Och! my name’s Pat Malone, and I’m from Tipperary.
  Sure, I don’t know it now I’m so bothered, Ohone!
And the gals that I danced with, light-hearted and airy,
  It’s scarcely they’d notice poor Paddy Malone.
’Tis twelve months or more since our ship she cast anchor
  In happy Australia, the Emigrant’s home,
And from that day to this there’s been nothing but canker,
  And grafe and vexation for Paddy Malone.
    Oh, Paddy Malone! Oh, Paddy, Ohone!
    Bad luck to the agent that coaxed ye to roam.

Wid a man called a squatter I soon got a place, sure,
  He’d a beard like a goat, and such whiskers, Ohone!
And he said—as he peeped through the hair on his faitures—
  That he liked the appearance of Paddy Malone.
Wid him I agreed to go up to his station,
  Saying abroad in the bush you’ll find yourself at home.
I liked his proposal, and ’out hesitation
  Signed my name wid a X that spelt Paddy Malone.
    Oh, Paddy Malone, you’re no scholard, Ohone!
    Sure, I made a cris-crass that spelt Paddy Malone.

A-herding my sheep in the bush, as they call it—
  It was no bush at all, but a mighty great wood,
Wid all the big trees that were small bushes one time,
  A long time ago, faith   I ’spose ’fore the flood.
To find out this big bush one day I went further,
  The trees grew so thick that I couldn’t, Ohone!
I tried to go back then, but that I found harder,
  And bothered and lost was poor Paddy Malone.
    Oh, Paddy Malone, through the bush he did roam
    What a Babe in the Wood was poor Paddy Malone.

I was soon overcome, sure, wid grafe and vexation,
  And camped, you must know, by the side of a log;
I was found the next day by a man from the station,
  For I coo-ey’d and roared like a bull in a bog.
The man said to me, “Arrah, Pat! where’s the sheep now?”
  Says I, “I dunno! barring one here at home,”
And the master began and kicked up a big row too,
  And swore he’d stop the wages of Paddy Malone.
    Arrah! Paddy Malone, you’re no shepherd, Ohone!
    We’ll try you with bullocks now, Paddy Malone.

To see me dressed out with my team and my dray too,
  Wid a whip like a flail and such gaiters, Ohone!
But the bullocks, as they eyed me, they seemed for to say too,
  “You may do your best, Paddy, we’re blest if we go.”
“Gee whoa! Redman! come hither, Damper!
  Hoot, Magpie! Gee, Blackbird! Come hither,
    Whalebone!”

But the brutes turned round sharp, and away they did
    scamper,
  And heels over head turned poor Paddy Malone.
    Oh, Paddy Malone! you’ve seen some bulls at home,
    But the bulls of Australia cows Paddy Malone.

I was found the next day where the brutes they did throw
    me
  By a man passing by, upon hearing me groan,
And wiping the mud from my face that he knew me,
  Says he, “Your name’s Paddy?” “Yes! Paddy Malone.”
I thin says to him, “You’re an angel sent down, sure!”
  “No, faith, but I’m not; but a friend of your own!”
And by his persuasion, for home then I started,
  And you now see before you poor Paddy Malone.
    Arrah, Paddy Malone! you are now safe at home.
    Bad luck to the agent that coaxed ye to roam.

Oh! the shearing is all over,
  And the wool is coming down,
And I mean to get a wife, boys,
  When I go up to town.
Everything that has two legs
  Represents itself in view,
From the little paddy-melon
  To the bucking kangaroo.

            CHORUS

   So it’s roll up your blankets,
     And let’s make a push,
   I’ll take you up the country,
     And show you the bush.
   I’ll be bound you won’t get
     Such a chance another day,
   So come and take possession
     Of my old bullock dray.

Now, I’ve saved up a good cheque,
  I mean to buy a team,
And when I get a wife, boys,
  I’ll be all-serene
For calling at the depôt.
  They say there’s no delay
To get an off-sider
  For the old bullock dray.

Oh! we’ll live like fighting cocks,
  For good living, I’m your man.
We’ll have leather jacks, johnny cakes,
  And fritters in the pan;
Or if you’d like some fish
  I’ll catch you some soon,
For we’ll bob for barramundies
  Round the banks of a lagoon.

Oh! yes, of beef and damper
  I take care we have enough,
And we’ll boil in the bucket
  Such a whopper of a duff,
And our friends will dance
  To the honour of the day,
To the music of the bells,
  Around the old bullock dray.

Oh! we’ll have plenty girls,
  We must mind that.
There’ll be flash little Maggie,
  And buckjumping Pat.
There’ll be Stringy bark Joe,
  And Green-hide Mike.
Yes, my Colonials, just
  As many as you like.

Now we’ll stop all immigration,
  We won’t need it any more;
We’ll be having young natives,
  Twins by the score.
And I wonder what the devil
  Jack Robertson would say
If he saw us promenading
  Round the old bullock dray.

Oh! it’s time I had an answer,
  If there’s one to be had,
I wouldn’t treat that steer
  In the body half as bad;
But he takes as much notice
  Of me, upon my soul,
As that old blue stag
  Off-side in the pole.

Oh! to tell a lot of lies,
  You know, it is a sin,
But I’ll go up country
  And marry a black gin.
Oh! “Baal gammon white feller,”
  This is what she’ll say,
“Budgery you
  And your old bullock dray.”

I’ve had all sorts of luck, sometimes bad, sometimes better,
  But now I have somebody’s luck and my own,
For I stooped in the street and I picked up a letter,
  Which some one had written to send away home.

The old adage says, “What you find, you may keep it,”
  And as most of these old sayings are very true,
I straight broke the seal, and then having read it,
  The contents of this letter I tell unto you.

                 The Letter

Dear Dermot, I hope when this letter gets to you
  ’Twill find you in health, as now it leaves me;
But I hope you’re more happy than I am in Australia—
  If not, it’s small comfort that you have, achree!

Hard fortune’s been mine since crossing the line,
  Though that same I ne’er saw, for we crossed it at night;
But they say ’twas laid down at expense of the