A copy by memory of poems by W. DeBeuzeville, who worked for Berte Wilkinson at Yallowin (a stock dealer in the years 1905, 1906, and 1907, before the days of motor cars).
When the boss bought home a wife
Yes, he’s married is the old boss now,
And leads a quiet life
A sitting round the parlour fire
And yarning to his wife.
He never smokes or swears now
And he wont join the jamboree
When the fellows from the homestead
Make to town to have a spree.
Tis a pity and I’m sorry
For the times we had were gay,
Chasing bullocks up the ridges
At the early break of day.
And at night around the campfire
When we passed the billy round
I do not think a jollier crowd
Of fellows could be found.
Oh t’was high life on the station
When the branding time came round.
And the irons hissed and spluttered
Midst the clean skins on the ground.
But our hearts were light and happy
And the days were never long,
We were men with work before us
But our brawny arms were strong.
But now there’ll be a difference
Since the boss has settled down.
He will drive a pair of ponies
And a dog cart into town.
And we’ll have to groom and feed them
And let the cattle rip.
He’ll cast aside the greenhide
And sport a hunting whip.
We will have to dress in broadcloth
And wear a linen shirt,
And we’ll have to raise our hats and say,
“How are you Mrs Bert?”
We’ll have to close our eyes and bow
Whilst grace is being said,
And we’ll get the sack for certain
If we dare to smoke in bed.
We will dine on ham and turkey
And rissole a lo mode
And the salt meat cask will be smashed up
For getting in the road.
Instead of blocks for milking stools
We’ll have an easy chair
And we’ll blow our nose on silk hankerchiefs
And oil and curl our hair.
Things cannot be the same again;
Our time is nearly done.
The kangaroos and wallabies
Are eating on the run
The dingoes yelp in muffled tones
The wombats wear a frown
They can’t enjoy their tucker now
The boss has settled down
Oh the good old times are over
And the good old times are past,
And long ago we should have known
They were too good to last.
I’m off, who’s coming boys with me,
For one last spree to town,
And we’ll take our blueys with us,
And we’ll but our cheques and them,
We’ll strike for Hell or Booligal
And settle down again.
And if sorrows sore beset us
As we walk the paths of life;
We’ll blame the days the boss came home
And brought with him a wife.