The Collection

Lean and Mean Depression Times

Australia, a cheeky country, has a history of poking fun at inflated egos, political failures and laughing in the face of lean and mean times. We often do this with humour and in poetry and song. We dislike ‘tall poppies’ and those who grow ‘too big for their boot’. We love bulldust but are not fond of bullshit.

Sometimes, when everything seems hopeless, we know that one of the few ways to retaliate is to laugh. Political songs tend to cut the ‘tall poppies’ down to size, and even if the target is unaware they are the target – the songs give us a certain amount of satisfaction that we’ve struck back. 

In this site section, you will find hard-biting songs born of bitter struggles, union songs and chants of solidarity, songs aimed at politicians big and small, parodies, and songs created in times of economic hardship, including the 1890s and 1930s depressions. 

History has shown us that political songs, especially parodies set to known tunes, are quickly seized upon with little regard for the rights of the original composer. This, of course, should please the originator since, one can assume, the song was written as a political tool. What is a tool without a working hand?

Likewise, there is little regard for the original text. Songs travel their own highways and are often reworked to suit the changing climate. Using a popular song as a song vehicle also encourages new words and verses – a case of familiarity breeds contempt?

Because most political songs are about current events, either ridiculing political leaders or political decisions, they have a limited lifespan unless connected to a long-running campaign. Songs about previous targets, such as Prime Ministers William ‘Billy’ Hughes and Robert Menzies, are of no particular present-day interest, other than historically, whilst songs about ‘banning the bomb’ have a renewed life as sabres rattle from one military ‘skirmish’ to the next. Likewise, songs about keeping coal in the ground retain their currency because of an increasing interest in climate change.

The style and performance ‘situation’ of so-called politically-charged songs has also changed dramatically through the centuries. Although hardly anyone sings around the kitchen table these days or in the pub, it is interesting that chants of the ‘two, four, six, eight’ simplistic style can still be occasionally heard on picket lines and in demonstrations. The 2023 visit of Billy Bragg saw the UK performer singing at the March 22nd Sydney picket line when ABC staffers went on strike. Bragg sang Woody Guthrie’s ‘I’m Sticking to the Union’.  

Historically, there are five main types of political songs in Australia. Nationalistic and patriotic songs, songs born of labour struggles, songs expressly written for political occasions or causes, songs to document an event, and songs by known writers. Of course, the lines between these are, more often than not, blurred. A separate group of political song emerged to document Australia’s military involvements – from the Maori Wars in the1840s onwards. These songs are dealt with in a separate section of the site.

Mention should be given about what the convict population of the colonies might have been singing. Our romantic view conjures up singing on the chain gangs as they smashed through rock – I doubt it. Assembled in the stockade barracks at night – possible. Of course, we can surmise they sang to relieve their boredom and to remind themselves of their loved ones back home, but such songs were never recorded. Most songs we inherited from the convict era are printed broadside ballads (see elsewhere on the site) or oral variants of these same songs. These are mostly songs of remorse rather than rebellion. Certainly, the songs written by Frank ‘The Poet’ Macnamara were feisty and most likely recited by the poet to the assembled convicts. His ‘Lament for the Death of Captain Logan’ and extraordinary monologue ‘A Convict’s Tour of Hell’ read as if they were designed to be performed (although the fitting of a tune to the former as ‘Moreton Bay’ was a twentieth-century addition). Of course, there could have been many rebellious songs from the convict experience. They were never passed down or collected, possibly because most people given their ticket-of-leave, or even descendants of convicts, didn’t want anything to reveal their ‘convict stain’.

Nationalistic and Patriotic Songs. As European Australia developed, it encountered various obstacles. Songs were seen as one way of unifying the population with focused messages. One of the main obstacles was the sheer size of the continent and the estrangement of those living in the outback. Australia continually struggled with its isolation and identity. Patriotic songs pointed to our shared love of the Empire, and although we were on the other side of the globe, we were still considered British to the bootstraps. ‘God Save the Queen’ (or King) was sung at all official and even unofficial events, including before the screening of films at the local picture theatre until April 1974 – and everyone was expected to stand if not sing along. These patriotic songs told of gumtrees, sunburned places, fresh cities, bountiful farms and waving wheat. Today’s version would be ‘You Are, We Are, We Are Australian’.

After the convict transportation program began winding down and settlers moved into the bush, there was a growing feeling that ‘colonial born was as good as, if not superior, to ‘sterling’ bred.’ This was a good subject for a song! Many songs were written that swore allegiance to the Crown and, at the same time, reinforced Australia’s growing ‘youthful’ independent colonial spirit. They were cocky and, in their way, naive and awkward songs. They were also usually awkward to sing – like overly-arranged parlour songs more suitable for military and governmental dinners than freeform ballads. None of these songs had much life outside of being sung around the piano or as a recital.

The 1850s goldrush in NSW and Victoria introduced a new form of political song. Although (sadly) no songs from the Eureka Stockade event survived, there is good reason to believe they existed. Over on the goldfields, songwriter singers like Charles Thatcher and Joe Small wrote topical songs parodying the police, the colonial regulations and the problems faced by the miners. This was where Australia’s anti-Chinese campaign began—songs ridiculing the Chinese emerged as part of the general xenophobia that led to the establishment of the White Australia Policy commencing in 1901. These goldrush songs were performed, usually by their writer, in specially-designed ‘signing rooms’, often attached to a hotel. The songs, especially Thatcher’s, were highly-charged critiques of the colonial authorities. One imagines the rebellious miners, coming from diverse backgrounds, and primed with colonial grog, would have enthusiastically endorsed the performances.

After the surface gold disappeared in the late 1860s, company mines opened to dig deep into the earth for gold, coal and copper. These mines introduced new songs of protest. At the same time, the rural sector was opening up with the wheat, wool and beef industries, and it was evident they would also have problems to address. The big challenge in both cases was establishing the rights of the owners and workers – ‘who’s master and who’s man’. Before the goldrush the average colonial worked as a farm labourer or shepherd, and the hunt for gold saw, for the very first time, a massive number of men working for themselves for the very first time. It was here mateship was born and the working man’s independence became a topic of conversation and action. These were monumental social changes.

The later mining industry, especially coal mining, was fraught with problems. It was hazardous work – gases, explosive materials, structural collapses and health issues, especially black lung. Early miners were paid piecemeal for each ton, and it was hard work. Strike action was the only way to retaliate to improve conditions, and many a bitter battle was fought. Extended strikes in the Hunter Valley, Broken Hill and Lithgow resulted in songs designed to bolster solidarity. Songs were written about mine collapses, often to sell the printed song sheet to raise money for the deceased miner’s families. 

