The Old Survey
By Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)
Our moneys all spent, to the deuce went it!
The landlord, he looks glum,
On the tap-room wall, in a very bad scrawl,
He has chalked to us a sum.
But a glass well take, ere the grey dawn break,
And then saddle up and away
Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.
With a measured beat fall our horses feet,
Galloping side by side;
When the moneys done, and weve had our fun,
We all are bound to ride.
Oer the far-off plain well drag the chain,
And mark the settlers way
Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.
Well range from the creeks to the mountain peaks,
And traverse far below;
Where foot never trod, well mark with a rod
The limits of endless snow;
Each lofty crag well plant with a flag,
To flash in the suns bright ray
Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.
Till with cash hard-earned once more returned,
At The Beaver bars well shout;
And the very bad scrawl thats against the wall
Ourselves shall see wiped out.
Such were the ways in the good old days!
The days of the old survey!
Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.