiling all day long.

Into the park I took a stroll- I felt just like a b.u.t.tered roll.

A pretty name "The Sunny South!"

A better one "The Land of Drouth!"

Chorus: Oh! it's broiling, &c.

Next day into the bush I went, On wild adventure I was bent, Dame Nature's wonders I'd explore, All thought of danger would ignore.

Chorus: Oh! it's broiling, &c.

The mosquitoes and bull-dog ants a.s.sailed me even through my pants.

It nearly took my breath away To hear the jacka.s.s laugh so gay!

Chorus: Oh! it's broiling, &c.

This lovely country, I've been told, Abounds in silver and in gold.

You may pick it up all day, Just as leaves in autumn lay!

Chorus: Oh! it's broiling, &c.

Marines will chance this yarn believe, But bluejackets you can't deceive.

Such pretty stories will not fit, Nor can I their truth admit.

Chorus: Oh! it's broiling, &c.

Some say there's lots of work to do.

Well, yes, but then, 'twixt me and you, A man may toil and broil all day- The big, fat man gets all the pay,

Chorus: Oh! it's broiling, &c.