from your kindred and all
By the campfire at night,
we'll hear the wild dingoes call
But there's-a nothing so lonesome,
Than to stand in the bar,
Now the publican's anxious,
And there's a faraway look,
The maid's gone all cranky,
and the cook's acting queer
Oh, what a terrible place is a pub with no beer
Then the stockman rides up,
with his dry dusty throat
He breasts up to the bar,
and pulls a wad from his coat
But the smile on his face,
As the barman said sadly,
Then the swaggie comes in,
smothered in dust and flies
and rubs the sweat from his eyes
he says, "What's this I hear?
I've trudged fifty flamin' miles
Now there's a dog on the v'randah,
drinking wine with his mates
He hurries for cover and he cringes in fear
And old Billy the blacksmith,
the first time in his life
Why he's gone home cold sober,
she says "You're early, Bill dear"
But then he breaks down and tells her,
