While The Billy BoilsSearch’Twas on the famous Empire run,Whose sun does never set,Whose grass and water, so they say,Have never failed them yet—They carry many million sheep,Through seasons dry and wet.
They call the homestead Albion House,And then, along with that,There’s Welshman’s Gully, Scotchman’s Hill,And Paddymelon Flat:And all these places are renownedFor making jumbucks fat.
And the out-paddocks—holy frost!There wouldn’t be no senseFor me to try and tell you halfThey really are immense;A man might ride for days and weeksAnd never strike a fence.
But still for years they never hadBeen known a sheep to lose;Old Billy Gladstone managed it,And you can bet your shoesHe’d scores of supers under him,And droves of jackaroos.
Old Billy had an eagle eye,And kept his wits about—If any chaps got trespassingHe quickly cleared ‘em out;And coves that used to “work a cross”,They hated him, no doubt.
But still he managed it in style,Until the times got dry,And Billy gave the supers wordTo see and mind their eye—“If any paddocks gets a-fireI’ll know the reason why.”
Now on this point old Bill was sure,Because, for many a year,Whenever times got dry at all,As sure as you are here,The Paddymelon Flat got burnt,Which Bill thought rather queer.
He sent his smartest supers thereTo try and keep things right.No use! The grass was always dry—They’d go to sleep at night,And when they woke they’d go and findThe whole concern alight.
One morning it was very hot—The sun rose in a haze;Old Bill was cutting down some trees(One of his little ways);A black boy came hot-foot to sayThe Flat was in a blaze.
Old Bill he swears a fearful oathAnd lets the tommy fallSays he: “I’ll take this business up,And fix it once for all;If this goes on the cursed runWill send us to the wall.”
So he withdrew his trespass suits,He’d one with Dutchy’s boss—In prosecutions criminalHe entered nolle pros.,But these were neither here nor there—They always meant a loss.
And off to Paddymelon FlatHe started double-quickDrayloads of men with lots of grogLest heat should make them sick,And all the strangers came aroundTo see him do the trick.
And there the fire was flaming bright,For miles and miles it spread,And many a sheep and horse and cowWere numbered with the dead—The super came to meet Old Bill,And this is what he said:
“No use, to try to beat it out,’Twill dry you up like toast,I’ve done as much as man can do,Although I never boast;I think you’d better chuck it up,And let the jumbucks roast.”
Then Bill said just two words:”You’re sacked,”And pitches off his coat,And pitches off his coat,And wrenches down a blue gum boughAnd clears his manly throat,
And into it like threshing wheatRight sturdily he smote.And beat the blazing grass untilHis shirt was dripping wet;And all the people watched him thereTo see what luck he’d get,
“Gosh! don’t he make the cinders fly,”And, “Golly, don’t he sweat!”But though they worked like Trojans all,The fire still went aheadSo far as you could see around,The very skies were red,
Sometimes the flames would start afresh,Just where they thought it dead.His men, too, quarrelled ’mongst themselvesAnd some coves gave it bestAnd some said, “Light a fire in front,And burn from east to west”
But Bill, he still kept sloggin’ in,And never took no rest.Then, through the crowd a cornstalk kidCome ridin’ to the spotSays he to Bill, “Now take a spell,You’re lookin’ very ’ot,
And if you’ll only listen, why,I’ll tell you what is what.“These coves as set your grass on fire,There ain’t no mortal doubt,I’ve seen ’em ridin’ here and there,And pokin’ round about;
It ain’t no use your workin’ here,Until you finds them out.“See yonder, where you beat the fire—It’s blazin’ up again,And fires are starting right and leftOn Tipperary plain,
Beating them out is useless quite,Unless Heaven sends the rain.”Then Bill, he turns upon the boy,”Oh, hold your tongue, you pup!”But a cinder blew across the creekWhile Bill stopped for a sup,And fired the Albion paddocks, too—It was a bitter cup;Old Bill’s great heart was broke at last,He had to chuck it up.
Moral
The run is England’s Empire great,The fire is the distressThat burns the stock they represent—Prosperity you’ll guess.And the blue gum bough is the Home Rule BillThat’s making such a mess.
And Ireland green, of course I meanBy Paddymelon Flat;All men can see the fire, of course,Spreads on at such a bat,But who are setting it alight,I cannot tell you that.
But this I think all men will see,And hold it very true“Don’t quarrel with effects untilThe cause is brought to view.”What is the cause? That cornstalk boyHe seemed to think he knew.