Throughout the rural sector, especially in the dominant wool and beef industries, an army of primarily itinerant workers served as shearers, wool-washers, rouseabout, drovers, station hands and boundary riders. Between 1860 – 1890 there were no set wage agreements, and often conditions and pay were at the discretion of the pastoralists. The abuse was commonplace in the shearing industry, and heated discussions in the men’s huts witnessed a growing agitation which, as we know, came to a head in1891. Similarly, although disorganised and unrepresented, the drovers and station hands were discussing their position. Black stockmen were even more disadvantaged and were not given equal pay until well into the twentieth century. These inequalities led to the composition and distribution of many songs and poems.

The growing influence of socialist thought also produced songs. Many were simple doggerel in the fashion of the songs the International Workers of the World popularised. The IWW and their cry of ‘One Big Union’ had particular relevance in Australia, more so than Britain. The Socialist movement and the IWW produced newspapers and songs were often included to rally the troops.

The 1890s worldwide economic depression bit hard on Australia and the romantic swagman walking from town to town became a bitter reality. Hundreds of thousands were out of work and humping the bluey in desperation. Hard times produced hard-bitten humour and songs.

The first quarter of the twentieth century saw significant strikes in the coalfields, shearing sheds, ports and railways. Unions were growing, and workers were finding champions (and enemies) in the popular media and parliament. The drums of war were also becoming louder. This is where we see many songs about organised strikes, governmental interference in arbitration, imprisonment of dissenters like the IWW Twelve, disappointing politicians, and so many other issues. The necessities of WW1 quelled many of these disputes as Australians answered the Mother Country’s bugle call to arms.

Post-war, with Australia’s economy in difficulty, disputes gradually resurfaced, and so did the songwriters.

The Great Depression hit Australia later than the rest of the world and slammed our country extremely hard. Life was reliant on handouts, bartering and begging. In times of extreme hardship, the songs and ditties tend to be short and not-so-sweet.

Post-WW2, Australia was a different Australia. We shook ourselves and determinedly looked to the future. Australians yearned for a bungalow with a backyard. After rationing ceased in 1950, the ‘baby boomers’ were on their way – with education, work and a bright future. We were also starting to kick out the old ‘stuff’, and our views were changing dramatically about everything from the length of our hair to censorship. Conservative politicians were ideal song parody subjects. We also sang about banning the bomb and starting to chant about saying so to American military bases in Australia, digging for uranium, and selling the farm to overseas investors. We were outspoken about social issues, especially equal rights for Aboriginal people. All these issues were helped by the fact the popular music of the fifties and early sixties was folk music – and protest songs were part and parcel of that movement.

In the 197Os and 80s, the post-war ‘baby boomers’, a generation better educated than their parents and raised on mass-produced popular music, changed the mood and style of the songs. Their songs lacked the worker solidarity and class compassion we had expected from an earlier protest. There was more ‘what about me’ than ‘what about the less fortunate.

The widening diversity of Australian life and the sheer number of social issues weakened our resolve. We certainly lacked the solidarity experienced at the start of the Vietnam War.

In revisiting these more recent songs and satires, I soon realised that here was another example of how popular music travelled and how we use songs. I discovered a similar thread when compiling my book Diggers’ Songs (1998) in which I looked at how songs were used in the eleven wars in which Australians have fought. It was fascinating to see how we had moved from patriotic doggerel in early wars like the Maori and Boer Wars, to almost

exclusive use of popular songs when we fought in the Gulf War. The study was also a comment on the changing face of war – it is clear that troops in the trenches had more time to sing than soldiers glued to the computer screen, The most popular song in the Gulf War was Phil Collins ‘Something in the Air Tonight’ – only the meaning of bombs needed a change: not a word was different.

It is interesting to surmise why politicians offer such wonderful material for the songwriter. Broadcasts from Parliament House are full of intrigue, name-calling and verbal action that would do a television soap opera proud. And yet Australians seem to have difficulty remembering their last three prime ministers, let alone our pioneering leaders. How many people know of

George Reid, James Scullin, Jack Lang or Arthur Calwell? This is how it should be; they are better off left in the pages of history. Maybe the ‘folk’ see them as having little to do with real history, and this would explain why so few political songs achieve true oral transmission beyond their moment in history.

The throwaway musical settings also offer a clue to their short life; a parody or trivial tune often works against the perpetuation of oral tradition.

The art of writing a political song is no different from writing any other in that you have a start, an end and all manner of stuff in between- and the whole shebang is set to music. As with any form, there are degrees of talent, and these songs and associated folklore range from the highly crafted to the throwaway ditty. As a political tool, both can be effective.

I am reminded of the 1930s Depression ditty to the tune of Gilbert and Sullivan’s “Tit Willow’ – it refers to the British banker, Sir Otto Niemeyer, who was seeking the payment of debts to the Bank of England. It went: “What Rot –O, Sir Otto, Niemeyer’. That’s it – the shortest political song in our catalogue!

Are songs still being written and sung? Short answer – yes. However, they are few and far between, and the chances or opportunities for widespread dissemination are limited. We don’t respect songs and singing as much any more. Sharp-penned paradises still write about the multi-talented, multi-portfolio ex-PM Morrison; they write and ridicule Paul Hansen’s extremist views, and they write in support of issues ranging from our nuclear submarine ANKUS deal to the continual destruction of native forests. They sing them on online YouTube channels, at rallies, in folk clubs, and at folk festivals. 

Bang! We are in the twenty-first century, and much of our world is in a horrible mess. Wars, wild climate, corrupt governments and companies, biased media and an enormous gap between the haves and have-nots. It is frustrating, depressing and has to be changed. A new world order is inevitable. It has also become increasingly challenging to voice disagreement in some authoritarian countries. Even our own free speech has been somewhat stifled by conservative opinion. Writing and singing songs of protest is still happening. Songs can sometimes convey messages that speeches cannot. 

Sing out loud.

LEAN AND MEAN TIMES – DEPRESSIONS AND BOOMS

BOOM AND BUST ON THE MONEY-GO-ROUND

Like it or lump it: bust inevitably follows boom.. It’s difficult not to imagine spinning on a merry-go-round when trying to work out whether our economy is still riding the boom wave or headed for the dumps. Those two little words, ‘boom’ and bust’, appear in headlines almost daily, as if the pundits are betting on a two-horse race on a very slippery track. Of course the big question is how far, and where does the bust dump us, especially us little chickens?

I’m no financial whiz kid, but as a folklorist and social historian I know a few things about our shaky economic past. Not that we seem to learn much from history, be it one hundred years or one week. A little spin through the years on the money-go-round is a rocky one.

