The Drover's Cook

Now the drovers cook weighed fifteen stone and he had one bloodshot eye
He had no laces in his boots and no buttons on his fly
His pants hung loosly round his hips hitched by a piece of wire
And they concertined round his boots in a way that you’d admire
Well he stuck the billy on the boil and then emptied out his pipe
And with his greasy shirtsleeves he gave his nose a wipe
And with pipe in mouth he mixed a sod and the drip hung from his chin
And as he mixed the damper up the drip kept dripping in
I walked quietly over to him and said toss that mixtuer out
And in future when your working keep your pipe out of your mouth
Well he stood erect and eyed me with such a dirty look
And said in choice Australian «Get another bloody cook»
A cook I said you call yourself you greasy slop made lout
Why you should be jailed for taking work that you cannot carry out
Oh he then uncorked some language and I felt a thrill of fear
As he swung his hairy paws about and said «trot your frame out here»
In outback brawls there are no rules nor limits to the weight
So I had to squib or meet him with my meagre nine stone eight
And we both bounced into action and fell into a clinche
I put a headlock on him but I couldn’t make him flinch
For hours we fought in deathly grips swung uppercuts and crosses
We staggered and founded in distress like broke and winded horses
Then gaspingly he muttered «Oh I’ve fought all through the north»
«Your the gamest thing I’ve ever struck, here give me your hand old sport»
Well I can’t explain my feelings with joy I nearly cried
As we staggered to a shade close by where he sank down and died
Now you talk about that saltbush scrap why it was only play
Compared to that grueling battle we fought that fatal day
And now above his resting place where the grasses grown to seed
On stone is carved this epitath for travelers to read
Here lies the son of Donald Gunn none gamer ever stood
And he died in dinkum battle with Jimmy Underwood