Òåêñò îðèãèíàëà íà àíãëèéñêîì ÿçûêå
The Song of Old Joe Swallow
When I was up the country in the rough and early days, I used to work along ov Jimmy Nowlett’s bullick-drays; Then the reelroad wasn’t heered on, an’ the bush was wild an’ strange, An’ we useter draw the timber from the saw-pits in the range -- Load provisions for the stations, an’ we’d travel far and slow Through the plains an’ ’cross the ranges in the days of long ago. Then it’s yoke up the bullicks and tramp beside ’em slow, An’ saddle up yer horses an’ a-ridin’ we will go, To the bullick-drivin’, cattle-drovin’, Nigger, digger, roarin’, rovin’ Days o’ long ago. Once me and Jimmy Nowlett loaded timber for the town, But we hadn’t gone a dozen mile before the rain come down, An’ me an’ Jimmy Nowlett an’ the bullicks an’ the dray Was cut off on some risin’ ground while floods around us lay; An’ we soon run short of tucker an’ terbacca, which was bad, An’ pertaters dipped in honey was the only tuck we had. An’ half our bullicks perished when the drought was on the land, An’ the burnin’ heat that dazzles as it dances on the sand; When the sun-baked clay an’ gravel paves for miles the burnin’ creeks, An’ at ev’ry step yer travel there a rottin’ carcase reeks -- But we pulled ourselves together, for we never used ter know What a feather bed was good for in those days o’ long ago. But in spite ov barren ridges an’ in spite ov mud an’ heat, An’ dust that browned the bushes when it rose from bullicks’ feet, An’ in spite ov cold and chilblains when the bush was white with frost, An’ in spite of muddy water where the burnin’ plain was crossed, An’ in spite of modern progress, and in spite of all their blow, ’Twas a better land to live in, in the days o’ long ago. When the frosty moon was shinin’ o’er the ranges like a lamp, An’ a lot of bullick-drivers was a-campin’ on the camp, When the fire was blazin’ cheery an’ the pipes was drawin’ well, Then our songs we useter chorus an’ our yarns we useter tell; An’ we’d talk ov lands we come from, and ov chaps we useter know, For there always was behind us OTHER days o’ long ago. Ah, them early days was ended when the reelroad crossed the plain, But in dreams I often tramp beside the bullick-team again: Still we pauses at the shanty just to have a drop er cheer, Still I feels a kind ov pleasure when the campin’-ground is near; Still I smells the old tarpaulin me an’ Jimmy useter throw O’er the timber-truck for shelter in the days ov long ago. I have been a-driftin’ back’ards with the changes ov the land, An’ if I spoke ter bullicks now they wouldn’t understand, But when Mary wakes me sudden in the night I’ll often say: `Come here, Spot, an’ stan’ up, Bally, blank an’ blank an’ come-eer-way.’ An’ she says that, when I’m sleepin’, oft my elerquince ’ill flow In the bullick-drivin’ language ov the days o’ long ago. Well, the pub will soon be closin’, so I’ll give the thing a rest; But if you should drop on Nowlett in the far an’ distant west -- An’ if Jimmy uses doubleyou instead of ar an’ vee, An’ if he drops his aitches, then you’re sure to know it’s he. An’ yer won’t forgit to arsk him if he still remembers Joe As knowed him up the country in the days o’ long ago. Then it’s yoke up the bullicks and tramp beside ’em slow, An’ saddle up yer horses an’ a-ridin’ we will go, To the bullick-drivin’, cattle-drovin’, Nigger, digger, roarin’, rovin’ Days o’ long ago.
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