The nineteenth century saw Australia riding the boom wave for over fifty years. We were lucky in that the convict experiment had such a fortuitous outcome and, by the 1840s, commerce and agriculture were already reaping results. Lachlan Macquarie can take a great bow in this respect: his far-sighted governorship set the boom wheels in motion. We then struck it rich in 1851 with the announcement: “there wuz gold in them thar hills”. It was there alright, and as one old prospector, Rad Dawson, told me, “there was a hell of a lot of earth mixed in with it”. The real gold, of course, was the massive increase in population lured by the gold rush hysteria. The colony’s population jumped from around 400,000 in 1851 to around 1,250,000 a decade later. Many colonials made their fortune in these years. Some were lucky enough to unearth sizeable nuggets while others made their fortune in supplying the hopeful diggers with everything from newspapers to grog. These were heydays, where fortunes made were often quickly lost to foolishness and misfortune. The one thing we tend to overlook at this time was the importance of the workingman’s independence. On the diggings a man could be self-employed rather than a decade before when the average man worked as a shepherd or farm labourer. With independence came a questioning spirit debating the rights and the continuing relationship of owner and worker.

Gold eventually petered out or became the domain of large mining companies but the sailing clippers and steam ships did not diminish. Our ports were buzzing with new arrivals: new chums headed for the bush to work on the ever-expanding cattle, sheep and wheat stations. Australia was firmly on a boom riding on the sheep’s back, herding massive cattle teams and waving golden wheat. Export figures astounded everyone and our produce chalked up record prices and quality accolades as ‘world’s best’. Refrigeration and early canning sent sales soaring further as the English declared our beef “better than the roast beef of old England”, and our butter as “wondrously golden”.

But there were troubles brewing, especially in the shearing sheds where the majority of workers were itinerants. There were lots of reasons to grumble and fight: many of the squatters were bastards, wages were low, living conditions poor and, if you believe the old songs and stories, the tucker was lousy too. There was also the old annoyance of the squatter being able to ‘raddle’ the sheep’s back with a blue paint (they referred to the paint stick as ‘Toby’) deeming the sheep badly shorn and the shearer not to be paid.

The sheds also attracted militant unionists who were keen to try their newly found muscle. Being a male-dominated society living in very close quarters, and with no grog and very little distraction, heated conversation was high on the agenda. Despite the rumbles, the squatter remained boss of the board for a long time as if to test the very mettle of the working class. The newspapers and magazines also fuelled the fight although many, like The Bulletin, trod a wary path continuing to glorify both the shearers and the squatters. The cattle industry saw some discontent but it had far fewer workers and, besides, the drovers and station-hands worked in very isolated conditions.

The nineteenth century boom that started rolling in the 1840s hit a massive bust in the early 1890s. Strikes erupted across the shearing industry and the ‘Who’s Master, Who’s Man’ debate heated up to the temperature of Hades. The bust was devastating for the economy, the banks, the landowners and the workingman. Farmers walked off their holdings leaving their properties to the crows; workers walked and talked and walked, from town to town, in search of work or to meet the sustenance scheme demands. The shipping lines and agents, freighting companies, holding warehouses, auction centres and the like, either closed up shop or looked elsewhere for business. A devastating drought in 1902 further bashed the rural sector. In the cities trouble continued to brew and in that same year a mass meeting of Sydney boot makers had the temerity, or so it seemed, to recommend a national union of all trades.

The most obvious new business was coal. As the rural agricultural industries declined the factory chimneys went smoking hot. New South Wales had rich deep coal veins, particularly in the Hunter Valley and inner western plain regions. By the 1890s coal mining had accelerated to match the demand of that turn of the century, and the growth of manufacturing, firmly placed coal on the front line.

Over a period of ten years Australia experienced a dramatic population shift whereby, for the first time, the majority of the people lived in the coastal cities, rather than the bush. Work was to be found in the factories and the factories were in the cities, near rail and sea transportation. Government had also seen the need to intervene in the seemingly never-ending struggle between labour and capitalism, and in 1907, after much heated debate, basic wage was introduced at two pounds two shillings.

Slowly the economy started to feel strong again and city factory and commercial life appeared optimistic. We had a newly federated government, new jobs, new inventions, better transport systems, reliable pay packets, and the joys of city life. The balance of the sexes had changed too. Women lived in cities and, doing what comes naturally, our population increased too.

In 1906 a boom erupted around the discovery of gold near Melbourne. The ‘Poseidon’ rush, at Tarnagulla near Bendigo, promised to prove the richest gold field strike for many years. Two exceptionally large nuggets had been found to reignite the old cry of ‘Rush Away!’. Like mineral booms to come it died down with a wimp.

WW1 knocked us about more than a little but post war the economy shook itself and revved up the factory engines. The twenties were roaring in more ways than one and Australia enjoyed some outstanding trade figures, and many personal fortunes were made in this one decade. In 1919 we recorded the highest wheat export sales ever, sending a much-needed and very positive message back to the bush.

The struggle between the factory owners and workers was now more of a donnybrook. Socialism was being hailed as the saviour of the worker and thousands joined with the International Workers of the World, the International Socialists and the Communist Party of Australia. Strikes continued to erupt on the minefields, railways, wharves and factory floor. Women were also questioning their unfair ‘second class’ wages. Unionists were jailed, leaders condemned, governments sacked and still the money-go-round boomed as if oblivious to the plight of the worker.

The Wall Street crash of 1929 was reported here but America seemed far away so we returned to the swinging Charleston and the Lindy Hop.

The Great Depression hit Australia in 1930, later than the rest of the world, and harder. The land of milk and honey had hit a very sour note. Factories and commerce tumbled, workers were thrown onto the street to walk the Hungry Mile and live in makeshift box towns. Inner city suburbs like Sydney’s Paddington and Pyrmont, and Melbourne’s Brunswick and Carlton, became hideous slums. This was our biggest and most bitter bust.

We struggled on and eventually got back on our feet, rolled up our shirtsleeves, and started work again. The share market was still very shaky and in 1937 the Australian Associated Stock Exchange opened to unify the even shakier state exchanges. A year later the first Share Price Index was established. We were starting to regain confidence and looking for boom times again.

The impending WW2 sent us a message of unity and necessary endeavour. We had to really work to prepare ourselves with what seemed inevitable. We were ready when the bugle sounded and we took our part well as Bluey and Curley led the charge. The war was difficult for the economy but we had grown-up considerably as a nation and as an economy. There were more of us, we had better housing and living conditions, our rural sector had revived and our factories were still steaming, even if they had to meet the demands of war. Women joined The Land Army to keep our farms operating.

