The Poetry Corner


By Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

(Air: Bow, Wow, Wow.) Now, shut your mouths, you loafers all, You vex me with your twaddle, You own a nag or big or small, A bridle and a saddle; I you advise at once be wise And waste no time in talking, Procure some bags of damaged rags And make your fortune hawking. Chorus Hawk, hawk, hawk. Our bread to win, well all begin To hawk, hawk, hawk. The stockmen and the bushmen and The shepherds leave the station, And the hardy bullock-punchers throw Aside their occupation; While some have horses, some have drays, And some on foot are stalking; We surely must conclude it pays When all are going hawking. Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c. A life it is so full of bliss Twould suit the very niggers, And lads I know a-hawking go Who scarce can make the figures But penmanships no requisite, Keep matters square by chalking With pencil or with ruddle, thats Exact enough for hawking. Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c. The hawkers gay for half the day, While others work hes spelling, Though he may stay upon the way, His purse is always swelling; With work his back is never bent His hardest toil is talking; Three hundred is the rate per cent. Of profit when a-hawking. Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c. Since pedlaring yields more delight Than ever digging gold did, And since to fortunes envied height The path I have unfolded, Well fling our moleskins to the dogs And don tweeds without joking, And honest men as well as rogues Well scour the country hawking. Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c.