With four tons of a load we take to the road, my bullocks and I;
My wife and my boy, our four-year old joy, are perched up on high
(I fear you have reckoned that to place the wife second,
Is wrong of her hub, but my bullocks, mind you,
Are the beasts to pull through the Brigalow scrub.
Come ‘ere Snailey, Poly, weah back.
Here we plod gaily over the track.
We’re away from the rum for some time to come
(Of late we’d too much),
And the offsider frets as his whistle he wets
(Painkiller and such),
He’ll be rid of his sorrow by this time tomorrow,
For damper and tea,
With junk, by a wagon will beat the wine flagon,
And better agree
When at evening we camp, our boy, little scamp,
My whip tries to crack;
But the weight turns him round and he falls to the ground
All prone on his back.
He doesn’t mind a mucker, is all there for tucker
When wife has it ready;
And the sound of the bells, which reaches us, seems
My life’s not in vain.
Why! here is the dawn. It is time to be gone;
So yoke up again.