For the chances will be that Sam Holt's old mate

Will be humping his drum on the Hughenden Road
To the end of the chapter of fate.

. . . . .

An echo from "The Old Bark Hut", sung in the opposition camp across the gully:

You may leave the door ajar, but if you keep it shut,
There's no need of suffocation in the Ould Barrk Hut.

. . . . .

The tucker's in the gin-case, but you'd better keep it shut --
For the flies will canther round it in the Ould Bark Hut.

However:

What's out of sight is out of mind, in the Ould Bark Hut.

. . . . .

We washed our greasy moleskins
On the banks of the Condamine. --

Somebody tackling the "Old Bullock Dray"; it must be over fifty verses now.
I saw a bushman at a country dance start to sing that song;
he'd get up to ten or fifteen verses, break down, and start afresh.