OUR money’s all spent, to the deuce went it!
    The landlord, he looks glum,
On the tap-room wall, in a very bad scrawl,
    He has chalked to us a sum.
But a glass we’ll take, ere the grey dawn break,
    And then saddle up and away—
Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.

With a measured beat fall our horses’ feet,
    Galloping side by side;
When the money’s done, and we’ve had our fun,
    We all are bound to ride.
O’er the far-off plain we’ll drag the chain,
    And mark the settler’s way—
Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.

We’ll range from the creeks to the mountain peaks,
    And traverse far below;
Where foot never trod, we’ll mark with a rod
    The limits of endless snow;
Each lofty crag we’ll plant with a flag,
    To flash in the sun’s bright ray—
Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.

Till with cash hard-earned once more returned,
    At “The Beaver” bars we’ll shout;
And the very bad scrawl that’s against the wall
    Ourselves shall see wiped out.
Such were the ways in the good old days!—
    The days of the old survey!
Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.