From the gloom of the scrub down below.

Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.

“There’s tea in the battered old billy;
Place the pannikins out in a row,
And we’ll drink to the next merry meeting,
In the place where all good fellows go.

Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.

“And oft in the shades of the twilight,
When the soft winds are whispering low,
And the dark’ning shadows are falling,
Sometimes think of the stockman below.”

Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.



MY MATE BILL


That’s his saddle on the tie-beam,
And them’s his spurs up there
On the wall-plate over yonder—
You ken see they ain’t a pair.

For the daddy of all the stockmen
As ever come mustering here