Oh, a motley mob of rowdy men are we
When we hit your town to go on a spree.
We’ve fleeced the worst of their wiry wool
And our canvas pockets are now brim full.
We’ve come from the biggest runs near and far
To sup Beenleigh Rum at your inn’s bar.
On bowed horseback and busted spring cart
So fill ‘em up man, let’s make a spry start.
From the old stations on country out west
We’ve plied our tiring trade and done our best.
And hard won now our time for fun has come
We’ll sing and we’ll roar on Queensland rum.
From the Darling Downs too the men’ll ride
With their pockets full of silvery pride.
For I’m a man to shear six score and more,
I’ll best the limey new chum that’s for sure.
I’ve bested station bosses for wages
With their journal’s ripe and ink blackened pages.
It’s season’s end out on the famed Bulloo,
My muscles are hard and demeanour too.
Where even the blow flies head for the shade
And white are the men of mark ready-made.
The goin’s hard pushin’ through their western wool
For of the burr their fleeces are often full.
The rams are regal though their manners mean
With their horns and hooves they’ll fight keen.
They’ll best me not on the gentry’s board
For I’ve never yet left merino flawed.
The tar boy’s still a stranger I’ve not met
For I’ve not needed his poison pot yet.
My blows are long and blade strikes true,
But I’ve no need to boast to such as you.
The western wethers are big as bullocks
Running wild in thousand acre paddocks.
And the cook’s a master in the dark arts
Of making a meal from a beast’s worst parts.
I see you doubt me and good luck to you
For tonight I drink to a season through.
I’ll do it again next year have no doubt,
Draw it mild man and join me in a shout!