The Poetry Corner

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.