Corny Bill

His old clay pipe stuck in his mouth,His hat pushed from his brow,His dress best fitted for the South --I think I see him now;And when the city streets are still,And sleep upon me comes,I often dream that me an' BillAre humpin' of our drums.

I mind the time when first I cameA stranger to the land;And I was stumped, an' sick, an' lameWhen Bill took me in hand.Old Bill was what a chap would callA friend in poverty,And he was very kind to all,And very good to me.

We'd camp beneath the lonely treesAnd sit beside the blaze,A-nursin' of our wearied knees,A-smokin' of our clays.Or when we'd journeyed damp an' far,An' clouds were in the skies,We'd camp in some old shanty bar,And sit a-tellin' lies.

Though time had writ upon his browAnd rubbed away his curls,He always was -- an' may be now --A favourite with the girls;I've heard bush-wimmin scream an' squall --I've see'd 'em laugh untilThey could not do their work at all,Because of Corny Bill.

He was the jolliest old pupAs ever you did see,And often at some bush kick-upThey'd make old Bill M.C.He'd make them dance and sing all night,He'd make the music hum,But he'd be gone at mornin' lightA-humpin' of his drum.

Though joys of which the poet rhymesWas not for Bill an' me,I think we had some good old timesOut on the wallaby.I took a wife and left off rum,An' camped beneath a roof;But Bill preferred to hump his drumA-paddin' of the hoof.

The lazy, idle loafers whatIn toney houses campWould call old Bill a drunken sot,A loafer, or a tramp;But if the dead should ever dance --As poets say they will --I think I'd rather take my chanceAlong of Corny Bill.

His long life's-day is nearly o'er,Its shades begin to fall;He soon must mount his bluey forThe last long tramp of all;I trust that when, in bush an' town,He's lived and learnt his fill,They'll let the golden slip-rails downFor poor old Corny Bill.