The Collection

Collected and edited by Peter Bridge with Gail Dreezens.

PETER BRIDGE:

This study shows how creative juices flowed in the late 19th and early 20th centuries
as shown through one original verse.

I am indebted to West Australian flag waver and author, Peter J Bridge, who has generously allowed me to publish his work on this site. Peter operates an independent publishing house: www.hesperianpress.com

– WF

On 9 April 1899 the Kalgoorlie Sun published the anonymous Ode to Westralia that immediately caught on across the land, resulting in widespread plagiarism, retorts and imitations which continued for many decades. The verse and variations has appeared in many papers and anthologies since then and has been used by politicians (Dr G Gallop, address to Australian Gold Conference, 9 April 2001) and playwrights to some effect.

A reminder though, to those whose angst against our West would have them use this verse splenetically, that it has in fact a solid foundation on t’otherside.This article is a preliminary attempt to trace the origins and influence of a doggerel verse, which like the ubiquitous Foo, crops up everywhere.Those who may find other instances of its use, and variations, are requested to forward the item to the publisher for inclusion in this sequence.
*                  *                  *
This is admittedly a great country for the working man. Almost every other country under the sun claims that it has some special attractions to offer the worker. But the worker, meanwhile, with a fine lack of discrimination, everywhere loudly proclaims his belief that the particular country in which he lives is the finest country in the world – to live out of. And he is nearly right. There seems to be no part of this planet that is all custard and watermelon for the working classes.
At one time this country was practically a working man’s country. There weren’t enough of him to go round, and consequently he was a much sought after person. If he thought the manager of show No.1 was not exactly gentlemanly in his demeanor, all he had to do was to tell him so and go over to show No.2 where he was certain to find a job awaiting his arrival. He was in the proud position of being able to tell his boss at any moment to “go to h—,” without suffering for it to any appreciable extent.

But those days are gone, and the working man of to-day finds himself as dependent upon the favor or caprice of his boss as if he were in the eastern colonies. Hence Westralia is as heartly (sic) cursed now as Victoria or Queensland. Even in the good days she was cursed up hill and down dale by thousands of men who didn’t know when they were well off. Men came over here from 10s. or 15s. weekly in the eastern colonies to £4 in this, and then groaned about the cursed country. It is quite likely that the writer of the following effusion is in a steady billet and has not known hardship since coming to the colony. Anyway, here it is:-

ODE TO WESTRALIA
Land of Forrests, fleas, and flies,
Blighted hopes and blighted eyes,
Art thou hell in earth’s disguise,
Westralia?
Art thou some volcanic blast,
By volcanoes spurned, outcast?
Westralia?
Wert thou once the chosen land
Where Adam broke God’s one command?
That He in wrath changed thee to sand,
Westralia?
Land of politicians silly,
Home of wind and willy-willy,
Land of blanket, tent and billy,
Westralia!
Home of brokers, bummers, clerks,
Nest of sharpers, mining sharks,
Dried up lakes and desert parks,
Westralia!
Land of humpies, brothels, inns,
Old bag huts and empty tins,
Land of blackest, grievous sins,
Westralia!

The contents, if not always the style, reminds one of Tom Hood, and its distant echoes evoke Bernard O’Dowd’s Australia, “A new demesne for Mammon to infest”, and his Last Stanzas of the Bush, but of course in a primitive ocker version.
The Ode was reprinted in the Sydney Truth of 21 May 1899. (later this original version appeared in Those Were the Days (1933), a Dorothy Hewitt play and Margins (1988).

Alan Deuchar, a Perth land-jobber, then used it in an ad in The West Australian of 3 June 1899, with a rider, As We See Ourselves :-

ALLAN DEUCHAR’S ODE TO WESTRALIA
As Others See Us
(by Sydney “Truth”)
Land of Forrests, Fleas, and Flies,
Blighted hopes and blighted eyes,
Art thou hell in earth’s disguise,
Westralia.
Art thou some volcanic blast,
By volcanoes spurned, outcast?
Art unfinished – made the last,
Westralia.
Wert thou once the chosen land,
Where Adam broke God’s one command,
That He in wrath changed thee to sand,
Westralia.
Land of Politicians silly,
Home of wind and willy-nilly,
Land of blanket, tent and billy,
Westralia!
Home of brokers, poor paid clerks,
Nest of sharpers, mining sharks,
Dried up lakes and desert parks,
Westralia.
Land of humpies, cabins, inns,
Old bag huts and empty tins,
Land of blackest, grievous sins,
Westralia.

AS WE SEE OURSELVES
Land of Fortunes, easily made;
The land where ‘tothersiders strayed,
To grab the dividends that are paid,
Westralia.
Thou art to us a chosen land;
We hold your gold at our command,
Your riches are not in the sand,
Westralia.
The Home to be of Dukes and Lords,
In the near future – mark my words –
This land shall best all best records,
Westralia.
You are but in your infancy;
The time is near when you shall be
The strongest, richest colony,
Westralia.
Your Gold mines are the richest, best,
And in your Coal mines we’ll invest.
Against the world you’ll stand the test –
Westralia.

Several lines had been altered to mould it to the sensibilities of the decidedly conservative West.
Amusingly, the Sunday Times reprinted the original version on 4 June 1899, but as a ‘pleasing pome from a Sydney paper’. This after it had appeared in the Sun, their associated WA paper, two months before!
The Kalgoorlie Miner of 6 June reprinted the Deuchar version from the West, but credited it to the Sydney Truth. It had originated a few hundred yards away! Truly we don’t have to go to the “heathen Chinee”, for “ways that are dark, and for tricks that are vain”. JJ Tucker then wrote,(Kalgoorlie Miner, 8 June 1899), To Westralia. The latter two were reprinted in the Kalgoorlie Argus of 15 June.

TO WESTRALIA
(For the Kalgoorlie Miner)
Land of forests, mother of gold,
Wealth of coal in dreams untold,
Land of vineyard, orchard, fold,
Westralia!
Basking last in Sol’s high noon,
First to greet the nascent moon,
Yielding neighbor lands a boon,
Westralia!
Immensity of fecund space;
No seemless scurry, no mad chase,
No Yankee nurse for Saxon race,
Westralia!
North the torrid riplet curls,
South th’ Antarctic current whirls,
Hail! Golden marvel! Set in pearls!
Westralia!
Heed no pen-prick, witless jube,
Windy-bellied diatribe,
Jealous spleen of hireling scribe.
Westralia!
A jest, our “billy” – still it teems;
A jeer, our “tent” – tho’ taut its seams;
Hysteric screeching, idiots screams –
Westralia!
Thy name the “t’othersiders” bless,
Nor love thee than their mother less,
Their port from eastern storm and stress –
Westralia!
Take the “white man’s burden” up;
If scant thy breakfast, rich shalt sup
From dish of silver, jewelled cup.
Westralia!
Empire-builders are thy stock,
Build thee up, as they, on rock;
Thy God-sent freedom recks no stock.
Westralia!

J.J. Tucker
Perth, June 1, 1899

The poetic ping-pong continued with the Kalgoorlie Miner and Argus of 15 and 22 June, publishing:-
TO WESTRALIA
A Retort
(For the Western Argus)
Land of Sir Forrests and convict tales,
Wealth of coal in dreamings sail;
Land where vineyards, orchards fail,
Westralia!
Basking last in Sol’s high noon,
Last to raise a golden boom;
With a most ungodly tune,
Westralia!
Immensity of barren waste,
No fertility and much less grace;
Nor the energy of Saxon race,
Westralia!
North the dusty willy’s curl,
South the wild cat currents whirl;
Full of gold and dust – not pearls,
Westralia!
Too thick skined to feel a jibe,
Always ready for a bribe;
Jealous of all t’otherside,
Westralia!
Our jest – “the tin dog,” in it turns
Our jeer – “the Government,” red-taped seems;
Go to – all addled pated idiots scream,
Westralia!
Thy name, the t’othersiders’ curse
Nor love thee, than the Devil worse;
Thy port that’s emptied many a purse,
Westralia!
Put the “bluey” once more up,
If scant thy breakfast – less to sup;
In drinking the dregs of a bitter cup,
Westralia!
T’othersiders, of hardy stock
Built thee up; as they, of rock,
And given the Gropers a sudden shock,
Westralia!
Not to be outdone Billy Clare in his Clare’s Weekly,
LAPSUS LINGUAE
There is a land of “pure” delight,
Where flies do swarm, and skeeters bite,
A land where often might seems right,
‘Tis W.A.
It has been called “the promised land,””
Its natives are a happy band,
And terra-firma there, is sand,
In W.A.
There “all that glitters is not gold,”
Of this I could a tale unfold,
Ah! many a man’s been “had” and “sold”
In W.A.
There “pleasures are like poppies spread,”
As Bobbie Burns so wisely said –
“They’ll bring you nought but fear and dread,”
In W.A.
A mighty man does there hold sway,
He’s been there long – and means to stay,
Some say he’s had his little day,
In W.A.
Of “Gropers” they have had a feast,
Let’s have some “wise men from the East,”
That’s what the people say, at least,
In W.A.
They’ve got a Mint, they’ve got a Zoo.
They’ve “Tattersall,” with big sweeps too,
And other “comforts,” not a few,
In W.A.
That land is fair, the climate’s good,
If one and all did what they could,
They’d make that country what they should,
That W.A.
[The logic contained in the last verse must make itself clear to the most ordinary mind. – Ed]

The disease was spreading:-
“Ex-Hillite,” Kanowna, wrote:-

“Some weeks ago you published an Ode to W.A. I sent a copy to a friend in Broken Hill, and by the last mail he favors me with the enclosed Ode to the Barrier, You might like to insert it.”
Sorry we can’t oblige. We have already rejected several better verses than those of the Barrier bard. No room for pointless doggerel.

