The Sheep-Washers Lament

(Air: The Bonnie Irish Boy.)     Come now, ye sighing washers all,         Join in my doleful lay,     Mourn for the times none can recall,         With hearts to grief a prey.     Well mourn the washers sad downfall         In our regretful strain,     Lamenting on the days gone by         Neer to return again.     When first I went a-washing sheep         The year was sixty-one,     The master was a worker then,         The servant was a man;     But now the squatters, puffed with pride,         They treat us with disdain;     Lament the days that are gone by         Neer to return again.     From sixty-one to sixty-six,         The bushman, stout and strong,     Would smoke his pipe and whistle his tune,         And sing his cheerful song,     As wanton as the kangaroo         That bounds across the plain.     Lament the days that are gone by         Neer to return again.     Supplies of food unstinted, good,         No squatter did withhold.     With plenty grog to cheer our hearts,         We feared nor heat nor cold.     With six-and-six per man per day         We sought not to complain.     Lament the days that are gone by         Neer to return again.     With perfect health, a mine of wealth,         Our days seemed short and sweet,     On pleasure bent our evenings spent,         Enjoyment was complete.     But now we toil from morn till night,         Though much against the grain,     Lamenting on the days gone by,         Neer to return again.     I once could boast two noble steeds,         To bear me on my way,     My good revolver in my belt,         I never knew dismay.     But lonely now I hump my drum         In sunshine and in rain,     Lamenting on the days gone by         Neer to return again.     A worthy cheque I always earned,         And spent it like a lord.     My dress a princes form would grace.         And spells I could afford.     But now in tattered rags arrayed,         My limbs they ache with pain,     Lamenting on the days gone by,         Neer to return again.     May bushmen all in unity         Combine with heart and hand,     May cursed cringing poverty         Be banished from the land.     In Queensland may prosperity         In regal glory reign,     And washers in the time to come         Their vanished rights regain.