I built myself a mansion, and chose myself a wife; Of her I have no reason to complain; For I thought I had sufficient to last me all my life, But I’ve lost that little freehold on the plain.
And now I am compelled to take a drover’s life, To drive cattle through the sunshine and the rain, And to leave her behind me, my own dear loving wife— We were happy on that freehold on the plain.
You often have been told of regiments brave and bold, But we are the bravest in the land; We’re called the Tag-rag Band, and we rally in Queensland, We are members of the Wallaby Brigade.
Tramp, tramp, tramp across the borders, The swagmen are rolling up, I see. When the shearing’s at an end we’ll go fishing in a bend. Then hurrah! for the Wallaby Brigade.
When you are leaving camp, you must ask some brother tramp If there are any jobs to be had, Or what sort of a shop that station is to stop For a member of the Wallaby Brigade.
You ask me if they want men, you ask for rations then, If they don’t stump up a warning should be made; To teach them better sense—why, “Set fire to their fence” Is the war cry of the Wallaby Brigade.
The squatters thought us done when they fenced in all their run, But a prettier mistake they never made; You’ve only to sport your dover and knock a monkey over— There’s cheap mutton for the Wallaby Brigade.
Now when the shearing’s in our harvest will begin, Our swags for a spell down will be laid; But when our cheques are drank we will join the Tag-rag rank, Limeburners in the Wallaby Brigade.
To knock a monkey over is to kill a sheep, monkey being slang for sheep in many parts of the bush.
Let Romanists all at the Confessional kneel, Let the Jew with disgust turn from it, Let the mighty Crown Prelate in Church pander zeal, Let the Mussulman worship Mahomet.
From all these I differ—truly wise is my plan, With my doctrine, perhaps, you’ll agree, To be upright and downright and act like a man, That’s the religion for me.
I will go to no Church and to no house of Prayer To see a white shirt on a preacher. And in no Courthouse on a book will I swear To injure a poor fellow-creature.
For parsons and preachers are all a mere joke, Their hands must be greased by a fee; But with the poor toiler to share your last “toke”* That’s the religion for me.