Iâ€™M travellinâ€™ down the Castlereagh, and Iâ€™m a station hand, Iâ€™m handy with the ropinâ€™ pole, Iâ€™m handy with the brand, And I can ride a rowdy colt, or swing the axe all day, But thereâ€™s no demand for a station-hand along the Castlereagh. +
So itâ€™s shift, boys, shift, for there isnâ€™t the slightest doubt That weâ€™ve got to make a shift to the stations further out, With the pack-horse runninâ€™ after, for he follows like a dog, We must strike across the country at the old jig-jog.
This old black horse Iâ€™m ridingâ€”if youâ€™ll notice whatâ€™s his brand, He wears the crooked R, you seeâ€”none better in the land. He takes a lot of beatinâ€™, and the other day we tried, For a bit of a joke, with a racing bloke, for twenty pounds a side.
It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasnâ€™t the slightest doubt That I had to make him shift, for the money was nearly out; But he cantered home a winner, with the other one at the flogâ€” Heâ€™s a red-hot sort to pick up with his old jig-jog.
I asked a cove for shearinâ€™ once along the Marthaguy: â€œWe shear non-union here,â€ says he. â€œI call it scab,â€ says I. I looked along the shearinâ€™ floor before I turned to goâ€” There were eight or ten dashed Chinamen a-shearinâ€™ in a row.
It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasnâ€™t the slightest doubt It was time to make a shift with the leprosy about. So I saddled up my horses, and I whistled to my dog, And I left his scabby station at the old jig-jog.
I went to Illawarra, where my brotherâ€™s got a farm, He has to ask his landlordâ€™s leave before he lifts his arm; The landlord owns the country sideâ€”man, woman, dog, and cat, They havenâ€™t the cheek to dare to speak without they touch their hat.
It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasnâ€™t the slightest doubt Their little landlord god and I would soon have fallen out; Was I to touch my hat to him?â€”was I his bloominâ€™ dog? So I makes for up the country at the old jig-jog.
But itâ€™s time that I was movinâ€™, Iâ€™ve a mighty way to go Till I drink artesian water from a thousand feet below; Till I meet the overlanders with the cattle cominâ€™ down, And Iâ€™ll work a while till I make a pile, then have a spree in town.
So, itâ€™s shift, boys, shift, for there isnâ€™t the slightest doubt Weâ€™ve got to make a shift to the stations further out; The pack-horse runs behind us, for he follows like a dog, And we cross a lot of country at the old jig-jog.