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OLD Joe Swallow, with his short clay pipe—
With his hat pushed back from his brow—
He loves for to linger by the hut fireside,
And pitch about the old days now.
Chorus:
Old Joe Swallow, in the days gone by,
When his form was as straight as a lance—
He’d bring bright sparkles to each bush girl’s eye
When he came to the gay bush dance.
There wasn’t a drover in the back countree
With old Joe Swallow as could ride:
With a flick of his stockwhip he could cut the brand
Clean out of an outlaw’s hide.
With his cabbage-tree hat on the back of his head,
Strapped breeches, and bright red sash,
And his devil-care style—in the days that are dead
Young Joe Swallow cut a dash.
Says old Joe Swallow: “Ah! them days is dead—
Them rare old times gone by!”
And he pauses a moment just to shake his head,
For the smoke gits into his eye.
Chorus:
Old Joe Swallow, in the days gone by,
When your form was straight and tall,
You’d bring bright sparkles to each lassie’s eye
When you came to the gay bush ball.
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