But the making of magistrates now all the rage is,
And every flockmaster’s a justice of peace;
They find it so easy to cancel the wages,
The law is their own and they rob whom they please.

Pat Murphy’s boy Tim, that married Moll Casey,
Lives on the Barcoo that’s away in the bush.
Himself and the wife, why they lived mighty aisy,
Till one day on Tim, oh, the blacks they did rush.

They killed little Paddy, but spared the young baby,
Because it was sickly—I think it was that—
And while Molly was crying, a gin said, “No habbie
Your thin picaninny—well wait till it’s fat.”

’Tis a beautiful country to practise economy.
Though the houses out here are not quite waterproof,
But they’re illigant houses for studying astronomy—
You can lie on your back and read stars through the roof

P.S.—This is cramped—if there’s no one to read it,
Send for Tim Murphy, he’ll know every stroke.
Ye all have my blessing, I know that yell need it,
So no more at present from Teddy O’Rourke.


The above to an old tune called “Barney O’Keefe,” 1848.