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| Truth Sun 8 Apr 1917 p. 10. |
For boggin' junks, off Mother Earth I'm called the human scoop;
The only thing l'm better at is mopping up the beer
That's brewed to cheer the navvy's heart and send him on his ear;
Yet after forty, years of toll, instead of being snug,
My worldly goods are very few a tent and "Wagga" rug.
I've just "blown in" from way out back and bashed up all me dough,
And now I flnd that work is scarce, dunno where to go
I'm sitting ruminating of what a fool I've been,
When Mick, my cobber, blows along, his eyes are all agleam.
He says,"Let's go and have a pot, our trouble's at an end.
To send a thousand 'human scoops' to England they intend."
To put our application in we must begin to hustle,
And tell them straight we navvy blokes are human balls of muscle;
Our backs, are broad, our heads are weak, were grit from toe to attic;
We've hair on teeth, chest, legs. and arms, 'ud gap a bloomin' mattock.
Our measurement across the brows is just ten inches neat,
We've jaws of iron and stomachs tough, we don't care what we eat.
With "Little Billy's" "spinnaker" we'll mop up beer galore,
And have a lovely jamboree before we quit the shore,
Sore heads and jimjams we don't fear, six weeks upon the ocean
We'll store sufficient energy to stop this planet's motion.
And if Yon Fritz's' submarines should bathe us in the briny
We can't complain; the first we've had since we were very tiny.
We'll shovel muck from morn till night, and be as fresh as paint,
We'll feed on grass, old boots, and scraps, at work we'll never faint;
The navvy boys, of Pommyland can cross the briny water
And strike a blow for freedom's cause, eclipse the Huns', at slaughter.
Australia's thousand "human scoops" will carve their name in history;
Let loose among a heap of muck their motto, "death or victory"
When the Hunnish hordes are vanquished, and peace reigns o'er the world,
We'll drag the fangs of Kaiser Bill and freedom's flag unfurl.
No more I'll hump the "curse of Christ" across North Queensland tracks,
No more ; I'll dringe this harmless globe with "banjo," pick or axe.
This trip to Merry England has convinced this "human scoop"
There's better games than chewing muck; or looping round the loop
I'll shun my harum scarum ways and lead a blameless life,
And hie me cross to Sunny France and choose a winsome wife,
Of course, I'll see she has the dough to keep this child in clover;
We'll spend our happy honeymoon across the Straits of Dover.
And should I end my days in France and ne'er see Austral's shore,
Ill oftimes think of absent friends so farewell; "con amour."
THE TRAMP.
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