The Boulder Bard writes:-

“Some time back I sent you an Ode to Westralia, considering it malevolent enough to be humorous. You paid me so well for it that I was saved for a week from those pangs of poverty so ably described in last issue by “Nomad.’ Since then the ‘ode’ has been printed by three editors, without acknowledgment to the SUN. Reaching Sydney, it was copied by John Norton’s un-Truth, and then some bounder who sells swampy Perth lots to distant dupes reproduced it as an advt., with some doggerel of his own as answer. Whereat my gorge has risen as high as Mt. Burgess, and from my Parnassus I fling forth the following:-

ODE TO PRESS – TRALIA
Band of robbers, jobbers, crimps,
Fat man’s tools and bully’s pimps,
Clique of deadheads, blackmails, imps,
In W.A.

You will publish unpaid screed,
Bury principle for greed;
Of the poor you take no heed,
In W.A.
Allan Deuchar, come along!
Honest pressmen you would wrong;
I will write you song for song,
In W.A.

11-6-1899 The Sun, Kalgoorlie
The Sunday Times of 1 October 1899 reprinted this from the Orange Leader:-

ANOTHER FEDERAL ODE
Hail, Australia! Land of beauty,
Sovereign of the Southern Seas!”
Where the policemen do their duty
Or neglect it, as they please!

Land of undetected robbers,
Where the murderer roams at large,
And the statesmen are all jobbers
At a reasonable charge!

Land of tricks and mining swindles!
Land of banks completely bung!
How our manly bosom kindles
When thy praise is nobly sung!

Own your failings, don’t dissemble ’em,
Why extol the kangroo?
If you want a national emblem,
Surely a Pea-hen will do?

There the matter appears to have rested. Perhaps the clipping of Deuchar’s wings also trimmed the feathers of the poetic flights of others.

Alleged False Pretences. A Partnership Dispute
At the City Police Court yesterday, before Mr. A.S. Roe, P.M., Allan Deuchar was charged by Ebenezer Allen with obtaining from him £400 by falsely representing that the profits in his business exceeded the actual amount, Mr. Clydesdale appeared for the prosecutor, and Mr. Ewing for the defendant.
17 July1900, The West Australian

By 1902 the feathers had grown again. The Southern Cross Times of 8 February, 1902:-

PERIGRINATIONS
by “The Nomad”
Here, land o’dust, and thirsty sots,
From dead goat end to railway plots,
If there’s a hole in yer coats
I rede you tent it:
A chiels amang you taking notes
The TIMES will prent it.

Then a distant echo in The Sun of 11 September, 1904:-
IN MEMORIUM
News item: Hine’s Hill refreshment rooms recently burned down, will, in view of the putting on of dining cars, in all probability not be rebuilt.

Farewell, O, tinned dog, fare thee well;
Farewell, O, half-cold coffee,
Farewell, the meal you used to sell,
To swaggie or to toffie,
Farewell unto the ancient snack,
The tea and sandwich hurried,
Farewell to that mysterious tack,
 Scrub-mutton, hashed and curried,
Farewell to that pyjamaed horde
Who early in the morning
Foregathered at the “festive board,”
With mouths agape and yawning,
Farewell the mob’s impatient cry,
Farewell the answer shirty,
Farewell the good old possum pie,
Farewell the “hot-and-dirty,”
Farewell the cutlery superb,
The cloth and napkins “snowy!”
Farewell the adjective and verb,
At puddings dark and doughy.
Farewell the dogs who snarled for bones,
Farewell their flealets frisky,
Farewell the guard’s stentorian tones,
 And O! farewell the whisky!

The scene changes, a new act begins. The Sunday Times of 3 December, 1905. This was rediscovered by The Northern Times of 28 October, 1911 – “one of the North-West’s first locally made poems” and The Hedland Advocate of 4 November, 1911 with the comments from the latter

NOR’-STRALIA
Described in Quatrains
A Broome man brought this shriek along. He said it was published in the Dampier Despatch (alias “Dampier Despair”) on September 16:-
 
Land of outcasts, fleas and flies,
Ruined health and blighted eyes;
Art thou hell in earth’s disguise?
Nor’-stralia.
Wert thou once the promised land,
Where Adam broke God’s own command,
That he in wrath turned thee to sand?
Nor’stralia.
Or art thou some volcanic blast,
By e’en volcanoes spurned, outcast,
Art still unfinished, made the last?
Nor’stralia.
Land of chain-gangs, poor paid clerks,
Nest of sneiders, pearling sharks,
Dried up lakes, and desert parks.
Nor’-stralia.
Land of murderers, colored mobs,
Willy willy wrecks and cock-eye-bobs,
Land of gamblers, arrant snobs.
Nor’stralia.
Land of humpies, so-called inns,
Wicked men and faithless gins:
Land of blackest, grievous sins.
Nor’stralia.
Where pearls are stolen every day,
Where wrong is right the gamblers say,
Beyond redemption! who’ll say nay?
Nor’stralia.

The following was written by a resident of Broome and published in the Dampier Despatch (a typewritten sheet) about eight years ago. The author is dead. The Proprietor of the Despatch lost 12 of his 16 subscribers through publishing the above, and we are given to understand that Green refused to publish it for fear of a somewhat similar fate.

NORSTRALIA
An angry Carnarvon poet, after reading the verses on Norstralia in last week’s issue, strode belligerently into our office, and seizing our ink and several envelopes, relieved himself of the following:-
 
Land of brave men, intent to rise
To nationhood. This goal their eyes
Constraining; swerving not for lies –
Norstralia.
Still thou art the promised land
For old world slaves. Jah’s command
Provides for fruit from all thy land –
Norstralia.
If Volcan built in ages past,
Or later; whether first or last,
O’ershadows not thy future vast
Norstralia.
Land of free and smiling homes,
Bark-roofed, bough, or gilded domes
Is thy guerdon. Poetaster!
Thy dread list of black disaster
Nathless. Shivering pessimist,
Liar also; wits moonkissed
Thine must be. Australind stands clean
Despite thy vapour; charges mean
And filthy, such as dragged to light
By thee from their own native night
Or colored by thy “snobs and gins,”
Associates fit for thine own sins –
Avail not. Liar, cur and friend
Of liars! I for one make end
And pray – Relief from thee God send
To fair
Norstralia.
 
4 November, 1911. The Northern Times.
This was reprinted the next week with corrections, “on account of two errors that escaped notice, due, of course, to the scribes calligraphy. “The Kalgoorlie Miner and Argus finally discovered the original Norstralia and printed it in January and February, 1914. Now (23 October, 1919. The Western Mail) the imitations became spread out:-

I had a visit a few days ago from a gaunt and unhappy-looking party with a grievance. He told me he had lived all his life in Western Australia, was a servant of the State and in receipt of a salary which any self-respecting member of the Industrial Union of Amalgamated Navvies would reject with gaudily-trimmed scorn. He handed me about five feet of verse, which he said, embodied in tuneful measure, his opinions about the West and some of its most prominent citizens. I quote the only verses that are quite free from doubly distilled essence of libel.
 
“Hail, West Australia! blessed clime,
The lovely land of my adoption,
I never would have seen the spot,
If I had had the slightest option.
Hail, glorious gums of mighty height!
Whose heads the very skies pervade.
Whose tops and trunks yield vast supplies,
But not a particle of shade.
Hail, West Australia, once more hail!
That man indeed is surely rash,
Who cannot live content in thee,
Or wants for anything – but cash.”
and of course war propaganda never goes astray:-
The Hun, who is obliged, to be responsible for the following lines, will probably become a professor in a German university. He has all the qualifications. The “howling” dingo is a picturesquely Prussian touch.

THE DEPORTED HUN’S FAREWLL TO AUSTRALIA
Australia, thou art a land of pests,
For fleas, flies and bugs one never rests,
E’en now mosquitoes round me revel,
In fact they are the very devil.
Sandflies and hornets just as bad,
They nearly drive a fellow mad.
Parched up deserts, thirsty plains,
Parched deserts, scanty rains,
There’s rivers where you can’t sail ships on,
There’s nigger women without shifts on.
There’s humpies, huts, and wooden houses,
There’s nigger men who don’t wear trousers.
There’s barcoo rot and sandy blight,
There’s dingoes howling all the night?
There’s curlews, quails, and croaking frogs,
There’s savage blacks and native dogs.
There’s scentless flowers and stinging trees,
There’s poisonous grass and darling peas
Which drive the cattle raving mad.
Make sheep and horses just as bad,
And then it never rains in reason,
There’s drought one year, and floods next season.
Which sweep the squatters’ sheep away,
And then there is Old Nick to pay.
To stay in thee, oh! land of mutton,
I would not give a single button.
To Germany I’ve got a passage
And soon will have sauer-kraut and sausage.
24 December, 1919. The Western Mail

or social comment:-
Nomadic Niggers. A Katanning Komplaint. Dogs, Gins, Fleas, And Flies
It may, or may not, be generally known that there is a native settlement at Carrolup, handy to Katanning. Quite obviously it is not a complete success, and the Southern Districts Advocate (Katanning) has no hesitation in saying it is a failure. The Advocate claims to be quite calm and restrained on the subject. If that is so, and the paper carries out its threat to really “let itself go” later on, well then there will be something doing. The Advocate writes under the heading of

THE NOMADIC NIGGER NUISANCE
Frowsy kids and filthy rags,
Well-picked bones and tattered bags,
Dirty bucks and greasy gins,
Broken bottles and empty tins,
Lousy camps and mangy dogs,
With swarms of flies and smold’ring logs.
And there you have it. The above few lines were suggested yesterday afternoon, when we made it our business to take a walk across the commonage at the south end of the town. We had noticed for some time past that quite a tribe of niggers had been meandering about the streets and not far from our humble habitat the air for many evenings had been pierced by the yells of piccaninnies, and sometimes by, as we afterwards learned, the weird wailings of disobedient gins, who were being given a gentle lesson in domestic felicity.

