The Bushman’s Club And Liar’s Den

The Bushman’s Club And Liar’s Den

Now there’s a joint across in Sydney, I suppose you jokers know,

Where the hardest riding stockmen, and the great gun shearers go;

And it’s something of a lover’s den, and something of a pub,

And it’s known to Sydney siders as “that flamin’ bushman’s club”.

It’s the most tremendous place on which I’ve ever cast me eye;

If heaven turns out half as good, I don’t care when I die;

For the grog flows by the bucketful, and women – strike me blue!

They’re all dressed just like Chloe, and they’re twice as pretty too.

For this is the place of worship, of that noble little push,

Who comprise the famous brotherhood, of the bludgers from the bush;

Their noble, high and lofty aim to fight for all things freer,

And strive for the two great freedoms – free women and free beer.

And valiantly they carry on, their noble cause to fight,

They start right at the crack of dawn, and rollick through the night;

With revelry and sport galore, and girls and grog and song.

No wonder that the waiting list is a full half mile long.

So to keep the place exclusive, so they only get the best,

Each budding, would be brother has to pass a little test;

You have to shear three hundred sheep a day with either hand,

And duff a thousand bullocks on your own and change their brand.

And drove them down the Birdsville when the Cooper’s on her way,

Then dig a well through granite rock at fifty foot a day;

And cut a mile of mulga posts and sink the bludgers down,

And break a dozen killer colts and ride them into town.

And drink a keg of Bundy in just a half an hour,

And live a year on damper that you made from weevily flour;

And track and skin a thousand roos, then crack the Sydney flash,

With a whip you’ve made from roo hide having forty foot of lash.

And many other little skills that only the best can do,

(I passed them all with credit and top distinction too);

But the last examination is some yarns you have to tell!

They must be lies – original – and you have to spin them well.

Well I stood before the panel, in a highly nervous state,

And began to tell my story from a very early date;

I told them how, at age of twelve, I dug that excavation,

For the government, which now is called the Great Artesian Basin.

And when I’d dug the mullock out I carted it aside,

And nowadays they call that heap of dirt The Great Divide;

I told them how I swum the old Pacific in a gale,

And made the homeward journey in a bathtub with a sail.

How I used to work the windmills in a calm for my old man,

By running like a lumberjack on top of the bloody fan;

But I fell from fifty feet up with a tin in me pocket as I come,

And I’ve still got “Capstan Fine Cut” printed firmly on me bum.

And once I won a Melbourne Cup, on an untrained brumby mare,

But they went and took it off me said riding bareback wasn’t fair;

It was me alone, who finally rode Old Curio and her brother,

While I did the flash with one hand; rolled a quirley with the other.

And I was the bloke who tried to ride to Tassie on a bike,

Lost me bearings, got a puncture on a bloody coral spike;

Missed the Apple Isle completely, so I almost met me death,

But I surfaced in New Zealand, very nearly out of breath.

I once flew into Canberra, when me mate (the PM) wired,

And I would have flown back here but me flamin’ arms were tired;

I lost Victoria River Downs in a crooked two-up school,

I boozed me other stations in a fortnight – what a fool.

It was me who floored Carruthers in the fifty second round,

It was a private little battle for a half a million pounds;

And I ran the mile in three flat, but I didn’t make me claim,

‘Cause I’m not the sort of cove who likes to brag and look for fame.

And I could have gone on forever, reminiscing to the board,

But they yelled “no more! shut up! you’re in”- and I was floored;

You can imagine the tears of joy one sheds at a time like this,

When you’ve passed the test to paradise and near- eternal bliss.

Then think what an awful shock it was when I’d been there just a week,

And one of the elder brothers comes and grabs me by the cheek;

And says to me “the panel rules that you will have to go!

You bluffed us on that final test,” and what he said was so!

For though at any bushman’s skills, no stockman e’er ranked higher,

But I never was, and never will be worth a cracker as a liar;

I dunno how they done it like, unless one of the panel knew,

But somehow they’d discovered, that all me yarns were true.

And that is why I drift through life

Just searchin’ for that coot,

Who dobbed me in to the brotherhood,

And got me the bloody boot.