The Shanty
By Edward Dyson
There are tracks through the scrub, theres a track down the hill,
And a track round the bend from MCourteneys mill,
Where they slyly emerge from the bush and converge,
Youll discover the humpythe theme of this dirge,
That is used for the sale of OSullivans purge.
And if curses and cries,
And a blasting of eyes,
And a series of blasphemies fearful arise,
And a lunatic din,
And a racket like sin,
You can bet all you own the OSullivans in.
Its a bark and slab hut, with a bar and a bunk,
And a man propped before it disgustingly drunk,
And a nameless galoot in a hand-me-down suit,
Straddling out on the grass, grim as death, and as mute,
Trapping millions of rabbits that run from his boot.
When eleven lie round
In all shapes on the mound,
And two navvies are fighting like fiends on the ground,
Tisnt needful to say
Its the sweet Sabbath day,
And that trade at the shantys uncommonly gay.
Mrs. O. makes the drinks, and OSullivans dart
Is to drink all he can to keep others in heart.
Though hes old in the hoof, and he reckons hes proof
Gainst infernalest liquors, in warp and in woof,
Hes quite frequently seen howling out on the roof.
For from fungus or fruits,
From old rags or from roots,
Grass, cabbages, pickles, old bedding or boots,
Or the leaves of the gum,
Or whatever may come,
Mrs. O. can extract the most illigant rum.
Theyve no peace in the hut and no peace on the hill,
Mrs. O. never sleeps and her hands never still;
And old constable Mack cannot hit on the track
As a man of the law. As a stranger in black
When he finds his way there he cant find his way back.
Theres no signboard to see,
But those fools on the spree,
Or a man in his shirt shrieking prayers to a tree.
As for licensesyar!
They dont know what they are,
For they drink without license at Sullivans bar.