8 October, 1921.The Truth

COCKIES’ FAREWELL TO YILGARN
by ‘Boomerang’
(Dedicated to Inspector Buttfield)
Oh Yilgarn, thou art a land of pests,
From dust and flies one never rests;
E’en now mosquitoes about me revel,
And dingoes play the very devil.
 
There’s farms up here that are not tres bon,
Gristling wheat lands with no wheat on;
There’s humpies, huts and tin-can houses,
There’ll soon be cockies minus trousers.
 
Parched up paddocks, scanty rains,
Hell fire dust storms, scrubby plains;
Goannas, snakes and shrewd brer rabbit,
All make this cocky slick to swag it.
 
I’m leaving here before I’m starving,
Gone’s the home I thought of carving;
Cockies’ life is only bubble,
Heaps of debt and tons of trouble.
 
I will not have thee, poverty point,
I’m off to find another joint;
And bid thee now a last farewell,
Thou scorching, sunburnt land of hell.
 
25 January, 1930. The Southern Cross Times
By the end of the depression memories were getting a little hazy:-
LAND OF NICKNAMES
The Western Mail, 22 October, 1936.
Dear “Non-Com” – Some people refer to that country which lies far to the north as the Land of Lags, Swags, Dags, Nags, Fags and Waterbags, and although the several “ags” are doubtless well represented, I always like to think of it as the Land of Nicknames.

For here the nickname flourishes and few are spared. Usually it is well chosen and gives an idea of the owner’s habits or characteristics. ‘Stirrup Iron’, Wubin.

15 December, 1938. The Western Mail
Could any of the team oblige me with the words of a poem which goes like this:-
 
 Australia, thou art a land of pests,
 For fleas and flies one never rests,
 Barcoo rot and sandy blight
 And dingoes howling all the night
Then there’s another which goes:-
 
 He who runs when dingoes howl
 Should stay at home like some other fowl.
I’m not sure that they don’t both belong to the one item
‘Cheedarra’, Youanmi

FARMER’S FAREWELL?
12 January, 1939. The Western Mail.
Dear “Non-Com,” – “Cheedarra” is inquiring for the words of a poem commencing “Australia, thou art a land of pests.” I enclose one version which sounds to me like a farmer’s farewell to his farm.
 
 When crops were poor
 And prices low,
 The mortgage large
 And he had to go.
 
‘Hazeldine’, Lake Grace
The verse is as follows:-

THE BUSHMAN’S LAMENT
Australia, thou are a land of pests;
For flies and fleas, one never rests.
E’en now mosquitoes round me revel.
In fact, they are the very devil.
Sandflies and hornets just as bad.
They nearly drive a fellow mad.
The scorpion and centipede,
With stinging ants of every breed.
Fever and ague, with the shakes,
Tarantulas and poisonous snakes,
Iguanas, lizards, cockatoos,
Jackaroos, dogs and kangaroos,
Bandicoots and swarms of rats,
Bulldog ants and native cats,
Stunted timber, thirsty plains,
Parched up deserts, scanty rains.
 
There’s humpies, huts and wooden houses
And nigger men who don’t wear trousers,
There’s barcoo rot, and sandy blight
There’s dingoes howling all the night,
There’s curlew’s wails and croaking frogs,
There’s savage blacks and native dogs.
There’s scentless flowers and stinging trees,
There’s poisonous grass and buzzing bees,
Which drive the cattle raving mad,
Make sheep and horses just as bad,
And then, it never rains, in reason,
There’s drought one year, and rain next season,
Which sweeps the squatter’s sheep away
And then there is “the devil” to pay.
To stay in thee, oh land of mutton,
I would not give a single button,
But bid thee now a long farewell,
Thou scorching, sunburnt land of hell.

LAND OF OPPORTUNITY!
The Western Mail, 9 February 1939.
Dear “Non-Com,” – I have read with interest the verses that have appeared from time to time in the Highway and Dolly Pot. Some were amusing, others enlightening – all were good reading. Here is one I’d like to add. It concerns a “t’othersider” and his impressions of this State. I do not know the author.

FAREWELL TO WESTRALIA

Land of politicians silly,
Land of dust and willy-willy.
Land of blankets, tent and billy.
Westralia.
Land of dingoes, dagos, flies,
Blighted hopes and blighted eyes,
Art thou Hell in Earth’s disguise?
Westralia.
 
I could some stories of thee tell,
What matter now? To thee farewell.
Thou dirty, sunburnt land of Hell,
Westralia.
 
RED O’SHANE, Kennedy Ranges

However the Ode had its ancestors in WA and t’otherside. Here we have the first glimmerings of its life in Western Australia:-

18 June, 1887. The Weekly Times.
In Australia everything is so horribly new, one is so continually being reminded that we live in a country without a vestige of old associations, that it is a pleasure to be now and then brought face to face with some rite or ceremony that carries the thoughts back to the old world, and to a period when the

 “Land of gum and Mallee tree,

 Land of kangaroo and wallaby,”

had yet to wait many a century before it should be needed as an overflow reservoir for the Anglo-Saxon race.

*   *   *   *

If any of my readers are curious on the subject of quotations I may tell that, to the best of my knowledge, they will not find the couplet, “Land of gum, &c.,” in the works of any English or Australian poets. They have an history of their own. Though not of my composition, it is the first time, I believe, that they have figured in print. Some years ago I happened to be travelling with sheep up the river Murray in South Australia towards the New South Wales border. Our party stopped for one night at a place known as Develin’s Pound, where there is a dilapidated edifice that had once done duty as a public-house, but was then, and had, for several years, been deserted. This building was a favorite resort for “sundowners” on their way up the river, and it walls were a repository of their thoughts and opinions, both sacred and profane – with the profane decidedly preponderating. Many of the scribblings struck me as possessing a certain amount of rude originality, but in nearly all of them the “rudeness” – to use a mild term – was so very marked, that they are unfit to be put in print. My quotation is a copy of one of the inscriptions at Develin’s Pound, and as it is somewhat more refined than the others I give it in full.

 “Land of gum and Mallee tree,

 Land of kangaroo and wallaby,

 Squatters home, and squatters hell,

 Land of beggars fare thee well!”

The poet, I should explain, is speaking of South Australia, which colony he is forsaking for New South Wales.

22 May, 1894. The Geraldton Murchison Telegraph. The Sydney correspondent of the London Figaro writes:-

Australia just now has a very bad attack of gold-fever. I have just returned to Sydney after a tour through the interior of New South Wales. Everywhere I met men packing up their traps preparatory to embarking for West Australia. The “rush” of the early days was not more pornounced than that of the present, though the gold-seekers of to-day set out with a wider knowledge of mining and minerals than their fore-fathers. From Coolgardie, the centre of the new mining district, come reports of a contrary character. To some men fortune has been kind. These find West Australia, if not a pleasant place, at least one that can be endured. Others describe the field and its surroundings as “Hell” itself. The other day I came across a poem by a disgusted prospector, which hits the situation to a nicety.

Here ‘tis:-

Land of scrub dust and desert sand

Whose arid plains will not yeald food for man

Whose mighty lakes are naught but leads of salt

Where the weried traveler cannot hault

To quench his burning thirst with Adam’s ale

Or wash his hide from dust most stale

Whose great rich mines are skite and gass

Boomed up by men with lying tongues and cheeks of brass

You other siders take heed in time

Come not near this curset rechet clime

There is nothing here but scrub sault and sand

Western Austrelea is old hell for a free white man.

Advance Australia

Latest version (1 June, 1894, Victoria Express)

Advance Australia! Chosen land

Of blackguards, great and small

Where rogues and cheats and scoundrels band

To prey on people all.

Where Legislators mostly are

A very mouldy lot!

Where Editors WOULD BE on a par

With Solon; but ARE NOT!

Where Chinkies, Japs and Afghans roam

Abroad, at their sweet will;

Where Leprosy stalks near our home

And hideous fears instil.

Where every vice in man is found, 

And youth is vicious, too! –

Where fraud and treachery rank abound

And murder’s nothing new!

Advance Australia! Yes you may

In a very far off day;

When all these blots are wiped away

And better men have sway.

Ex.

27 April, 1895. The Eastern Districts Chronicle

COOLGARDIE. – A correspondent writes in the following strain to a Sydney contemporary concerning Coolgardie. The paragraph runs: –

‘This is an accursed country – the worst outside Gehenna. It is the birthplace of beautiful mirages, – of deadly insects, and lovely-hued reptiles; of songless birds, of venomous flies, of undrinkable water, immersion in which peels the skin from the hardest hand; and of the most virulent ‘Barcoo rot’ in any part of the Australias. But it is a land fairly teeming with gold, and one that will vie with any known area in gold production. The more I see of the country the more am I satisfied that it is too huge to be coped with in a decade. Picture an auriferous area of over 200,000 square miles, and constantly extending to every quarter of the compass. Consider that, collectively, at insignificant intervals, thousands of claims have been located; that each of these claims is intersected by a lode, whether good, bad or indifferent, and then sit down and solemnly sum up the net potentialities of such a field. The one thing necessary to success is a bountiful water supply. That is merely a question of a couple of millions of money. In two years Esperance Bay will undoubtedly be brought to the back doors of Coolgardie. Then not only will the mines, for various reasons, be on a better footing for economical working than any other group in Australasia, but the country will be rendered fit for man and beast. I am no optimist. Five years hence let this picture be brought to light.

8 April, 1895. The Coolgardie Miner.

What weak-minded efforts at describing Coolgardie are made by some of the “Jackaroo” visitors. One named Doolake, a crow-eater, dubs the field “the land of sin, sand, salt, sorrow and sore eyes.” He should have added swelled head, also.

