Wallabi Joe
By Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)
(Air: The Mistletoe Bough.)
The saddle was hung on the stockyard rail,
And the poor old horse stood whisking his tail,
For there never was seen such a regular screw
As Wallabi Joe, of Bunnagaroo;
Whilst the shearers all said, as they say, of course,
That Wallabi Joes a fine lump of a horse;
But the stockmen said, as they laughed aside,
Hed barely do for a Sundays ride.
Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe.
Ooh! poor Wallabi Joe.
Im weary of galloping now, he cried,
I wish I were killed for my hide, my hide;
For my eyes are dim, and my back is sore,
And I feel that my legs wont stand much more.
Now stockman Bill, who took care of his nag,
Put under the saddle a soojee bag,
And off he rode with a whip in his hand
To look for a mob of the R.J. brand.
Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe, &c.
Now stockman Bill camped out that night,
And he hobbled his horse in a sheltered bight;
Next day of old Joe he found not a track,
So he had to trudge home with his swag on his back.
He searched up and down every gully he knew,
But he found not a hair of his poor old screw,
And the stockmen all said as they laughed at his woe,
Would you sell us the chance of old Wallabi Joe.
Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe, &c.
Now as years sped by, and as Bill grew old,
It came into his head to go poking for gold;
So away he went with a spade in his fist,
To hunt for a nugget among the schist.
One day as a gully he chanced to cross,
He came on the bones of his poor old horse;
The hobbles being jammed in a root below
Had occasioned the death of poor Wallabi Joe.
Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe, &c.