Saltbush Bill J.P., and Other Verses | Page 8

from the dawning
of the day, And the shear-blades were a-clicking to the cry of "Wool
away!"
Then his face was somewhat browner and his frame was firmer set --
And he feels his flabby muscles with a feeling of regret.
But the
wool-team slowly passes, and his eyes go sadly back To the dusty little
table and the papers in the rack,
And his thoughts go to the terrace
where his sickly children squall, And he thinks there's something
healthy in the bush-life after all. But we'll go no more a-droving in the
wind or in the sun,
For our fathers' hearts have failed us and the
droving days are done.
There's a nasty dash of danger where the long-horned bullock wheels,
And we like to live in comfort and to get our reg'lar meals. For to hang
around the townships suits us better, you'll agree, And a job at washing
bottles is the job for such as we.
Let us herd into the cities, let us
crush and crowd and push Till we lose the love of roving and we learn
to hate the bush; And we'll turn our aspirations to a city life and beer,

And we'll slip across to England -- it's a nicer place than here;
For there's not much risk of hardship where all comforts are in store,
And the theatres are plenty and the pubs are more and more. But that
ends it, Mr. Lawson, and it's time to say good-bye, We must agree to
differ in all friendship, you and I;
So we'll work our own salvation
with the stoutest hearts we may, And if fortune only favours we will
take the road some day, And go droving down the river 'neath the
sunshine and the stars, And then return to Sydney and vermilionize the
bars.
T.Y.S.O.N.
Across the Queensland border line
The mobs of cattle go;
They

travel down in sun and shine
On dusty stage, and slow.
The drovers,
riding slowly on
To let the cattle spread,
Will say: "Here's one old
landmark gone,
For old man Tyson's dead."
What tales there'll be in every camp
By men that Tyson knew;
The
swagmen, meeting on the tramp,
Will yarn the long day through,

And tell of how he passed as "Brown",
And fooled the local men:

"But not for me -- I struck the town,
And passed the message further
down;
That's T.Y.S.O.N.!"
There stands a little country town
Beyond the border line,
Where
dusty roads go up and down,
And banks with pubs combine.
A
stranger came to cash a cheque --
Few were the words he said --
A
handkerchief about his neck,
An old hat on his head.
A long grey stranger, eagle-eyed --
"Know me? Of course you do?"

"It's not my work," the boss replied,
"To know such tramps as you."

"Well, look here, Mister, don't be flash,"
Replied the stranger then,

"I never care to make a splash,
I'm simple -- but I've got the cash,

I'm T.Y.S.O.N."
But in that last great drafting-yard,
Where Peter keeps the gate,
And
souls of sinners find it barred,
And go to meet their fate,
There's
one who ought to enter in,
For good deeds done on earth;
Such
deeds as merit ought to win,
Kind deeds of sterling worth.
Not by the strait and narrow gate,
Reserved for wealthy men,
But
through the big gate, opened wide,
The grizzled figure, eagle-eyed,

Will travel through -- and then
Old Peter'll say: "We pass him
through;
There's many a thing he used to do,

Good-hearted things
that no one knew;
That's T.Y.S.O.N."
As Long as your Eyes are Blue

Wilt thou love me, sweet, when my hair is grey
And my cheeks shall
have lost their hue?
When the charms of youth shall have passed
away,
Will your love as of old prove true?
For the looks may change, and the heart may range,
And the love be
no longer fond;
Wilt thou love with truth in the years of youth
And
away to the years beyond?
Oh, I love you, sweet, for your locks of brown
And the blush on your
cheek that lies --
But I love you most for the kindly heart
That I see
in your sweet blue eyes.
For the eyes are signs of the soul within,
Of the heart that is leal and
true,
And mine own sweetheart, I shall love you still,
Just as long as
your eyes are blue.
For the locks may bleach, and the cheeks of peach
May be reft of
their golden hue;
But mine own sweetheart, I shall love you still,

Just as long as your eyes are blue.
Bottle-O!
I ain't the kind of bloke as takes to any steady job;
I drives me bottle
cart around the town;
A bloke what keeps 'is eyes about can always
make a bob -- I couldn't bear to graft for every brown.
There's lots of
handy things about in everybody's yard,
There's cocks and hens
a-runnin' to an' fro,
And little dogs what comes and barks -- we take
'em off their guard And we puts 'em with the Empty Bottle-O!
Chorus --
So it's any "Empty bottles! Any empty