While The Billy BoilsSearch(The woman said she was sick of cooking and patching his dungaree pants at the mulga mine.)
Think of it, dwell on it, mining camp man;Picture the woman’s monotonous lot!Dusting the dug-out and cooking the scranOut is some weary unwomanly spot.Not that we want to create discontent,Not that we want rebellion to brew,But picture yourself in a tattered old tent,Baking the brownie and stirring the stew,Hefting around like the hard-working ants,Cooking, and patching their dungaree pants!
Monday to Saturday, always the same;Breakfast and lunch, and tea about six;And all you’re expected to get for the gameSummed in the negative syllable — Nix!Porridge and sausages, bacon and eggs,Corned beef and cabbages, mutton and mince;Eyes full of soapsuds and mouth full of pegsTrying a spirit of hope to envince.No prospect that pleases, no scene that enchants —Cooking and patching their dungaree pants!
Men of the mulga and men of the mine,Men where the rock-drills are throbbingly thrust;Men of the camps at the head of the line,You’re wearing your womenfolk down to the dust.Christmas to you means a call to the coast;There is always a friend who will work it for you;Christmas to her means a boil and a roastAs a change from the wearisome curry and stew;While he on the sweets of the seaside descants,She’s cooking, and patching the dungaree pants!
Can you wonder that Mulgaland slaves often sighTo walk near the waves, to saunter the sand,Can you wonder their fancies impel them to flyWith any old thing with the cash at command?That bloke in the buggy who stops for a chat,That cove on the coach with his tales of the town;Will find Welcome stencilled on most every matWhere they don’t think a woman is worth a new gown.The best temper slips and the best temper slantsThrough cooking and patching your dungaree pants!