…from the quills of the white poets
Dan Shean / Gordon Parson
It’s lonesome away from your kindred and all,
By the campfire at night where the wild dingoes call,
But there’s nothing so lonesome, so morbid or drear
Than to stand in a bar of a pub with no beer!
There is a far-away look on the face of the ‘bum”,
The maid’s gone all cranky and the cook’s acting queer,
What a terrible place is a pub with no beer!
Then the stockman rides up with his dry dusty throat,
He breasts up to the bar, pulls a wad from his coat,
But the smile on his face quickly turns to a sneer
When the barman says sadly “The pub’s got no beer!”
Then the swaggie comes in smother’d in dust and flies,
He throws down his roll, rubs the sweat from hiss eyes,
But when he is told he says “What’s this I hear?
I trudged fifty flamin’ miles to a pub with no beer!”
There’s dog on the verandah, for his master he wait,
But the boss is inside drinking wine with his mates,
He hurries for cover and he cringes in fear,
It’s no place for a dog round a pub with no beer!
Old Billy the blacksmith the first time in his life
Has gone home cold sober to his darling wife,
he walks in the kitchen, she says “You’re early my dear,”
But he breaks down and tells her “The pub’s got no beer!”
And thus it seems the right time for us to go home too…