Ray Wales, of Perth, Australia, brought me this song on a tape many years ago. He knew nothing about the song
or the singer. Ray went back to Australia, the tape got lost, but I remembered the song pretty accurately, it turns out. Emily Friedman,
of Chicago, finally tracked the song down, with the help and kindness of the brilliant Austrlian story-teller, Kel Watkins,
who not only found the original rendition I had heard, but taped that and a reading of Lawson's original bush ballad for us.
Emily believes the original was shortened for singing by a Peter Dicky, and the version I heard is beautifully sung by Dave De Hugard,
with concertina accompaniment. My Thanks to everyone involved. I give the text here the way De Hugard sang it; the differences in these
(1) on the track
(2) swagmen
(3) bread makings
(4) pan for tea
(5) pipe
(6) lost
(7) blanket roll
The tentpoles are rotten and me campfire's dead,
And the 'possoms may ramble in the
trees overhead.
I'm out on the Wallaby I'm humping
me drum, ( 1)
And I come down the road where the
Sundowners come. (2)
It 's Northwest by West over ranges
afar
To the place where the cattle and
the sheep stations are
With the sky for me roof and the
earth for me bunk,
And a calico bag for me damper and
my junk, ( 3)
And it's scarcely a comrade me
memory reveals,
Though the spirit still lingers in
me toe and my heels.
My tent is all torn and my blankets
are damp·
And the fast-rising floodwaters flow
down by the camp.
The cold water rises in jets from
the floor
And I lie in my bed and I listen
to it roar
And I think of tomorrow, how me
footsteps will lag
As I tramp beneath the weight of
a rain-sodden swag.
But the way of a swagman is mostly
uphill,
Though there's joy to be found on
the Wallaby still
When the day has gone by with its
tramp and its toil
And your campfire you build and
your billy you can boil (4)
And there's comfort at least in
the bowl of your clay (5)
Or the yarn of a mate who is
tramping that way.
But beware of the cities where
it's poisoned for years
And beware of the dangers in drinking long beers.
When the bushman gets bushed (6)
in the streets of the town,
When he's lost all his friends and
his cheques are knocked down,
Well he's right 'til his pockets
are empty and then
He waltzes old bluey (7) up the
country again.