Some businesses boomed during the war and cries of ‘profiteering’ were not uncommon as labour and management resumed their local fight. After WW2 we looked around with a mix of despair and optimism. Returned soldiers were given misguided encouragement to work in the bush, women were encouraged to give up there jobs in favour of the returned men, enterprise was encouraged by often peculiar government schemes. We also encouraged migrants as many of the old barriers were reluctantly pulled down. Slowly we shook ourselves, and things started to right themselves. A boom was reported in the housing market as average Australians set their sights on owning a suburban bungalow, complete with a Holden in the garage and a Hills Hoist out the back. The bosses and workers continued to spar as if an old wound had been reopened. There was also the problem of how to settle with the migrant workforce. The average Aussie had the impression that the Poms were taking over, especially as factory foremen. One joke circulated at the time questioned: ‘How do you get 21 British migrant workers into a Mini Minor? Appoint one of them foreman and watch the other 20 crawl up his arse’. Other migrants arrived from foreign lands, especially Greece, Italy and Malta. Many went to the bush to work the land and, as we know, started new businesses, particularly cafes, during this period.

In the fifties a discovery of oil in the Rough Ranges of WA sent the boom market flying in a frenzy that would have made the Beverley Hillbillies proud. The excitement fizzled out when the oil deposits disappointed but we were left with a determination to find new fields and new boom times. By the sixties the roll of Australian millionaires had increased considerably. Why, it was even possible for a man to start his own airline and in 1957 Ansett Airways took to the skies.

In 1961 boom went bust with what became known as ‘The Credit Squeeze’. The share market dipped, business freaked out and consumers panicked, worrying how they would meet the mortgage on their Californian-style bungalows. The seventies and eighties saw the introduction of many governmental economic control mechanisms: shareholder disclosure (1971), security listings (1972), establishment of an Australian Options Market (1976), National Companies and Securities Commission Act (1979), a revised Companies Act (1981) deregulation of stock exchange membership (1982) and, in 1985, the Stock Exchange of Melbourne Limited established the Australian Financial Futures Market. In 1987 the National Australian Stock Exchange (ASX) and National Guarantee Fund amalgamated the six state stock exchanges. If there were to be more booms and busts then these geezers were going to be pushing some of the buttons.

In 1969 another minerals boom was announced with Australia’s own ‘Poseidon Adventure’ (the American movie about the ill-fated ocean liner came out the same year). The nickel mine discovery resulted in frantic trading with the shares starting at one dollar and skyrocketing to two hundred and eighty dollars. Everyone wanted a piece of the action and if they couldn’t afford this one then they would invest in some other mining venture. Shysters ruled supreme and shares were sold for mining companies that hadn’t turned a single shovel of dirt. In 1975 the property market also took a bust and crash mentality as house prices tumbled. In 1987 there were fears of another major stocks and bonds crash as the share market went south for a holiday.

Minerals have always been good for Australia but so have rural land ownership, retailing and the media, all producing significant boom time millionaires including the ‘last name’ mob: Tyson, Kidman, Vesty, Packer, Myer, Holmes a’Court, Hancock, Murdoch and Lowe. There are some last name busts as well with Bond and Skase leading the ‘Greedy Nineties’ ratpack. The cycle keeps turning as new boom mentality hits dotcom, childcare, snack foods, surf wear and so many other areas of relatively new business. Hands up all those who invested in early dotcom enterprise and lost their shirttails! So, here we are in the twenty-first century looking back over the years on a money-go-round ride that is our longest boom ever. Should we hop off cautiously or wait until we fall off with a thud?

A CD of hard times songs available in our online shop

‘The Bald Headed End of the Broom’ collected version from Herb Green and Warren Fahey’s version of same.

Lean Times and Mean Times on the Hungry Mile: Australia in the Great Depression. 

The 1890’s had been a decade of bitter strikes in the shearing industry followed by widespread rural unemployment. Men, women and even children were forced to uproot and travel the roadways, taking their chances ‘on the wallaby’. Paterson’s ‘Waltzing Matilda’ has romanticised life on the wallaby, roaming across country with never a care, a keen eye on any available sheep for a convenient meal, and nothing but blue sky overhead. The truth was far from romantic. The wallaby brigade was a mixed crew of professional swagmen, hatters, sundowners and those road travellers who simply had no choice but to keep moving, ever hopeful of work. Some pushed wheelbarrows, some rode on bicycles, some on horseback but most travelled on ‘shank’s pony’ walking from town to town. River bends and bridges provided meeting grounds where troubles and mugs of tea could be shared. Some accounts tell of ‘swag villages’ with up to one hundred or more campers. There was a code of ethics and, at one stage, a ‘Swagman’s Union’ with a set of jocular rules like ‘no man was to cadge rations from a fellow swaggie’ and  ‘no man to work under any circumstance’. Such humour was a safety valve for the pent-up anger and frustration many felt at how the land of milk and honey had turned to economic depression.   

The Great Depression of the late 1920s and early 1930s hit Australia particularly hard. The land of milk and honey had turned very sour and the anonymous songs and ditties that flowed had a bitter, frustrated flavour. These are songs of survival and possess an almost lackadaisical attitude of ‘how the hell did I get here and why is this happening to me?’

In October 1929 the crash of the Wall Street stockmarket drastically confirmed the arrival of the economic depression that had been creeping up on America and Britain. In Australia the hard times had been blamed on Prime Minister Bruce and his Federal Government with much of the population left shaking their heads. Many soldiers from WW1 were extremely bitter that their comrades had fought and died for Australia and seemingly repaid with the Depression.

One of the few ways to get back at the system was through creating and passing round songs, poems and ditties that made fools of political leaders. There are numerous songs, mostly short verses, satirising leaders like Jack Lang, Edward, Theodore, William ‘Billy’ Hughes, James Scullin and anyone else who dared get in the way.

Australians got through the Depression by sheer determination. They lived on dole rations, soup made from potato skins and the proverbial ‘bread and dripping’ sandwiches. Most believed they were only ‘half-living’ as this parody I recorded from Mrs Susan Colley (to the tune of ‘Pop Goes The Weasel’) implies.

Up and down the Sydney Road,

In and out of the weasel.

That’s the way the money goes,

Half-livin;’ down in Sydney.

Half a loaf of bread and cheese,

Half a steak and kidney,

That’s the way the money goes,

Half-livin’ down in Sydney.

The Fahey family were always left of centre – with a family of 16 kids who could blame them. Grandad John Fahey had a particular hatred for William (Billy) Hughes. Mr Hughes and his wife came door-knocking in his electorate and Grandpa picked this ditty up – and so did my father and so did I.

