While The Billy BoilsSearchHis old clay pipe stuck in his mouth,His hat pushed from his brow,His dress best fitted for the South—I think I see him now;And when the city streets are still,And sleep upon me comes,I often dream that me an' BillAre humpin' of our drums.
I mind the time when first I cameA stranger to the land;And I was stumped, an' sick, an' lameWhen Bill took me in hand.Old Bill was what a chap would callA friend in poverty,And he was very kind to all,And very good to me.
We'd camp beneath the lonely treesAnd sit beside the blaze,A-nursin' of our wearied knees,A-smokin' of our clays.Or when we'd journeyed damp an' far,An' clouds were in the skies,We'd camp in some old shanty bar,And sit a-tellin' lies.
Though time had writ upon his browAnd rubbed away his curls,He always was—an' may be now—A favourite with the girls;I've heard bush-wimmin scream an' squall—I've see'd 'em laugh untilThey could not do their work at all,Because of Corny Bill.
He was the jolliest old pupAs ever you did see,And often at some bush kick-upThey'd make old Bill M.C.He'd make them dance and sing all night,He'd make the music hum,But he'd be gone at mornin' lightA-humpin' of his drum.
Though joys of which the poet rhymesWas not for Bill an' me,I think we had some good old timesOut on the wallaby.I took a wife and left off rum,An' camped beneath a roof;But Bill preferred to hump his drumA-paddin' of the hoof.
The lazy, idle loafers whatIn toney houses campWould call old Bill a drunken sot,A loafer, or a tramp;But if the dead should ever dance—As poets say they will—I think I'd rather take my chanceAlong of Corny Bill.
His long life's-day is nearly o'er,Its shades begin to fall;He soon must mount his bluey forThe last long tramp of all;I trust that when, in bush an' town,He's lived and learnt his fill,They'll let the golden slip-rails downFor poor old Corny Bill.