10 May, 1895. The Geraldton Express.

You can always tell a Westralian letter by the colour of the envelope. There are stains and streaks of reddish dust all over it, and, in addition to the dust, there is often a faint, sickly, perfume attached to the epistle – an odour of desert and flies and old meat-tins and other things too numerous to mention. Westralia has a smell that is all its own, and whoever has been there and met it will remember it ever after as the smell of a lost land, and a busted mine, and a lying prospectus, and a fishy Government, and a God-for-gotten population, and as the odour of the last scrag-end of the world generally. Having got these remarks off its chest, the Bulletin feels rather better. – Bulletin.

26 June 1896. The Geraldton Express.

In the Ovens and Murray Advertiser (Vic.) the irrepressible Frank Weston writes long and appreciative articles upon the Murchison goldfields. It is refreshing to find someone ‘boosting up’ the Murchison in the Eastern Press, and the Geraldton Chamber of Commerce ought to be duly grateful to Frank. His appreciation stops at the mines, though. The lines which he quotes (from an anonymous writer) are not likely to boom Westralia as a picturesque health-resort. Here they are:-

Farewell To The Fields

Land of deceitfulness and lies,

Of large “Bungarrows,” dust and flies,

Whose rivers, save it rains or snows,

Are beds in which no water flows –

Why call them rivers, goodness knows!

No plumed songster greets the eye,

For all the birds in silence fly,

Save Daw and Crow with hideous cry;

Whose history will hand down to fame

The “Wealth of Nations” fearful shame;

Whose beef and mutton taste the same.

Thou, land with no good thing whatever,

I leave thee now, I trust forever,

The greatest sinner here I trow,

With brand of Cain upon his brow,

Summoned to answer judgment’s knell

Would gladly take his last farewell

To seek some better place in H—l.

Land only fit for Natives few,

I bid thee now a long adieu!

P.P.C. To The Murchison Fields

(By a Fever-Stricken Disappointed Prospector)
15 July 1896. The Murchison Times and Day Dawn Gazette.

Land of the Red-spot-spider, fare thee well!

Region of sin, sand, centipede and sorrow.

No more within thee shall my footsteps dwell,

If Gascard’s coach is outward bound to-morrow!

Home of the “wild-cat” and the “duffing” reef,

Whose “surface shows” pinch out at fifty feet,

Sump hole for cash, wrung from a boom as brief,

As “two-ounce crushings” when a sale’s complete!

Chosen abode of Barcoo and “bung-eye;”

Gaunt breeding place for all Earth’s myriad flies,

Where typhoid stalks through camp, and bush, and mine,

Carving on brightest hopes and lives – “here lies – –“

Desert of Mulga-bush and red hot earth

Salt as Lot’s wife, and parched as Sodom’s site;

Tired winds moan through thy countless leagues of dearth,

Sighing to tell whose bones bleach there so white!

In thy drear waste, mid drought and dust – and thirst

Made maddening by “tinned-dog” for daily tuck—

I’ve lingered long; and may I perish first

Ere I return; for here I cut my luck!

If for my sins and follies, Fates decree

That somewhere vile in penance I shall dwell,

Calmly I’ll choose that realm (if choice be free)

Beneath; but not these environs of h-ll!

Thus! From my feet thy ochreous dust I shake!

My homeward fare I’ll raise – steal, beg, or borrow.

And everlasting leave of thee I’ll take

When Gascard’s coach is outward bound to-morrow!

“S.”

4 October, 1896. The Geraldton Express

A few weeks ago the aspect of this district could only be characterised as an “abomination of desolation;” and the expression “Thou scorched and sunburnt land of Hell,” originally addressed by an exasperated “new chum” to Western Queensland, might far more appropriately have been applied to this part of Westralia. But Jupiter Pluvius has changed all that! And the æsthetic sense of an admirer of Nature, would be delighted by a glimpse of the landscape, which is now spread before our eyes. The prospect from Mount Hall, of the silvery lake with its verdant islands, stretching away to the “far blue hills” in the distance, might well remind a person of poetic temperament – if such an unlucky being exists in Nannine – of the lines of Tennyson, descriptive of the legendary Avilion:-

 ………… “It lies

Deep meadowed, happy, fair,

With orchard-lawns, and bowery hollows,

Crowned by Summer seas.”

Nannine, March 25th, 1896

10 April, 1897. Tothersider

The insect world of W.A.

O, blighting fly and bumble bee.

O, centipede and Esperance flea.

O, scorpions fierce and thrifty ants,

That often clamber up my ——–

18 June, 1897. The Geraldton Express

A daily paper says that “a belief prevails in some scientific quarters that at a certain depth gold exists in vast masses as a virgin ore, and may be hewn out like coal.” This, of course, refers to Westralia, which is well-known (by mining experts and company promoters) to consist simply of a superstratum, more or less thick, of sand, scrub, mosquitoes. Six Families, corned-beef tins, rum shanties, and blasphemy resting on a bed of solid bullion. There is no telling, except by experiment, just how thick this superstratum may be. But the British investor may rest assured that if he will keep on (which, just now, it seems he won’t) sending out money the Westralian miners will eventually strike the gold, even if they have to dig down to the centre of the earth for it. – Melbourne Punch.

The origins and spread of the verse and its corollaries widen with research. In The Poet’s Discovery (ed. Jordan and Pierce) MUP, 1990, appears the following which is unfortunately not referenced:-

Scraps from a Bushman’s Note Book

Port Phillip! Land of many wonders;

Land of lightning; land of thunders;

Land of various reptiles evil;

Land of heat would scorch the devil;

Land of every savage vice;

Land of Christian avarice;

Land of emus, kangaroos;

Land of parrots, cockatoos;

Land of pelicans, black swans;

Land of possums and tuans;1

Land of bandicoots, wild cats;

Land of Platipusses, rabbit rats,2

Land of march flies and mosquitos;

Land of pumpkins and tomatoes;

Land whose various winged tribes

Are yet unsung by learned scribes;

Land of gloomy desolation;

Land of reckless dissipation;

Land of damper, tea, and mutton,

Enough to satiate a glutton;

On damper, mutton, and bohea,3

Poor bushmen fare three times a day.

Land of murderers, burglars, robbers;

Pickpockets, lawyers, and landjobbers.4

From every turn my fate directs,

I feel the gloomiest effects-

By day by hosts of flies invaded,

At night by wild dogs serenaded.

[Anon]

1    Aboriginal name for the flying glider.

2    The jumping mouse or hapalote.

3    Low grade tea.

4    Land sharks, who make excessive profits from land speculation.

Land of Promise (in With Malice Aforethought by Bill Wannan.) appears to date from the 1860s.

Land Of Promise

From A.B. Paterson’s collection, Old Bush Songs (1905). Paterson noted: ‘Mr Jordan was sent to England by the Queensland Government in 1858, 1859, and 1860 to lecture on the advantages of immigration, and told the most extraordinary tales about the place.’

Air: Four and Twenty Blackbirds

Now Jordan’s land of promise is the burden of my song.

Perhaps you’ve heard him lecture, and blow about it strong.

To hear him talk you’d think it was a heaven upon earth,

But listen and I’ll tell you now the plain unvarnished truth.

Here mutton, beef, and damper are all you’ll get to eat

From Monday morn till Sunday night, all through the blessed week.

And if the flour-bag should run short, then mutton, beef, and tea

Will be your lot, and whether or not, ‘twill have to do, you’ll see.

Here snakes and all vile reptiles crawl around you as you walk,

But these you never hear about in Mr Jordan’s talk;

Mosquitoes, too, and sandflies, they will tease you all the night,

And until you get quite colonized you’ll be a pretty sight.

Here are boundless plains where it seldom rains, and you’ll maybe die of thirst;

But should you so dispose your bones, you’ll scarcely be the first,

For there’s many a strong and stalwart man come out to make his pile

Who never leaves the fatal shore of this thrice accursed isle.

To sum it up in few short words, the place is only fit

For those who were sent out here, for from it they cannot flit.

But any other men who come a living here to try

Will vegetate a little while, and then lie down and die.

The Walkabout of October, 1951 has a version thought to have been written in the 1880s

Land Of Contrarieties

Sir,

Some time ago in a parcel of old books which were sent to me from England I came across these lines. The original ink manuscript is very faded.

The lines probably had their origin in Australia as my mother’s brother married in Australia somewhere about the ‘80’s and I am firmly of the opinion that the original was sent home in a letter, and probably the handwriting is that of my aunt, whom I never saw and who is long since deceased.

There is a land in distant seas

Full of all contrarieties.

There beasts have mallards’ bills and legs,

Have spurs like cocks, like hens lay eggs.

There parrots walk upon the ground,

And grass upon the trees is found;

On other trees – another wonder –

Leaves without upper side or under.

There pears you’ll scarce with hatchet cut;

Stones are outside the cherries put;

Swans are not white, but black as soot;

There neither leaf, nor root, nor fruit

Will any christian palate suit;

Unless in desperate need you’ll fill ye

With root of fern and stalk of lily.

There missiles to far distance sent

Come whizzing back from whence they went.

There a voracious eye-sheep crams

Her paunch with flesh of tender lambs;

While ‘stead of bread and beef and broth,

Men feast on many a roasted moth.

There quadrupeds go on two feet

And yet few quadrupeds so fleet;

There birds, although they cannot fly,

In swiftness with the greyhound vie.

With equal wonder you may see

The foxes fly from tree to tree;

And what they value most, so wary,

These foxes in their pockets carry.

The sun when you to face him turn ye

From right to left performs his journey.

The north winds scorch; but when the breeze is

full from the south, why then it freezes.

Now of what place can such strange tales

Be told with truth, but New South Wales.

