And still in that shanty a tumbler is seen, It stands by the clock, ever polished and clean; And often the strangers will read as they pass The name of a bushman engraved on the glass; And though on the shelf but a dozen there are, That glass never stands with the rest on the bar.
When the caravans of wool-teams climbed the ranges from the West, On a spur among the mountains stood `The Bullock-drivers' Rest'; It was built of bark and saplings, and was rather rough inside, But 'twas good enough for bushmen in the careless days that died -- Just a quiet little shanty kept by `Something-in-Disguise', As the bushmen called the landlord of the Shanty on the Rise.
City swells who `do the Royal' would have called the Shanty low, But 'twas better far and purer than some toney pubs I know; For the patrons of the Shanty had the principles of men, And the spieler, if he struck it, wasn't welcome there again. You could smoke and drink in quiet, yarn, or else soliloquise, With a decent lot of fellows in the Shanty on the Rise.
'Twas the bullock-driver's haven when his team was on the road, And the waggon-wheels were groaning as they ploughed beneath the load; And I mind how weary teamsters struggled on while it was light, Just to camp within a cooey of the Shanty for the night; And I think the very bullocks raised their heads and fixed their eyes On the candle in the window of the Shanty on the Rise.
And the bullock-bells were clanking from the marshes on the flats As we hurried to the Shanty, where we hung our dripping hats; And we took a drop of something that was brought at our desire, As we stood with steaming moleskins in the kitchen by the fire. Oh! it roared upon a fireplace of the good, old-fashioned size, When the rain came down the chimney of the Shanty on the Rise.
They got up a Christmas party in the Shanty long ago, While I camped with Jimmy Nowlett on the riverbank below; Poor old Jim was in his glory -- they'd elected him M.C., For there wasn't such another raving lunatic as he. `Mr. Nowlett, Mr. Swaller!' shouted Something-in-Disguise, As we walked into the parlour of the Shanty on the Rise.
There is little real pleasure in the city where I am -- There's a swarry round the corner with its mockery and sham; But a fellow can be happy when around the room he whirls In a party up the country with the jolly country girls. Why, at times I almost fancied I was dancing on the skies, When I danced with Mary Carey in the Shanty on the Rise.
Jimmy came to me and whispered, and I muttered, `Go along!' But he shouted, `Mr. Swaller will oblige us with a song!' And at first I said I wouldn't, and I shammed a little too, Till the girls began to whisper, `Mr. Swallow, now, ah, DO!' So I sang a song of something 'bout the love that never dies, And the chorus shook the rafters of the Shanty on the Rise.