John Fahey was a unionist and, in 1903, worked for a year as a union organiser for the Seamen’s Union. It was around the time Billy Hughes got elected to our first Commonwealth parliament. Later, as WW1 sparked, Hughes became even more unpopular with unionists (and Catholics) because of his continual campaigning for conscription. At one point he travelled by ship to London for a photo opportunity with King George. That’s where this ditty came from – it is set to the then popular tune ‘The Little Grey Home In The West’.

Billy Hughes did have his supporters. He even had a Win The War Party – not that it did him any good as the Conscription Referendum failed twice.

This anonymous anti-Hughes, anti-conscription ditty was a well-known chant at rallies whenever Billy Hughes spoke.

and here’s another having a go at Hughes. Hardly any were in favour!

The Win-The-War Party.

Set to the tune of the ever popular ‘My Home in Tennessee’, this ditty was sent to me in 1988 by the mining historian Edgar Ross who had learnt it in 1916. Joe Cook, mentioned in the song, was a coal miner and union leader from Lithgow and elected to the New South Wales Legislative Assembly as MP for the coalfields seat of Hartley in 1891. It was Labor’s first big breakthrough in Australian politics and the first time Labor had won a seat in any parliament in Australia. In 1894 Cook was the leader of the group who refused to accept the Labor Party’s decision to make all members sign a “pledge” to be bound by decisions of the Parliamentary Labor Party. He left the party and became a follower of George Reid‘s Free Trade Party. He was a minister in Reid’s government from 1894 to 1899 and, in 1913, Australia’s sixth Prime Minister. Willy Watt refers to William Watt. In the 1914 federal election Watt was elected Liberal member for the seat of Balaclava. He became a leading member of the Nationalist Party when it was formed in 1916 under the leadership of Billy Hughes. Peacock refers to Sir Alexander Peacock, the first Victorian Premier born after the gold rush of the 1850s and the attainment of self-government in Victoria. Sir John Forrest was Federal treasurer. ‘Iceberg’ Irvine was Sir William Irvine, Attorney General in the Cook Government.

Here’s a song in support of Billy Hughes! I learnt this for an exhibition at the Museum of Democracy, Canberra, several year’s back. I just had to record it for posterity!

The Songs of the Street

Where spending our nights in the doss house,

We’re spending our days on the street,

We’re looking for work but we find none,

We wish we had something to eat.

Soup, soup, soup, soup,

They gave us a big bowl of loop-the-loop,

Soup, soup, soup, soup,

They gave us a big bowl of soup.

So runs a ditty that gained widespread popularity during the Great Depression when so many Australians found themselves caught up in the seemingly unescapable wheel of unemployment, homelessness and general despair. The soup line was a matter of survival but so was the singing of folk songs that bound battlers together in solidarity. Over the past 40 years I have collected numerous anonymous poems and songs that were created to unconsciously document how we survived the lean and mean times of our history. Our first experience of hard times came when crops failed in the fledgling penal colony of New South Wales coinciding with the late arrival of the supply ships. The goldrush era of the 1850s and 60s also saw despair when eager diggers, many believing they would be able to find gold in the first month of their arrival, found themselves destitute and far from home. Many miners, in order to survive, found work in the developing sheep, timber and cattle industries, but that boom ride also came to an abrupt end with the 1891 shearer’s strike and crippling 1890s rural droughts. These lean times saw many Australians ‘humping their bluey’ travelling the countryside looking for work.

Warren Fahey sings ‘On The Steps Of The Dole-Office Door’

One anonymous ditty summed up the thoughts of many:

Although we’ve plenty of bees and cows, this land’s not milk and honey;

For the b’s are all in Parliament, and the cows have got all the money!

The 1890s also signified a major change in Australian society with the bulk of our population moving from being rural workers to city factory and office jobs. The beginning of the 20th century saw the majority of Australians urbanised for the first time in our history. City life also saw an increase in poverty, slum housing and unemployment as we struggled to come to terms with the dramatic social shift.

One song, a parody of the popular song ‘It’s A Long Way To Tipperary’, dryly observed:

It’s a long way down the soup-line,

It’s a long way to go.

It’s a long way down the soup-line,

And the soup is thin I know.

Goodbye, dear old pork chop,

Farewell beef steak rare;

It’s a long way down the soup-line,

But my soup is there.

The songs of hard times in Australia, like their counterparts in America and Britain, tend to be short and to the point. A great many of them use humour and parody proving the old adage: ‘laughter is the best medicine’. In collecting the old songs, and publishing them in books and on recordings, my aim has always been to document the emotional history of average Australians and to show how we create folk songs and humour, especially in times of adversity. There are other emotions hidden in the stories and songs that allow us to see the light through the darkness. I remember tape recording an oral history in Lithgow, in 1973, with a retired miner, Jack Mays, when he told me how he had left his house every day for two years during the Depression, a sandwich in a brown paper bag in hand, and returned every evening at 4 pm. I asked him where he had found work in Lithgow during those lean and mean times. Jack looked at his wife, then looked at me and then whispered: “I didn’t have any work. I used to hide in the bush just out of town. We didn’t want the neighbours to know I was out of work and desperate, they didn’t have any money either.” Now that is real history.

The Depression

I’m only an old relief worker, I haven’t got much of a life,
I do six days work every fortnight, to keep the kids and the wife.
We never have very much tucker, our blankets are faded and old,
It’s weeks since the kid’s tasted butter, we shiver all night with the cold.
MPs call every three years, they come and solicit our vote,
They say if they go back to power, we’ll never be short of a note,
The parson he calls when he’s able, he comes in a big sedan car,
Leaves a few quid on the table, hops in and says ‘ta-ta’.
He says we should grumble never, that the Lord’s looking down from on high,
He says that it can’t last forever, no! Someday we’ll bloomin’ well die.

Note: MPs refer to Members of Parliament.

SOURCE

Herb Green, St Lucia Qld, 1973. Fahey Collection

The Honeymoon Song

O love it is a very funny thing
It affects both young and old
It’s like a plate of boarding house hash
And many’s the man that is sold
It makes you feel like a fresh water eel
Causes your head to swell
You’ll lose your mind, ’cause love is blind
And it empties your pocket-book as well.

Now then young men take my advice
Don’t be in a hurry to get wed
You’ll think you’re in clover
‘Till the honeymoon’s over
Then you wouldn’t care if you were dead

So boys, keep away from the girls I say
And give them lots of room
When you’re wed, they will bang you on the head,
With the bald-headed edge of the broom.