North Perth, W.A. John Allen

Perhaps this from an undated postcard is from the same period. The sentiments appear to have originated long before the rush to Western Australia, as the above and following show:-

The Pommes Farewell

AUSTRALIA! thou art a land of pests,

For flies and fleas one never rests;

E’en now mosquitoes round me revel;

In fact they are the very devil.

Sandflies and hornets just as bad –

They nearly drive a fellow mad.

The scorpion and centipede,

With stinging ants of every breed,

Fever and ague with shakes,

Tarantulas and poisonous snakes;

Iguanas, lizards, cockatoos,

Bushrangers, logs and jackeroos,

Bandicoots and swarms of rats,

Bulldog ants and native cats,

Stunted timber, thirsty plains,

Parched up deserts, scanty rains.

There’s rivers here you can’t sail ships on,

There’s nigger women without shifts on.

There’s humpies, huts, and wooden houses,

And nigger men who don’t wear trousers.

There’s Barcoo rot and sandy blight,

There’s dingoes howling all the night,

There’s curlews’ wails and croaking frogs,

There’s savage blacks and native dogs.

There’s scentless flowers and stinging trees,

There’s poisonous grass and Darling peas,

Which drive the cattle raving mad,

Make sheep and horses just as bad.

And then it never rains in reason –

There’s drought one year and floods next season,

Which sweep the squatter’s sheep away,

And then there is the devil to pay.

To stay in thee, Oh! Land of Mutton!

I would not give a single button.

But bid thee now a long farewell,

Thou scorching, sunburnt land of Hell!

The Bushman’s Farewell To Queensland

There are several versions of this bit of old folklore still in circulation. The present one has been slightly abbreviated, not for reasons of censorship but because it seemed to me boringly over-long.

In With Malice Aforethought, edited by Bill Wannan.

Queensland, thou art a land of pests;

For flies and fleas one never rests.

E’en now mosquitoes round me revel –

In fact they are the very devil.

Sandflies and hornets, just as bad,

they nearly drive a fellow mad;

With scorpion and centipede

And stinging ants of every breed:

Fever and ague, with the shakes,

Tarantulas and poisonous snakes;

Iguanas, lizards, cockatoos,

Bushrangers and jackaroos,

Bandicoots and swarms of rats,

Bulldog ants and native cats;

Stunted timber, thirsty plains,

Parched-up deserts, scanty rains;

There’s rivers here you can’t sail ships on,

There’s native women without shifts on;

There’s humpies, huts, and wooden houses,

And native men who don’t wear trousers;

There’s Barcoo rot and sandy-blight,

There’s dingoes howling all the night;

There’s curlew’s wail, and croaking frogs,

There’s savage blacks and native dogs…

To stay in thee, O land of mutton,

I wouldn’t give a single button,

But bid thee now a long farewell,

Thou scorching, sunburnt land of hell!

From New Zealand, pre World War Two (?) and the pen of the Hon. John Burke O’Brien (?) appears a snippet of our old friend from a swagmans viewpoint. It appears in Roughnecks, Rolling Stones and Rouseabouts by JA Lee, Whitcoulls, 1977.

Whatever else rhymes did, they told fellow travellers where to expect kindness and where not to linger. Rhymes like:-

Land of rocks and rabbits too,

Rotten squatter, cockatoo;

Squatter heaven, swagger hell,

Land of rabbits fare thee well.

Who would want to venture on a track after reading such a warning?

And finally perhaps Australian troops took this to Egypt in the wars as a fitting resting place for such abuse. (Kiss Me Goodnight Sergeant Major by Martin Page, 1973):-

Land Of Heat And Sweaty Socks

To the tune of ‘There is a Tavern in the Town’

Land of heat and sweaty socks,

Sin and sand and lots of rocks,

Streets of sorrow, streets of fame,

Streets to which we give no name.

Streets of filth and stinking dogs,

Harlots, thieves and festering wogs,

Clouds of choking sand that blinds,

And drives poor airman off their minds.

Aching hearts and stinking feet,

Gippo guts and camel meat.

The Arab’s heaven – airmen’s hell.

Land of Pharaohs – FARE THEE WELL.

CLASSIC BUSH VERSE – JACK MOSES

The famed songwriter and poet, Jack Moses, was born in Sydney at the height of the 1860 rush for gold.
His most famous song is Nine Miles From Gundagai

Nine Miles From Gundagai

I’ve done my share of shearing sheep,
Of droving and all that,
And bogged a bullock team as well,
On a Murrumbidgee flat.
I’ve seen the bullock stretch and strain,
And blink his bleary eye,
And the dog sit on the tucker box,
Nine miles from Gundagai.

I’ve been jilted, jarred, and crossed in love,
And sand-bagged in the dark,
Till if a mountain fell on me
I’d treat it as a lark.
It’s when you’ve got your bullocks bogged
That’s the time you flog and cry.
And the dog sits on the tucker box,
Nine miles from Gundagai.

We’ve all got our little troubles,
In life’s hard, thorny, way.
Some strike them in a motor car
And others in a dray.
But when your dog and bullocks strike
It aint no apple pie,
And the dog sat on the tucker box,
Nine miles from Gundagai.

But that’s all past and dead and gone,
And I’ve sold the team for meat,
And perhaps some day where I was bogged,
There’ll be an asphalt street.
The dog, Ah! well he took a bait,
And thought he’d like to die,
So I buried him in the tucker box,
Nine miles from Gundagai.

These lyrics, based on an earlier mythical story, found favour with the bush and, like some of Lawson’s and Paterson’s works, found themselves travelling the bush with a different tune and lyrics.

Jack Moses also travelled the bush in life for he was a travelling salesman for wine. He was a regular and welcome face at the various agricultural shows and, according to history, good at both spruiking wine and reciting poetry. According to an article by ‘El V’ (Bulletin 5 May 1938), Moses’ father ‘came out from London in Macquarie’s day to marry a merry Irish girl. This fact possibly explains Moses’ love of the bush ballad.

He must have attained quite a reputation for the 1920 publication The Bulletin Book of Humorous Verses and Recitations was dedicated to him as a ‘Good Australian’ who was ‘for many years a Bulletin reciter in the bush.’

One of his favourite authors was Henry Lawson, who in the poem Joseph’s Dreams (1923) refers to Moses in stating ‘my best friend was a Yid’; Moses recalled their friendship in Henry Lawson by His Mates (1931). (a ‘yid’ was a reference to a Jew however, according to Jewish law, if his mother was Irish (as above), then Moses was not technically Jewish). The word ‘yid’ (short for Yiddish) has gone out of popular use. It was used by Jewish comedians like Roy Rene against themselves.

Jack Moses was a long-time contributor to the Bulletin, the Sydney Mail, Smith’s Weekly and many other journals and newspapers.

This little humorous verse by Jack Moses could possibly be based on truth. Maybe not!

When The Police Force Couldn’t Spell

Years ago when our land was new
Scholars then were very few
A poor old cabby’s horse dropped dead
In Castlereagh Street, it is said.

Policeman ‘9’ was standing by
And saw the neddy fall and die
“on this I must at once report –
Can I spell Castlereagh?’ he thought.

God bless the force!
They’re never beat.
He dragged the horse into King Street.

‘Nine Miles from Gundagai’ was published in 1938 as a volume of verse.

Like much of Australia’s early folklore, the origins of the Dog on the Tuckerbox are comparable to the ongoing debate about the origins of Waltzing Matilda.

There is every reason to believe the tale was based on fact. The roads, if one could call them that, were little more than tracks and prone to either dust or mud. The giant iron wheels of the bullock wagons would have tore the dirt road to pieces and, with the first downpour of rain, would become muddy bogs. Easy conditions to snap an axle and snap a bullock driver’s determination. It’s probably one of the reasons bullockies had such a fearsome reputation as swearers.

It was also not unusual for a bullocky to leave his trusty dog in charge of the camp and bullocks, when he trudged off to the nearest homestead or town for assistance. One can almost picture the dog sitting on the tucker box waiting for his master’s return.

In the 1850s, hot on the tail of this legend, came a poem by anonymous scribbler called ‘Bowyang Yorke’. This is the poem that inspired Moses to write his poem.

As I was coming down Conroy’s Gap,
I heard a maiden cry;
‘There goes Bill the Bullocky,
He’s bound for Gundagai.
A better poor old beggar
Never earnt an honest crust,
A better poor old beggar
Never drug a whip through dust.’
His team got bogged at the nine mile creek,
Bill lashed and swore and cried;
‘If Nobby don’t get me out of this,
I’ll tattoo his bloody hide.’
But Nobby strained and broke the yoke,
And poked out the leader’s eye;
Then the dog sat on the Tucker Box
Nine miles from Gundagai.

(the ‘beggar’ could quite possibly be ‘buggar’)

Jack O’Hagan continued the legend in his version of the song in 1937. This song firmly put Gundagai on the world map and became a firm radio and gramophone popular hit. It has been recorded by hundreds of artists and is considered quintessentially Australian.
Charming historic township on the banks of the Murrumbidgee River

Gundagai is situated on the Murrumbidgee River at the foot of Mt Parnassus, 387 km south-west of Sydney. It is located just off the Hume Highway about halfway between Yass and Holbrook at an elevation of 225 m. The monument of the Dog on the Tuckerbox lies about five miles (eight kilometres) north of the New South Wales town of Gundagai and has become an icon of Australia’s past.

The big question about Jack Moses’ poem is whether the dog ‘sat’ or ‘shat’ in or on the box! Did the poet willingly censor himself?
The answer to this can be found in a booklet published in 1932 for the commemorative ceremony unveiling the monument at Gundagai. The booklet explains the early myth and relates how one dog, near Five Mile Creek, actually shat in the tucker box while waiting for his master’s return.
On hearing this Moses wrote a ditty:

Good morning mate, you are too late,
The shearing is all over,
Tie up your dog behind the log
Come in and have some dover.
For Nobby Jack has broke the yoke,
Poked out the leader’s eye
And the dog … in the tucker box,
Five miles from Gundagai.

