We’ll try you with bullocks now, Paddy Malone.

Now we’ll stop all immigration, We won’t need it any more; We’ll be having young natives, Twins by the score.

But a glass we’ll take, ere the grey dawn break, And then saddle up and away— Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.

We’ll range from the creeks to the mountain peaks, And traverse far below; Where foot never trod, we’ll mark with a rod The limits of endless snow; Each lofty crag we’ll plant with a flag, To flash in the sun’s bright ray— Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.

We’ll range from the creeks to the mountain peaks, And traverse far below; Where foot never trod, we’ll mark with a rod The limits of endless snow; Each lofty crag we’ll plant with a flag, To flash in the sun’s bright ray— Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.

We’ll range from the creeks to the mountain peaks, And traverse far below; Where foot never trod, we’ll mark with a rod The limits of endless snow; Each lofty crag we’ll plant with a flag, To flash in the sun’s bright ray— Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.

Till with cash hard-earned once more returned, At “The Beaver” bars we’ll shout; And the very bad scrawl that’s against the wall Ourselves shall see wiped out.

Chorus Then come, my hearties, we’ll roam the mountains high!

We’ll wander over mountains and we’ll gallop over plains— For we scorn to live in slavery, bound down in iron chains.

Chorus Come, all my hearties, we’ll roam the mountains high, Together we will plunder, together we will die.

We’ll wander over valleys, and gallop over plains, And we’ll scorn to live in slavery, bound down with iron chains.

From New Zealand’s snow-clad summits or Tasmania’s meadows green, We’ll always make them welcome on the plains of Riverine.

Chorus: Wrap me up, &c. “There’s tea in the battered old billy; Place the pannikins out in a row, And we’ll drink to the next merry meeting, In the place where all good fellows go.

THE BUSHMAN (Air: “Wearing of the Green.”) When the merchant lies down, he can scarce go to sleep For thinking of his merchandise upon the fatal deep; His ships may be cast away or taken in a war, So him alone we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are.

Chorus: Who true bushmen are, Who true bushmen are, So him alone we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are!

His voyage may be stopped for the want of a spar, So him also we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are.

The night is dark and stormy, and the sky is clouded o’er; Our horses we will mount and ride away, To watch the squatters’ cattle through the darkness of the night, And we’ll keep them on the camp till break of day.

Chorus: So early in the morning, &c. It’s getting late, we’d better push; ’Tis a good long way across the bush, And the mob to drive are middling hard; I do not think we’ll reach the yard.

Chorus Pass the wine cup round, my boys; Don’t let the bottle stand there, For to-night we’ll drink the health Of every overlander.

Chorus Then give your horses rein across the open plain, We’ll ship our meat both sound and sweet, nor care what some folks say; And frozen we’ll send home the cattle that now roam On the far Barcoo and the Flinders too, a thousand miles away.

Chorus Then give your horses rein across the open plain, We’ll ship our meat both sound and sweet, nor care what some folks say; And frozen we’ll send home the cattle that now roam On the far Barcoo and the Flinders too, a thousand miles away.

“We’ll waive proof of property and that sort of thing,” I remarked, with, I fear, the hope of detaining her.

We’ll fix up his room later in the day” He limped out, Larry’s eyes following him.

we’ll consider that later.

“This walk isn’t what it should be,” said my grandfather, “we’ll have to provide something better in the spring.”