With a wife and sixteen half-starved kids
I’ll tell you it’s not much fun
When the butcher comes ’round 
Collecting his bill, with a dog 
And a double-barrelled gun 

So boys, keep away from the girls I say
And give them lots of room
When you’re wed, they will bang you on the head,
With the bald-headed edge of the broom.

SOURCE

Herb Green, St Lucia, 1973. Fahey Collection

A Little Bit of Stew For Dinner

A little bit of bread for breakfast,
A bit you could hardly see,
A little bit of stew for dinner,
And nothing else for tea,
As we get daily thinner,
Thinner every day,
And one of these bright moonlight nights,
We’ll simply fade away.

SOURCE Jim Mundy, Canberra, 1971. Fahey Collection

The image of the weathered swagman, bed roll strapped across his back, battered bush hat pulled definitely onto his head, as he determinedly tramps along a country road to nowhere in particular, is firmly printed into the Australian psyche. It is undoubtedly a colourful image reinforced by Australia’s unofficial national anthem, Banjo Paterson’s ‘Waltzing Matilda’.

The reality of the swag-carrying brigade, especially in the latter part of the nineteenth century and the long years of the Great Depression, is far more brutal, with most wanderers, because of economic misfortune, forced to tramp to exist.

Australian swaggies, the name coming directly from the fact they carried their belongings as a swag – were also known as bagmen, tramps, whalers and sundowners. They were acknowledged as among the most original and curious wanderers on earth.

Maybe it was the country’s sheer size, the harshness of the outback, the relative youthfulness of European-settled Australia – or perhaps the determination as shown by our pioneers who had battled every obstacle thrown before them.

There was also the fact that between 1870 and 1900, many itinerant workers, especially shearers, drovers and other seasonal workers, walked in their pursuit of work. They travelled on ‘shank’s pony’ – they walked! First Australians were age-old experienced wanderers and, with their inherent knowledge of the bush and its ways, probably better suited to treading the same pathways. They certainly knew about bush medicine, native food and where to find water.

Australia’s boom economic ride of the 19th century came to an abrupt halt in the 1890s when Australia became part of a global depression and, at the same time, experienced the collapse of the wool market (our main industry) and the effects of a crippling drought. Labour problems, especially in the shearing industry, also sent the economy sideways.

These were tough times. Many pastoralists had no choice but to walk off their property and leave it to the crows. ‘Humping your drum’ or ‘tramping the Wallaby Track’, walking from town to town looking for work, was a matter of survival. The 1890s depression hit deeper and lasted longer in Australia than in any other country.

The world’s economy soured again in the early 1930s as the Great Depression toppled capitalism. Banks closed and industry folded – once again sending men and also women out as swaggies. Homelessness combined with a governmental-supported sustenance payment scheme, where men had to tramp from town to town, looking for work (and mostly finding none), to receive a stamp in their ration book entitling them to collect food coupons.

Tramping with a swag had to be done right. The blanket roll or drum had to be rolled correctly and strung across the back to avoid back injuries. Most swaggies also carried another wrap slung around their neck containing their water can, billy and their other possessions – some soap, matches, spare socks and whatever rations they had saved, usually tea, sugar, salt and some flour. Some carried photographs of loved ones, a notebook and, possibly, a much-admired book. Plugs of tobacco were almost a currency as nearly everyone smoked.

Flies were the curse of the tramping swagman or woman. To travel without a fly-net or corks hanging from your hat was nigh impossible. The flies tormented the travellers as they crawled into every orifice. Drinking tea and eating was impossible without swishing the buggers away.

The billy was the traveller’s most important possession, and tea saw many the traveller, down on luck, receive some comfort knowing hope came with a mug of tea after a day’s tramp.

Old wet tea leaves were saved – if you couldn’t reuse them, they were useful to suck if the day was hot and dry and water scarce.

Most station owners and cooks were sympathetic to the travellers and, when possible, would give them a handout.

If a station was known for refusing ration handouts disgruntled visitors would often leave a ‘sign’ – a code mark near the gate – to let other travellers know not to bother.

Others were known for their generosity – In July 1931, the West Australian newspaper reported how a retired farmer, John Gray, had bequeathed four thousand pounds, an enormous sum, to be held in trust for the provision of food and lodging for swagmen passing through his district.

Humour on the track was an important part of survival. The general attitude being – if you can’t laugh at the ridiculousness of your situation – what else can you do? Swaggie’s humour seemed endless. When asked where they were sleeping, they would likely say, “The Moon & Stars Hotel – ground floor!”. They took their meals in the ‘Grand Rustic Room of the Hotel Universe’.

To avoid starvation, cadging food became an art. Bart Saggers, a swagman during the 1930s depression, told of ‘professional swaggies’ who could even cadge rations out of fellow swaggies.

One old swaggie, Bart Saggers, jokingly referred to himself as a ‘Road’s Scholar’.

Some swaggies earned a little extra money by plaiting greenhide whips, bridles, halters, belts and hatbands to sell to stockmen and drovers. Others made water bags out of old canvas, using the necks of bottles for mouthpieces, or did woodcarving making stock whip handles and needlewood smoking pipes.

There were, of course, swagmen who were up to all sorts of tricks to cadge food. Most grocery stores banned them from entering their shops for fear they’d purposely knock over a display of canned goods and apologetically gather them up again, all the time apologising, and slipping a few cans into their coats.

It was expected that stations would give swaggies rations in exchange for light work such as chopping wood, sweeping the verandahs or doing some light farm work. Most were happy with this two-way arrangement. The exception was a particular type of swaggie called the ‘sundowner’. Arriving as the daylight disappeared, he’d complain – it was too dark to do any work. Station owners soon got the idea and would usually send them on their way without rations.

Station owners tended to be cautious with aggressive swagmen, fearing a refusal of rations could result in damage to the station property and, worse, a mysterious fire. In the 1890s, several shearing sheds were burned to the ground by the swagman’s friends, Bryant & May (the popular brand of matches). Indeed, there is some thought that Banjo Paterson was inspired to write ‘Waltzing Matilda’ after hearing of an itinerant who might just have been murdered after a local shearing shed mysteriously burned down.

A return to economic normality eventually followed the lean and mean times. The first decade of the twentieth century heralded a new more progressive nation that celebrated its federation of colonies in 1901 and a population shift that, for the first time, saw more people living in the cities and near the coast.

Australia had also benefited from success in the wheat industry, beef and gold and silver mining in the west. The following decade was rightfully called The Roaring Twenties as we boomed again. After the Great Depression of the 1930s and lean times of WW2, we finally relaxed in the 1950s, aided by a measured population explosion led by immigration.