So, that’s the original anonymous piece that inspired the Moses poem and, later, the O’Hagan song.

After his retirement Jack Moses settled in Sydney, where he was a affectionately regarded as a ‘character’, who distributed postcards of his poems.

He died the year before I was born, in 1945.

© Warren Fahey

SCHOOLS OF THOUGHT – The Life and Writings of Will Carter

I have lost count of the year I first came across the poem Tumba-bloody-Rumba about the bushman who, after being a shearer, rabbit trapper, stacker and a few other jobs to boot, ended up ‘shooting kanga-bloody-roos at Tumba-bloody-rumba”. It would have been in the early 1970s and it led me to John Wolfe, a local poet, who swore black and blue he wrote it. We had a bit of correspondence and John gave me the green light to put his poem to music. I did, and have been singing it ever since.

Here’s John Wolfe’s version.

TUMBA-BLOODY-RUMBA

He asked for work at muster-time,
We tried him as a rider,
We tried him out as the rouseabout,
And as the cook’s off-sider,
He had sailed the seven seas,
He’d been up in Alaska,
He’d been in every western state
From Texas to Nebraska.

He said he’d shorn a sheep or two,
And cut a bit of lumber,
And waged war on the kangaroo,
At Tumba-bloody-rumba.

We had him in the shearing shed,
We put him on the stacker,
We tried him digging rabbits out,
He wasn’t worth a cracker,
He had a shop in Singapore,
He owned a pearling lugger,
He was a champ at baccarat,
Australian rules and rugger.

He never showed his aptitude,
On work he was allotted,
But showed his skill upon the drinks,
And cigarettes he botted,
He said he’d climbed the Materhorn,
He’d been a union leader,
And years ago in Adelaide
He was a pigeon breeder.

We tried him cutting fencing posts,
We tried to find his caper,
Until that happy pay-day when
He got his piece of paper.
I wonder what he’s doing now,
Perhaps back on the lumber,
Or shooting kanga-bloody-roos,
At Tumba-bloody-rumba.

(A recorded version appears in my ABC Music CD series and the music notation in the accompanying book ‘Australia: Its Folks Songs & Bush ballads’)

A recently published book on Will Carter (By Ron and Catherine Frew) now has me confused over the authorship of the poem. More likely there have been more than one version of the poem floating around and, as often the case, people add a verse, change a few things, and claim it as their work. These versions are, of course, correct in some degree and this is often the way oral transmission of folk song and poetry works. In their introduction to the book the Frews point to the Tumbarumba poem as having a life of its own and one possible contender, because he was an active poet, was their subject, Will Carter. This was not to be the case and the Frews point to the original version, or possible one of the original versions was more likely the work of John O’Grady, best known for his work as ‘Nino Culotta’ and ‘They’re A Weird Mob’. In a round about way the Frews chasing of the Tumbarumba poem led them to Will Carter.

Will Carter was born in 1867. With a life of 88 years he spanned significant changes in Australia. The gold rushes tripled the population; gold was replaced by the new fortunes of wool, wheat, beef and coal; our colonies had federated to become a nation; the population had shifted to living primarily in the cities, and we had seen ourselves fighting in WW1. Carter, like many of his time, was interested in the development of the Australian identity. Carter was a prolific writer and Ron and Catherine Frew have used his words to provide us with a unique insight into one man’s vision of Australia. Carter was a schoolteacher and, in his way, a documenter of life. He contributed to local newspapers and The Bulletin. He was also an accordion player, bush dance MC and a dab sketcher in the style of Hop and Lindsay.

Back to Old Sofala

Said young Sofala Present unto old Sofala Past,
Whose eyes had still a sparkle, and whose thoughts were backward cast,
Come, walk with me, and talk to me, of old familiar ways,
And of places, and of people, who lived in early days.
Come,point me out a cottage where so-and-so was born,
And tell of jovial diggers who have rolled their swags and gone.
The rambling street was full of inns, they say, in days of yore,
What wasn’t then a public house was bound to be a store.
Old timbers still are standing, and monuments of stone,
And scattered bricks have stories of an interest all their own,
And you’ll awaken echoes in telling this and that,
Of ‘George the Snob’, ‘The Jingler’ and ‘Mick of Monday Flat’.

As a contributor to The Bulletin he used several pseudonyms, mainly ‘The Prooshan’. 29 March 1906 “The Prooshan” : Many bushfolk claim that snakes have a dislike for the smell of geraniums – so great that these plants, set liberally round a house, prevent the undesirable reptile calling in.

Another piece was of particular interest to me as it contained a bullocky’s call. These calls, usually containing the name of the bullocky’s horses or bullocks, were used to goad the beasts on in their work. I must admit to a fondness for these calls as one of the very first people I ever taped was a retired teamster who impressed me with his love of his team. ‘The Prooshan’ 31 January 1907, Re: ‘the Prawn’s’ comment (B. 10/1/07) on my bullock nomenclature par. I spoke of everyday bullock-punching names. Certainly there are faddish or freakish bullock-punchers. One I know plied between Tumut and Tumbarumba. He love the sea and all that on it had been, from Ulysses right along; and, punctually at 3 o’clock o’ Mondays, we’d hear, from t’other side of ‘our hill’, “Gee Nelson, Woa Rodney, up Drake, Come-e-way Howard. Stand over Hawkins, Over there Raleigh.” Then we boys drifted down with poles to prod Nelson in the ribs, or give Howard of Effingham a belt across the rump, and so help the load up the hill.

One of the things that fascinated me about The Bulletin was the fact that they actively encouraged people like Carter to contribute. The rule of thumb was that the magazine welcomed contributions of up to 300 words. In a way this gave the readers a certain ‘ownership’ of the magazine and, in its way, encouraged writers.

I thought this book might be yet another local history collection but it is far more than that. It’s a fascinating journey through the eyes and work of a little-known bush scribe that has been put together in an intelligent and readable format that salutes history and bush poetry. There are some cracker old photographs featured in the book and I especially like the one on page 51 showing the Courabyra School Picnic luncheon, 18 March 1904. A grand affair! One disappointment was the fact the Frews could not locate a photograph of Will Carter and his button accordion. Oh well, at least the man has been put down in print again and his life documented for the future.

Wilf Carter

OF INTEREST:

You can purchase the book by mail order directly from Ron and Catherine Frew at
PO Box 15
Tumbarumba. NSW 2653
or email
the frews@dragnet.com.au

Will Carter’s manuscript collection is housed at the Mitchell Library, Sydney, MLMSS3372

I am indebted to Joan Emslie Coxsen, great-grand daughter of Will Lister, for forwarding Will’s marriage certificate and a signed photocard.  

Dear Mr. Fahey,I found your story of William Henry very interesting. My Great grandfather was Williams younger brother Frederick. You state that maybe William was of German heritage, No his ancestors actually came from Manchester, England. His grandfather George along with his family and his sisters family came to Brisbane, Australia in 1854.  Williams great grandfather Thomas Lister was a Cotton Mill Manager of Manchester. Two of his uncles Alfred and Frederick Lister became Council members of Gympie and Frederick actually became Mayor around 1905.  William lived in later life in Sandgate and it is his verse on the War Memorial in Sandgate,( He didn’t  want to be noted for it by having his name added as it was a memorial for the brave soldiers)  He was also very involved in the Sandgate Council.Once again thank you for the interesting information on my great uncle William Henry Lister.yours sincerelyAnnette Loibl  (July 2010) 

