Wallabi Joe

(Air: The Mistletoe Bough.)     The saddle was hung on the stockyard rail,     And the poor old horse stood whisking his tail,     For there never was seen such a regular screw     As Wallabi Joe, of Bunnagaroo;     Whilst the shearers all said, as they say, of course,     That Wallabi Joes a fine lump of a horse;     But the stockmen said, as they laughed aside,     Hed barely do for a Sundays ride.          Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe.                          Ooh! poor Wallabi Joe.     Im weary of galloping now, he cried,     I wish I were killed for my hide, my hide;     For my eyes are dim, and my back is sore,     And I feel that my legs wont stand much more.     Now stockman Bill, who took care of his nag,     Put under the saddle a soojee bag,     And off he rode with a whip in his hand     To look for a mob of the R.J. brand.          Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe, &c.     Now stockman Bill camped out that night,     And he hobbled his horse in a sheltered bight;     Next day of old Joe he found not a track,     So he had to trudge home with his swag on his back.     He searched up and down every gully he knew,     But he found not a hair of his poor old screw,     And the stockmen all said as they laughed at his woe,     Would you sell us the chance of old Wallabi Joe.          Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe, &c.     Now as years sped by, and as Bill grew old,     It came into his head to go poking for gold;     So away he went with a spade in his fist,     To hunt for a nugget among the schist.     One day as a gully he chanced to cross,     He came on the bones of his poor old horse;     The hobbles being jammed in a root below     Had occasioned the death of poor Wallabi Joe.          Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe, &c.