The country was back on track.

SWAG CARRIERS and HAWKERS

Carrying the swag encouraged humour and nicknames. I recall taping Bart Saggers in 1973, who had been a ‘professional swagman’ during the 1930s depression. He said his name was ‘The Great Australian Bite’ because he claimed to have even snaffled rations off other swagmen

Carrying the Swag Competition.

“At a recent Walgett show there was a prize for ‘carrying the swag’. The Walgett News says: “the best made up swag to be carried once around the ring was undoubtedly the most amusing event at the show. Mr Hazlett, of this town, was the only competitor. After ‘humping’ the swag around the ring in rare style, he proceeded to camp for the night. In about seven minutes he had his tent pitched, the fire fixed and his frying pan and quart pot ready for use. Several hundred people witnessed the proceedings”
From The Shearers & General Livestock Laborers Record. July 1891

Scotty the WrinklerBest known for once stealing, along with a couple of mates, a sheep. When they heard the troopers coming Scotty jumped into his bedding and held the sheep between his legs. “Tell them I have the flu”. The troopers came to the fire, saw no sheep and left.
from Aust Journal. 1860s
Professor DavisKyneton Victoria. Always carried snakes inside a spare tucker-bag. At night he would allow the snakes to sit under his hat, on his head, around his neck etc. used to cadge drinks with it at pubs.
from Aust Journal. 1860s
Professor FentonVictoria. Was a known horse whisperer and was in high demand when stations were breaking in horses.
from Aust Journal. 1860s
Professor MercerEscapologist, sword swallower, magician. Best known for allowing himself to be sewn into Hessian sugar bags and then thrown into the river – he usually took 3 minutes to surface.
from Aust Journal. 1860s
Syrian MarySyrian Mary was a hawker who lived in the NSW town of Mudgee. Twice each year she would routinely walk north-west to Coolah, a distance of just over 200 kilometres return.

Syrian Mary was a hawker who lived in the NSW town of Mudgee. Twice each year she would routinely walk north-west to Coolah, a distance of just over 200 kilometres return. Also travelling south-east to Lithgow and back, a return trip of over 250 kilometres, she repeated this trip each year as well. The total distance covered by her each year would have been hard to estimate, as she did not restrict her visits to people living on or near the main road. She made diversions to customers in out of the way places as well.
Syrian Mary provided a valuable and welcome service to those living isolated lives away from the larger towns. She carried her goods in three baskets, one in each hand and balancing the third one on her head. Apparently she later used a pram.
She walked the lonely roads and tracks of the district between the years 1890 and 1910. The bushman ‘Duke’ Tritton remembered meeting her in his early twenties, while travelling and working in the area. This would have been sometime during the latter part of the first decade of last century and he estimated her to be then in her sixties. She obviously made a significant impression on Tritton. Some fifty years later he described her “as the most remarkable woman I have ever met”. He also noted that she was “as straight as a ramrod, and walked like a queen”. To his knowledge, she never came to any harm during her travels, despite the fact that the bushranging Governor brothers roamed this area of the state. (“Once A Jolly Swagman”, by ‘Duke’ Tritton in ‘Walkabout’s Australia’, Ure Smith Pty Ltd, 1968, pp 191)
Mary Byers’ childhood memories, as retold to Vicki Powys, in her book ‘Growing up at Dark Corner'(1993), add some more light on the enigmatic Syrian Mary. Mary Byers was born in 1895 and recalled a lady who used to visit the family Dark Corner home during childhood days. It seems highly plausible to assume that this visitor was Syrian Mary. It also highlights again the great distances travelled by this woman to accommodate her grateful customers in isolated areas.
“Another traveller that used to come around selling things was the Syrian lady. Or perhaps she was the Assyrian lady, I’m not sure. Anyway, she sold haberdashery items, and these she carried in a big wicker basket on her head. She always wore a long black dress, and we’d see her, about every three months, walking along the road from the Palmer’s Oakey direction. She spoke just enough English to get by. With the help of some sign language too. I suppose she didn’t have a husband or children to look after; if she did we never saw any sign of them. Mum always asked her in, and the Syrian lady would spread out a tablecloth on the floor of the front verandah, and then proceed to set out all the items she had for sale, cottons, elastic, hairpins and hatpins, needles and pins, ribbons, buttons and lace, all those sorts of things. Mum used to save up so that she could buy from the Syrian lady, since she was cheaper than the shops. I never knew where she had come from or where she was going to, but she passed by our door on a regular basis.” (pp 27-28)

JIM CARGILL
Avoca Street
Randwick. NSW
Recorded 19th April 1973
SITE SOURCE: Jim Cargill – Folklore Unit.
Doggy TomAlways travelled with a pack of dogs. When he met a settler he’d say “a shilling a dog” – the dogs were all trained to go with the new owner and as soon as it reached its new home it would hot foot it back to the swaggies camp and pack.
from Aust Journal. 1860s
Hollow Log JackFrom the Monaro. Slept in a hollow log which he always cleaned out and plugged so snakes and rabbits couldn’t use whilst he was travelling.
from Aust Journal. 1860s
Pumpkin PaddySowed seeds as he travelled the country and particularly the Warrego and Condamine areas.
from Aust Journal. 1860s
Charcoal AnnieFemale sundowner in Riverina. Burned charcoal in the riverbeds and sold to blacksmiths.
from Aust Journal. 1860s
Reverend SelwynSowed citrus seeds whilst riding from station to station along the Richmond river. Lemon trees in unusual places are still known as ‘parson’s lemons’
from Aust Journal. 1860s
Quondong JoeWest NSW. Used quandong seeds for everything – buttons, rosary, novelties, necklaces.
from Aust Journal. 1860s
Red JackFemale swag carrier Annie Doyle who worked West Qld tracks, had cuddy horse that won many races.
from Aust Journal. 1860s
Wheelbarrow‘Wheelbarrow’ pushed his wheelbarrow for over 50 years around Riverina district selling household wares. Had a long white beard and never wore boots or shoes despite having huge 13″ feet. Once warmed his feet by a campfire and stood on the lid of the camp oven – which was extremely hot. The rest of the crew could smell something burning and realised it was Wheelbarrow’s feet – they mentioned it and he moved and said, “Yes, trifle warm’.
The Shearers’ Record newspaper Oct 15, 1889
Abdul WadiFamous Afghan had 400 camels and 60 drivers working in 1890s covering SA, Q, NSW. Drivers earned 3 pounds a week and a 3 year contract. The only Afghan word to enter our language was Hooshta, which was a camel command. Probably became whoosh or hoosh in vernacular.