MOLEY HOSES!   ‘Moley Hoses’ was one of his character’s favourite expressions. Schmertzer von day oxed me vot a “bigot” vos. und I told him. “Moley Hoses,” he says, “is dot so?” Und he told me dot his liddle poy vos been ox him vot id vos, und he told him dot dey vos dose ting’s dot eats der holes in der scheeses.. Schpeaking or der roads apoud der country, Christy vonce told me dot he met a teamster mit a load of pine logs und a bullock team. Dot team vos schtuck by der mud in der creek, und der lankwidge der cofe used made Christy’s hair stand by ids end oop. He vos schvearing like tunder! “Look here, mate,” said Schmertzer, “uf you schvear like dot, you don’d go by Heafen already.” “I oxbose not.” Said der teamster, “und uf i don’d schvear I gets me not oud of dis bog!” Schmertzer vos down der road a gouple of veeks ago und some poys vos making’ fun mit him. He told me apoud id. He said dot he don’d vos shoost feeling’ so goot in healt as yenerally alvays, und in schpeaking to der missus he habbened to say dot der cow seemed as uf id vos getten ‘tick fever’, und at der same dime he said be don’d vos feeling too veil himseluf. His liddle poy Gottleib told der teacher by der school dot der cow don’d vos veil, und his farder vos got der ‘tick fever’. Dot’s vot der poys vos making fun mit. Von day Christy Schmertzrr vos been told me dot mempers fon Shire Gouncil near his blace, vos been going on a debutation to der Minister, to ox him to lend dem some monish, might dey put some fences round der cemetry dere. I says to him. “Votefer for do dey vont to fence der cemetery in?” “Veil,” he says, “to keep beeples oud, I oxpose.” Und I schimiled at him. “Look here, Christy,” I say “Dot’s der funny part of der bizness — dose beeples dot vos oudside dot cemetery don’d vont to get in, und dose dot’s inside don’d can werry well got oud, so vots der use mit a fences, dot’s vot I vont to know.” Und Schmerter haf been buzzling himseluf efer since. Schmertzcr vos telling me apoud Gottleib Wiemer’s de odder day. Gottleib had shot Carl Handsundfeet’s dog und dere vos some droubles in der Police Court. Der magisdrate says to Gottleib “Did you shoot der dog in self-defence?” “Nein, not at all.—I shot him in der pack und he yumped der fence.” “No, no, dot’s not vot I mean,” said der magisdrate, “I mean did der dog adtempt to go for you?” “Go for me.'” says Gottleib, “No he don’d go for me, he go for home so sooner as lightnings ven he felt dol shot in him.” Der magisdrate don’d know him how to got ofer der bizness, “Veil.” he say at last, “I fine you vot der dog’ is vert—ten shiillinks.” “By Shimniiney, I pays dot soi villing as efer,” says Gottleib. Und now Carl Handsundfeet vos been rearing anodder dog. Schmertzer vos telling me apoud a new schurn schap dot vos gome to york on der farm already. Schmertzer don’d tink much of dot immigration goncern, he says, uf dey don’d get besser schaps dan der von he had. “Why,”says Christy, “I gafe him del halter to go down der paddock und pring de old grey mare oop, und ven he got to her he schtood as uf gonsidering vedder to put id round her neck or round her vaist or vherefer as novhere – und by der dime he vos decided der mare took fright und ve don’d got her not for an hour sooner as after pefore.” “Nefer mind, Christy,” I say lo him, “you voner vos a new schum.” “Dot’s drue, Heinrich,” he say, “but I alvays could told vich end of a horse vent first der road along, und uf dey gafe me a halter, I don’d put id on der tail.” Schmertzer came to mine blace der odder morning such a wreck. “Mine cracious! Vot’s der matter mit?” I exclaimed. His face vos plack, his clothes vos cofered mit ashes, und he had a vild look in his eyes; his mout und viskers vos full mit soot, und he seemed as uf he’d met an earthquake. “Oh, Heinrich,” he said, ven he had his voice found, “dot young Hans vos been der death fon der families, und dese English history cofes by der school vill haf some droubles to answer for.” “Vhy,” I oxed, ” haf you been by dor school?” “Nein, you dunder kopht,” he say, “dere is some history vot tells apoud some gunpowder goncern, und Hans he lets some cracker off, shoost ven I vos making der tea dis morning by der kitchen fire, und turning der pacon mit der fork ofer. “Moley Hoses!'” I say to him – vot you doing?” “Ho! Hurrah!'” he say, “dis vos Guy Fork’s day.” “Vell, vell,” I say, “Schmertzer, don’d got angry, dot poy vos right – you had der ‘fork’ und he’s made a ‘guy’ of you, dot’s certain.” Schmertzer vonce made a schpeech at a show dinner. He said.— “Schentlemen, I gets me oop to probose der healt of der Bresident fon dis society und I hopes dot you vil] fill yourselves oop—no, I mean your glasses fon der pottle oop, und trink id dry -I mean vet. Dere vos dimes ven ve vont vet und dere vos dimes ven ve vont dry—to-day ve haf bote. Der Bresident vos a man dot haf creat inderest token mit dis society, und I am bleased to tink dot on dis ocgasion he don’d ve vos able to haf a trink—pecause ve haf der trink inschtead, on acgount of dot ve vos been trink his healt. Before I sit down I vould like to schtand oop, und schpeak vot I vos tinking.— Uf I vos Bresident I vould not do as vot he has—keep der best pottle for himseluf—uf he shoost passes id along, id vos besser dot I trinks his healt fon id, as for him to trink odders” und he reached oud und got id. After dot dinner vos ofer I oxed Schmenzer vot made him look so sad—”Heinrich, ‘he say. ” Der pottle dot der Bresident had vos full mit coffee, und I nefer got such a fright mine inside pefore. I thought id vos Hock.” – I got a bit avay, und I said, “Hockactly.” I remempor ven Schmetzer had der tootake. Von night he vos reading his paper und eating’ apples, ven all mit a sudden he git’s A yump—whoop! Id seemed as if somevon vos shot him, und his hands go to his face, der schair vos kicked ofer, und his vife don’d know vere to get oud of der vay. Ven he vos got kerviet, his vife got sometings, und puts id in his toot. und says, “Now, Christy, do be batient.” “Batient”‘ he shouds oud, “Batient!” vy, der bain vould kill fifteen voomen a minute'” Den he holds his face by dot fire, und tings go on so as before again, und his vife goes on mit her sewing. “Oh, oh, oh! hokey stars!”—der cotton fell oud. His vife once more fixes tings oop again und kervietness rests on dot house some more. Shoost den I tropped in to see dem, und pegan to gif adwice apoud der toot. “Now, look here, shoost keep kerviet till der morning und go by dot dentist, und after he vos cut dot toot, und poked some vire dot hole in, und smashed id oop bit by bit, und left der stump dere, und schvore dot he haf id oud or die—” Dose vords go to his heart, und as I left der house, bote his schlippcrs hit der front gate. Me und Schmertzer vos von day schprecken apoud der drams in Brisbane ven comes Exhibition time, und he told me how vonco his missus vos been von too many for von of dose conductor schaps. Dey bote got on to a dram und bote sat in a schmoker’s seat. “Dis is a schmoker’s seat,” said de conductor. “Oh,” says she, “dot don’d madter: you know me und de old man vos been down for de Exhibition; ve only got here dis morning apoud an hour ago, but ve intended dot ve got here gesterday, but shoost pefore ve vos gotten avay, some of der cows got avay into a neighbour’s paddock und de old man he vos loosen him time pringing de’n home, so ve don’d got sooner here as an hour ago.” “Yes, dot’s allus reicht,” said dot conductor, “but dis seat vos researfed for schmokers.” “Vos dot so?” she say, “und vos dere any extra scharges ?” “Oh, no,” he said. “Den, I schtop me here already mit Christy.” Und she did!

HEINRICH’S TROPS FON DE PEN   A schmoker may not be allowed to schmoke in Heaven, but id don’d madter somevhere else – aind’t id? A schap vill vait in der cold an hour for his schveetheart, but ven she’s his vife he’ll growl uf he has to vait five minutes for his dinner. Dere’s many a schap who says vot he tinks, dot should be ashamed to tink what he says. Uf you are going to be goot – be goot for sometings. Ven you see cats fighting – id vos a scratch match – vot? Dey call a ship a ‘she’ becos der rigging costs monish. De easiest tings to do are dose tings ve don’d ought to do. Plenty beeples vould know more uf dey thought dey knew less.

Der Farmer’s Eight Hours (Mit apologies.) Ven der vheat vos in der schtook, und the rain vos threaten soon, Und der night wos suiting grand, for some carting by der moon, Ven der farmer tinks he’ll save, all his crop ven comes der morn, He hears his vorkmen singing, in a vay dot sounds forlorn – Ve haf vorked eight hours today Farmer cart your own darn hay; Ve don’d vill move a hand To go oud on your land. For ve couldn’t vork a half-a-minute long –! Ven der cow vas getten bogged in der creek not far avay, Und shoost a knock-off dime a neighbour calls to say, Dot he‘d gif a hand to helup, uf der vorkmen on der fram, Vould also gome und get der cow from oud by any harm – But – ve’fe worked eight hours today Und ve don’d got too much pay, Let der cow got tead! Vere der vords dey said – For ve couldn’t vork a half-a-minute longer! Ven der bush fire’s raging high around dot homestead farm, Und der farmer from his home vos filled mit alarm, Ven he goes to ox his ploughman or der poy dot vos schtart – Ve haf worked eight hours today, Let der fire shoost blaze avay – Ve couldn’t schange our mind, So tink us not unkind – But ve couldn’t vork a half-a-minute longer. Ven der shoost vos gomen, in der schun der poy vos turn, Und der clock vos schtrike der hour – den der farmer he vould learn, Dot der handle goes no more around, der poy vos left und gone Und der air vos filling mit der vords of dis old silly song – I haf worked eight hours today, Let der cream till der morning schtay – Id’s a sorrowful job, But, so help me bob – I couldn’t vork a half-a-minute longer. Dee man schtarts off mit a load of schaff, packed tightly on der dary, I schmile me at vot he did cos he’d vorked eight hours dot day; But in der schtreet, a hundred yards fon der schtore he schtarted for He took oud der horse und sat on der curb – he don’d could do no more. For I’fe vorked eight hours today, Hang der boss’s moke und dray – Let der beeples laugh, At dot load of schaff But I couldn’t vork a half-a-minute longer!

Braat Wurst I’m yenerally alvays de cofe dot vos had, I don’d can told vhy—I reckon id’s bad, But I oxbose dot I’m soft und easily led, Und silly und all sorts, or wrong- in der head. Howefer, I told you vot habbened von day, Ven somevon a liddle game on me vos b!ay. Und uf I could cotch him, I g’if him a scharge Dot vould send him sky high—id vouldn’t be large. An old friend of mine who knew I vos schveet On goot braat wurst dot don’d ccuid be beat, Somedimes used to send me a parcel along, Addressed to mineseluf so dey couldn’t go wrong. I used to vos take dem horne to mine frau, To be cooked as so besser no von knew how, Und veekly ve looked for dis liddle treat, Till somevon, by Shimminey, I likes to him meet. He took fon de parcel dose sausaqes oud, Und filled id again so peautiful stoud Mit some fon a butcher at tuppence a pound, Until I got home I don’d nefer dis found. I say to mine missus, “Villemena, mine tear, Ve haf some goot sausage each weeck in de year.” But yen she vos oben de parcel I’d prought, She didn’t say much—I know vot she tought;. Mine friend de next day, I habbened to meet Shoost ven he vos going oop down by der street. I told him apoud id und he hit on a plan, By vich I could find dot vicked bad man. But de next dime he nefer vos schange dem no more, I forgot dot goot plan, till so after before : For mine missus und me vos so sick und so sad, Instead of de cofe who vos vicked und bad.

