In the Days When the World Was Wide [12]
for the night; And I think the very bullocks raised their heads and fixed their eyes On the candle in the window of the Shanty on the Rise.
And the bullock-bells were clanking from the marshes on the flats As we hurried to the Shanty, where we hung our dripping hats; And we took a drop of something that was brought at our desire, As we stood with steaming moleskins in the kitchen by the fire. Oh! it roared upon a fireplace of the good, old-fashioned size, When the rain came down the chimney of the Shanty on the Rise.
They got up a Christmas party in the Shanty long ago, While I camped with Jimmy Nowlett on the riverbank below; Poor old Jim was in his glory -- they'd elected him M.C., For there wasn't such another raving lunatic as he. `Mr. Nowlett, Mr. Swaller!' shouted Something-in-Disguise, As we walked into the parlour of the Shanty on the Rise.
There is little real pleasure in the city where I am -- There's a swarry round the corner with its mockery and sham; But a fellow can be happy when around the room he whirls In a party up the country with the jolly country girls. Why, at times I almost fancied I was dancing on the skies, When I danced with Mary Carey in the Shanty on the Rise.
Jimmy came to me and whispered, and I muttered, `Go along!' But he shouted, `Mr. Swaller will oblige us with a song!' And at first I said I wouldn't, and I shammed a little too, Till the girls began to whisper, `Mr. Swallow, now, ah, DO!' So I sang a song of something 'bout the love that never dies, And the chorus shook the rafters of the Shanty on the Rise.
Jimmy burst his concertina, and the bullock-drivers went For the corpse of Joe the Fiddler, who was sleeping in his tent; Joe was tired and had lumbago, and he wouldn't come, he said, But the case was very urgent, so they pulled him out of bed; And they fetched him, for the bushmen knew that Something-in-Disguise Had a cure for Joe's lumbago in the Shanty on the Rise.
Jim and I were rather quiet while escorting Mary home, 'Neath the stars that hung in clusters, near and distant, from the dome; And we walked so very silent -- being lost in reverie -- That we heard the settlers'-matches rustle softly on the tree; And I wondered who would win her when she said her sweet good-byes -- But she died at one-and-twenty, and was buried on the Rise.
I suppose the Shanty vanished from the ranges long ago, And the girls are mostly married to the chaps I used to know; My old chums are in the distance -- some have crossed the border-line, But in fancy still their glasses chink against the rim of mine. And, upon the very centre of the greenest spot that lies In my fondest recollection, stands the Shanty on the Rise.
The Vagabond
White handkerchiefs wave from the short black pier As we glide to the grand old sea -- But the song of my heart is for none to hear If one of them waves for me. A roving, roaming life is mine, Ever by field or flood -- For not far back in my father's line Was a dash of the Gipsy blood.
Flax and tussock and fern, Gum and mulga and sand, Reef and palm -- but my fancies turn Ever away from land; Strange wild cities in ancient state, Range and river and tree, Snow and ice. But my star of fate Is ever across the sea.
A god-like ride on a thundering sea, When all but the stars are blind -- A desperate race from Eternity With a gale-and-a-half behind. A jovial spree in the cabin at night, A song on the rolling deck, A lark ashore with the ships in sight, Till -- a wreck goes down with a wreck.
A smoke and a yarn on the deck by day, When life is a waking dream, And care and trouble so far away That out of your life they seem. A roving spirit in sympathy, Who has travelled the whole world o'er -- My heart forgets, in a week at sea, The trouble of years on shore.
A rolling stone! -- 'tis a saw for slaves -- Philosophy false as old -- Wear out or break 'neath the feet of knaves, Or rot in your bed of mould! But I'D rather trust to the darkest skies And the wildest seas that roar, Or die, where the stars of Nations rise,
And the bullock-bells were clanking from the marshes on the flats As we hurried to the Shanty, where we hung our dripping hats; And we took a drop of something that was brought at our desire, As we stood with steaming moleskins in the kitchen by the fire. Oh! it roared upon a fireplace of the good, old-fashioned size, When the rain came down the chimney of the Shanty on the Rise.
They got up a Christmas party in the Shanty long ago, While I camped with Jimmy Nowlett on the riverbank below; Poor old Jim was in his glory -- they'd elected him M.C., For there wasn't such another raving lunatic as he. `Mr. Nowlett, Mr. Swaller!' shouted Something-in-Disguise, As we walked into the parlour of the Shanty on the Rise.
There is little real pleasure in the city where I am -- There's a swarry round the corner with its mockery and sham; But a fellow can be happy when around the room he whirls In a party up the country with the jolly country girls. Why, at times I almost fancied I was dancing on the skies, When I danced with Mary Carey in the Shanty on the Rise.
Jimmy came to me and whispered, and I muttered, `Go along!' But he shouted, `Mr. Swaller will oblige us with a song!' And at first I said I wouldn't, and I shammed a little too, Till the girls began to whisper, `Mr. Swallow, now, ah, DO!' So I sang a song of something 'bout the love that never dies, And the chorus shook the rafters of the Shanty on the Rise.
Jimmy burst his concertina, and the bullock-drivers went For the corpse of Joe the Fiddler, who was sleeping in his tent; Joe was tired and had lumbago, and he wouldn't come, he said, But the case was very urgent, so they pulled him out of bed; And they fetched him, for the bushmen knew that Something-in-Disguise Had a cure for Joe's lumbago in the Shanty on the Rise.
Jim and I were rather quiet while escorting Mary home, 'Neath the stars that hung in clusters, near and distant, from the dome; And we walked so very silent -- being lost in reverie -- That we heard the settlers'-matches rustle softly on the tree; And I wondered who would win her when she said her sweet good-byes -- But she died at one-and-twenty, and was buried on the Rise.
I suppose the Shanty vanished from the ranges long ago, And the girls are mostly married to the chaps I used to know; My old chums are in the distance -- some have crossed the border-line, But in fancy still their glasses chink against the rim of mine. And, upon the very centre of the greenest spot that lies In my fondest recollection, stands the Shanty on the Rise.
The Vagabond
White handkerchiefs wave from the short black pier As we glide to the grand old sea -- But the song of my heart is for none to hear If one of them waves for me. A roving, roaming life is mine, Ever by field or flood -- For not far back in my father's line Was a dash of the Gipsy blood.
Flax and tussock and fern, Gum and mulga and sand, Reef and palm -- but my fancies turn Ever away from land; Strange wild cities in ancient state, Range and river and tree, Snow and ice. But my star of fate Is ever across the sea.
A god-like ride on a thundering sea, When all but the stars are blind -- A desperate race from Eternity With a gale-and-a-half behind. A jovial spree in the cabin at night, A song on the rolling deck, A lark ashore with the ships in sight, Till -- a wreck goes down with a wreck.
A smoke and a yarn on the deck by day, When life is a waking dream, And care and trouble so far away That out of your life they seem. A roving spirit in sympathy, Who has travelled the whole world o'er -- My heart forgets, in a week at sea, The trouble of years on shore.
A rolling stone! -- 'tis a saw for slaves -- Philosophy false as old -- Wear out or break 'neath the feet of knaves, Or rot in your bed of mould! But I'D rather trust to the darkest skies And the wildest seas that roar, Or die, where the stars of Nations rise,