Swaggies.

Origin of the word ‘swag’. There are two origins, one old Scandanavian for to ‘sway’ and the other, more likely, Middle English for a bag of probably stolen goods. Whichever the case the word appeared in Australian slang extremely early and is mentioned as ‘rough slang’ in ‘The Concise History of the Colony and Natives of New South Wales’, published Edinburgh, 1815.

As the word travelled down through Australian history is became identified as the blanket roll, and chattels, carried by itinerants, be they workers or unemployed travellers. Banjo Paterson, in ‘Waltzing Matilda’, firmly attached the word to those forced by economic hardship, to tramp the outback tracks in search of work, dole relief or solace.

(left) Swagman Jack Pobar. Warren Fahey Collection.

Those carrying swags became known as ‘swagmen’. Yes, there were ‘swagwomen’ however, because of the hardship of tramping, the majority of swaggies were men and young boys.

These swag-carriers were also known as ‘tramp’s, ‘bums’, ‘knot-carriers’, or, as one swagman I interviewed in the 1970s, Bart Saggers, told me, ‘some of us were ‘roads’ scholars’.

Swaggies were said to be ‘on the wallaby’, ‘on the outback track’, ‘humping the drum’ (drum referring to the rolled blanket carried over the shoulder), ‘humping bluey’ (the bluey blanket roll got its name from a reference to the blue-grey woollen vests worn by convicts – and later transferred to a similar-coloured blanket available in the 1880s). Some were given specific names like ‘Murrumbidgee waler’ – a swaggy who spent an extended time camped by a river well-stocked with fish. ‘Sundowners’, or ‘sun chasers’, were another group with a speciality of arriving at station homesteads just as the sun set – an easy way to avoid the light labour usually requested when handing over rations.

Many of the blanket rolls were thread bare and Bart Saggers told me ‘some of the blankets were so worn and devoid of nap that they wouldn’t catch a burr if you dragged them from Bendigo to Bourke.”

The Bulletin magazine, October 8, 1898, detailed the correct way to tie and carry a swag. ‘The swag usually consisted of a blanket, spare singlet, pair of moles, towel, a couple of coloured handkerchiefs for binders, and woollen muffler for the sling (wool being springy and easy on the shoulder). Swag was fastened near the end with binders, through which was passed the sling, so arranged that the knot came just below the breast and gave a rest for the hand, which thus acquired a habit of pushing the sling outwards from the body as the man neared the end of his tramp.’

Warren Fahey (accompanied on concertina) sings ‘Humping Old Bluey It Is A Stale Game’

Harry Chaplin sings ‘Two Professional Hums’. Recorded Broken Hill, 1973, Warren Fahey Collection NLA.

Two Professional Hums

Tune: Jolly Lads Are We

Come all you jovial fellows and listen to me chums,
And I’ll relate to you the story of two professional hums,
Who travelled England, Ireland; all over Scotland too,
And took an oath in Bendigo, no more work they would do.

No more work they would do boys, troll old army dough boys,
Humming a drink where ‘ere we could, sing fol the righty-o,
For we are hums and jolly good chums, we live like Royal Turks,
And if we’ve luck we’ll hum our cheques and shoot the man who works.

We asked a lady, the other day, for something for to eat,
A little bit of chicken or a little bit of meat,
A little bit of turkey or a little bit of ham,
A half-a-dozen loaves of bread and a bucket full of jam.

Or anything at all, Mam, for we’re nearly starving,
Anything to help a poor joker on his way,
For we are hums and jolly good chums, we live like Royal Turks,
And if we’ve luck we’ll hum our cheques and shoot the man who works.

A farmer asked me the other day, “If I would go to graft?”
Says I, “What is the work ?”, says he, “A-cutting of some chaff”
Says I, “What is the payment?” – ‘A dollar and a half’s the sum”
Says I, “Why don’t you go shoot yourself! For we would rather hum

Than work upon the harvest and let the cockles starve us.”
Humming a drink where ‘ere we go, singing fol the righty-o,
For we are hums and jolly good chums, we live like Royal Turks,
And if we’ve luck we’ll hum our cheques and shoot the man who works.

So to conclude and finish, the remainder of my song,
The song that was proposed, me boys, by two professional hums.
Who travelled England, Ireland; all over Scotland too,
And took an oath in Bendigo, no more work they would do.

No more work they would do boys, troll old army dough boys,
Humming a drink where ‘ere they could, sing fol the righty – o
For we are hums and jolly good chums, we live like Royal Turks,
And if we’ve luck we’ll hum our cheques and shoot the man who works.

SOURCE

Harry Chaplin, Fahey Collection

Tramps

At one time, when a certain gang of bushrangers were ‘out’ they caused it to be known that tramps and such like were under their special protection, and bade squatters treat them well or beware retaliation at their lawless hands. The effect of this was to make sundowning an intolerable nuisance within the district infested by these worthies. There is a story that after they were caught someone met a tramp and scoffed at him, saying ‘Aha, my man, your day’s over now that the Hall Gang of thieves is hanged’

‘The bastards may be put away,’ he retorted, ‘but’, drawing a box of matches from his pocket, ‘Bryant and May are not!’

Humping the Drum Documentary

THE TRAMP
The TrampJust let me sit down for a moment,
There’s a milestone in my shoe,
If you give me a diamond as big as your head,
I’ll tell a sad story to you.
I’ve been tramping for years and I’m tired,
For days I’ve had nothing to eat,
Except three pork pies, a dozen loaves,
And five pounds of bad old meat.
But I wasn’t always like this, sir,
I was once perhaps as ugly as you,
I had houses, carriages and banks on my mind,
And a gold and diamond mine too.
But that was before I met Lizzie,
‘Twas a woman who ruined my life,
We were married by special dog license,
I was proud when she called me her wife.
For ninety years we lived together,
As happy as pigs in a tree,
When one day a man with a face in distress,
Came and stole my poor darling from me.
He would take her for walks round the gasworks,
And fill her with bad ginger beer,
One day whilst I was in prison,
He poured his love tale in her ear.
From that day I went to the dogs, sir,
And the dogs all came after me,
And every day, like the fool that you are, sir,
I was drowning myself in cold tea.
In my temper I knelt on the ceiling,
And I swore as I only can swear,
That if ever I met that base scoundrel,
I’d fly from his sight like a hare.
It’s a rolling stone gathers no moss, sir,
And the early bird catches the lair,
But there’s one man I’ll never forget, or forgive, 
If he brings back my old woman again!
SOURCE
JIM FRY, Gosford. Recorded 1973 Fahey Collection