Schmertzer’s Barty   Schmertzer had a daughter dot shoost vos dwenty-von, Und so he gate a barty so all could haf some fun; He sent oud inwitations to all dose beeples round, ‘Und a finer lot of Schermans don’d novhere could be found. Der vos derder Rienkies und der Specs, der Kriebkes fon der blain, Der Kaysers, Rumfs, und Blitzkens ve meet some more again; Der Scheinloofs all vos dere, mine Fritz, also mine frau, But der old Schmertzer mit his flute, vos make der mostest row. Ve voltzed around his lofely barn, und did dor skvare dance too, Und der pastor he vos sing. ” Und schtill his viskers grew.” I danced dot Irish ”proke me down”—I don’d do id pooty veil, Id proke me down, dot’s right genuf—”I like a soldier fell.” Der younger beeples kept it oop undil der “un vos rise, I close oop vos aschleep, I don’d could voke mine eyes: But ven I heard mine missus say, “You’d besser haf some vine”- Vell, dot’s der ding to settle id—und Schmertzer’s vos so fine. Now scharge your glasses,” Christy said (mine vos made mit tin) “I vont to told you sometings apoud mine daughter Min.” Und so all vos listen, bur soon vos schmell a mouse, For ve saw a schmiling couple gomen ofer fon der house. “Mine daughter she vos married by der pastor soon as now, So I vont you trink der health fon Gottleib und his frau,” Und as dey schtepped into dot barn id vos a lofely sight, Ve saw at Schmertzer’s barty on dot morning after night. A birthday und a vedding, Schmenzer’s barty did for bote, So der pastor und dot Schmertzer dis dime vos men of note; For der pastor, he made two in von, und Schmertzer von in two, He thought der birthday barty, vos do dot vedding too.

Federated Australia   Mine Fritz und mine old missus, mineself so likevise too, Os haf an argument von day apoud some tings ve do; I vont to haf id done dis vay, und Fritz vos vont annoder, I argued mit him haluf an hour. und den he oxed his mudder. Und Shimminey Grismas, help me bob, she vent anodder vay. So obbosite to bote of us—I don’d forget de day. Und Fritz he vent und tried to do – his vay vos not like mine. Ve all vos been at logger-heads, ve kicked up sooch a schein. Und so at last Frirz said to us. ‘Shoost let me have some talk And see uf ve can’t gompromise—Ve don’d get pig from pork. Und so ve talked der matter oud, und to an end ve come. So now ve all vos pull von vay und peace vos getting some. So Federation vos like dot, ven all vos pull togedder. Ve don’d vill care uf storms arise, or ve get schtormy vedder For ven de boat vos manned by dose who pull de selfsame vay, Ve’re pound to haf sugcessful dimes, und pright vill dawn der dav. But uf von schap vos pulling wrong, id might upset de boat, Dere’s some von’t care uf he falls oud or curs his ploomin troat, But dere de cofes dot haf not vouce deir hearts some vishes in For von Australian Nation, a nation ‘bound to vin.’ So let us von und all stand firm, a nation dot’s to be Australia for Australians, a beeple proud und free; A nation made fon all ids sons, und some fon efery land, A vhite man’s Paradise on earth, mit brudders hand in hand.

Foundation Day [On January 18th, 1871, the German Empire was founded, and at Dutton Park a gathering of Germans from al! parts of Southern Queensland took place last Tuesday, to do honour to the occasion.—News par. Me und Schmertzer der vere to der Park dot nodder day, To celebrate Foundation Day – in our own liddle vay: Ve met some blendy beeple’ on shoost der self same game, Ve don’d vos been so sorry, dot eider of us came. Dere vos Kreutzer. Horner, Schniffleburg, und Kriebke—he vos dere, Der pand blayed shoost such moosie you don’d got eferyvhere. ‘Der lager und der sauer kraut vos remind mit long past years, Ven I don’d like now, vos haf to trink shost common sort of beers. Veil, der beeples dere vos plendy, der names I don’d forgot, Dere vos Zoller, Leibke. Handsunfeet. und dotzens on der schpot, Und Himschftcld, Schwatz, und Howsyerheadt, a noble iiddle band, Who trank so many lagers, as me und Schmertzer schtand. Dot’s shoost some introductions, for I must make von remark, Not by vay schpoiling tings, but shoost I have some lark; Der gaddering vos most serious, as all vill understand. Dot know der kind of beeples dot left den Faterland. Und avay fon schildhood’s home, oud on dis Austral shore, Dey tink dem of der bygone days, vonce yet again some more ; Deir hearts go oud dot Nation to of vich dey vere a part, Before dey came oud here, und gafe Britain hand und heart. “Lebe wohl, auf wiedersehn”— let der vords reach oud afar. Let Sherman’s hear de echoes vherefer yet dey are, For though dey’re British subjects dere’s a lofe for dose at home, For who forgets his Faterland, ven he sets oud to roam? “Breathes dere a man” I read me vonce, dot haf mit soul so tead Dis is my native home, who nefer vonce vos paid. So ven I tinks me tack some more “I lofe my natif land,” Schtrike oop “Der Wacht am Rhine'”—tune oop der plooming band! Und let us here join vonce again, und in memory of der past, Und as ve hope to helup id much, let our vishes, vich vill last— Be dot der Scherman beeples vill friends to Britain be Und lif in lofe und peace, like deir sons across der seas.

A Schnake Schtory I knew der schnake so very vell, I saw him efery day, Dey kept him in a great big cage, shoost oud of beeple’s vay Dey fed him oop on rats and mice—he vos a beauty pet, But uf dey opened oop der door, dis cofie did a “get.” Von day dot doer don’d fastened vos, und Schnakey vos got oud, He had a grawl around der yard, und had a look apoud, But nefer found dot cage no more, he lost vos oud of sight, Dey nefer saw him all that day—dey nefer looked at night! Der schap dot owned schnake—don’d told he’d lost his pet So dot der schnake got far avay, so far already yet, Dot he vos blessed und satisfied, und sure dot he vos free, But only for a liddle vile, as you vill shortly see. He got into a biziness blace, vhere girls vos tack und sew, Und vhere dey haf a vire ding, on vich to dresses show. A ding dey called a “dummy”—shoost like a vooman’s shape, All cofered oop mit calico, und fastened oop mit tape. Dot schnake he dought dot he vos stay in comfort here to schleep, Und yently made a schnakey vow, dis blace dot he would keep, He glided oop inside der ding, und hung upon der vire Ven bresently a scream was heard!—you’d tink id vos a fire! But no, id don’d vos any fire, dot gif dose girls a fright, Id shoost vos Schnakey settling down to spend anodder night, Und ven he tried to fix himself upon der vires inside, Der blessed ”dummy” vobbled round, shoost efery dime he tried. Now, can you fancy in your mind, some schtartled maids, a score Who votch a ding dot moves apoud, shoost nefer as before, Deir eyes fon oud der heads near fell, dey tought of ghosts unheard, Deir liddle hearts vos beating hard – dey don’d could schpoke a word. But suddenly dot schnake gets vild. und flips himself around, Und “dummy” does a somersault mit sooch a deafening sound. Und oud fon doors und windows fly, dose girls who tack and sew, Dey nefer look behind some more—dey seen genuf, you know.

Schmertzer’s Dance   Der corn crop vos been gathered, under der husking vos all done. Und der clearing of der barn had shoost apoud begun, Ven Schmertzer’s daughter Lizzie vos suggest mit him a dance,. Dere vos lots of room genuf — besser not been lose a chance. So old Christy vos agreed mit und der barn vos schvept oud glean,. Der floor vos voshed all ofer as before don’d vos been seen, Dey made some paper flowers und festooned der rafters round, Und dey made a schandalier mit some hoop iron dot dey found. Und der cracks between der schlabs vos mit paper cofered ofer, Und Schmertzer looked so bleased, as a pig dot’s in der clover; For yet so long as many years, he’d nefer had a schpree. So, “he meant to make der best of id,” he told mine frau und me. He oxed der beeples near and far, some terventy couples schtrong. Und uf dey prought a friend or two dey don’d vos do no wrong, Den he oxed old Krompton for M.C., you don’d could get a finer, Und efery schap vos come along, und pring mit him a kliener. Und Gottleib Housen’s concert-screemer, vos been der moosic play, Oxcept some vhere a gouple of notes don’d vos der tune been say; But Gottleib vos got ofer dis, by vissling vhere id schlipped. Und der dancers voltzed around, as der floor dey firmer gripped. Ven comes der midnight hour around, old Schmertzer took der floor,. Und announced refreshments vhile he sang, ” Ve parted on der shore;” Some odder songs vos follow, und his frau sang, ” Wacht am Rhine”— Und ve all schoined der chorus in—I told you id vos fine. Und I vos make some speeching, extending thanks to Chris., His frau, und also schildren, for such a schpree like dis— Und den ve bid ” goot morning”—as de air around did ring, Mit a mighty sound of woices—”Gott save our gracious King’.” But ven der daylight vos come oud, vot a mess old Schmertzer saw Der hob-nailed boots of all der schaps had schpoiled his lofely floor, Dere vos schplinters here und eferyvhere, but den on hunting round,, Old Gottleib Housen’s missing notes in der vine cask vos been found.

Kerveensland Kerveensland! Der prightest gem in Austral’s crown, Uf you’ll excuse me saying so, I’ll mark id down – Broad acres vait der farmer man, der grazier und der rest, Her vealth of soil vos such, dot millions may be blest. Kerveensland! Her peauty schpots are marvellous und rare, Und some mit world-famed sights mighteasily compare, So pardon me uf loud I make der trumpets blow – She vos my natif land – you’re sure dot fact to know. Kerveensland! As son to mudder lofes, so shoost do I – Und all her sister States beneat dis Austral sky, Haf lofe fon me, because God made us von in name, A nation middout loss of life – First on der schroll of fame.