While The Billy BoilsSearchThe fire’s gorn down in the parlor grateAn’ I’m sittin’ up for awhile,’Cos I started rememberin’ my old mate —Mick, of the Ninety Mile.
I’m wonderin’ where Old Mick can be.Is ’e sound in wind an’ limb?An’ I’m wonderin’ if ’e’s thinkin’ of meThe same as I’m thinkin’ of ’im?
Lars time I ’eard about my mate Mick’E was up Wiluna way;’E’d been a month in the ’orspittle, sick,An’ they reckoned ’e ’adn’t a tray.
I drors a fiver outer the bank(My Gord, if the old woman knoo),An it might a bin pride, or it might a bin swank —It was back in a week or two.
We were mates as boys an’ mates as men,Mates in tucker an’ tramps;Mates with never a scratch o’ the penBeyond the battery stamps.
Mick could corl me a crimson cowAn’ I could name ’im a nark,But there wasn’t a man that we’d allowTo pass the same remark.
We was mates in everythink on the earth,Mates when we dollied gold,Mates in jamborees in Perth,Mates when our swags was rolled.
We’ve stoushed each other to end a spree,We’ve argued shicker and straight,But if ever a bloke picked on to me —Well, Mick would pick ee’s mate!
My ’arf was ’is, ’is ’arf was mine.Come turn an’ turn about;We’d both of us paid each other’s fineAn’ bailed each other out.
It’s a harder thing to get a mateThan it is to get a wife,Who merely keeps yer from lickin’ y’r plateAn’ swallerin’ ’arf y’r knife.
I don’t say a wife ain’t good, in ’er place,Look ’ow she keeps the kids;An’ there’s few like ’er in the yooman raceFor closin’ down on quids.
Mine is a prim little pommy pieceWith a set on blokes who booze,The sort that allus ’ollers ’Perleece!’When y’r beak in a beer you lose.
Perhaps she’s wrong, perhaps she’s right,I never argue points;But lots of coves just shicker for spiteWhen a woman’s tongue’s on joints.
I tell ’er me wages is three-fifteenWhen I sign for four pound ten,Which keeps me from lookin’ like real dead meanWhen I’m razzlin’ now an’ then
It’s a ’orrible action to deceive,But blokes must save theirselves;A lot of you people wouldn’t ber-leeveThe skelingtons stowed on shelves.
I’ve a shop an’ ’ouse in Brickville West,Where I sunk a thousand quids;The missus I mentioned runs the nest,And of course there’s a cuppler kids.
Lars Christmas Mick comes down from the scrub,Not knowin’ the wife will rouse,’As a lot of pints at the Brickville pubAn’ lumbers along to the ’ouse
She sees ’e’s shicker, but keeps it down,Though ’er dial is red with rage;Then she sez to me, “Bill, go up townAn’ get me the onions an’ sage.”
Now Mick ’ad been as near’s could beTwo days in the ’fields express,“Can I ’ave a camp?” sez Mick to me,An’ I like at fool, sez “Yes.”
While she plucked the goose, Bill goes to bed(Our bed, if you please, by the way);But when I returned to the yard he’d fled,An’ the spouse was avin’ ’er say.
“Ow dare you sleep in yore dirty boots,You clay-covered cannibal, you?”Poor Mick, like lots of similar coots,Was stunned be the hullabaloo!
“Why did she want to go rousin’ on me?”Asked Mick from the poultry pound;“I’d never go barefoot about,” said he,“With respectable ladies around.”
So down at a rubby along the road,We lunched on steak and eggs;An’ Mick rolls up his swag abodeAn’ silently pulled his pegs.
“I’m sorry,” sez I, as the whistle blewAn’ the train drew out at three;“Don’t be sorry for me,” sez Mick, “it’s youThat needs it more than me!”
So I’m wonderin’ where old Mick can be —Is ’e sound in wind an’ limb?An’ I’m wonderin’ if ’e’s thinkin’ of meThe same as I’m thinkin’ of ’im?