‘ You come and see me, boys,’ he said; ‘ You'll find a welcome and a bed And whisky any time you call; Although our township has n't got
The name of quite a lively spot — You see, I live in Booligal. ‘ And people have an awful down Upon the district and the town —
Which worse than hell itself they call; In fact, the saying far and wide Along the Riverina side Is “Hay and Hell and Booligal”.
‘ No doubt it suits‘ em very well To say it's worse than Hay or Hell, But do n't you heed their talk at all; Of course, there's heat — no one denies —
And sand and dust and stacks of flies, And rabbits, too, at Booligal. ‘ But such a pleasant, quiet place, You never see a stranger's face —
They hardly ever care to call; The drovers mostly pass it by; They reckon that they'd rather die Than spend a night in Booligal.
‘ The big mosquitoes frighten some — You'll lie awake to hear‘ em hum — And snakes about the township crawl; But shearers, when they get their cheque,
They never come along and wreck The blessed town of Booligal. ‘ But down in Hay the shearers come And fill themselves with fighting-rum,
And chase blue devils up the wall, And fight the snaggers every day, Until there is the deuce to pay — There's none of that in Booligal.
‘ Of course, there is n't much to see — The billiard-table used to be The great attraction for us all, Until some careless, drunken curs
Got sleeping on it in their spurs, And ruined it, in Booligal. ‘ Just now there is a howling drought That pretty near has starved us out —
It never seems to rain at all; But, if there SHOULD come any rain, You could n't cross the black-soil plain — You'd have to stop in Booligal.’
‘ WE'D HAVE TO STOP!’ With bated breath We prayed that both in life and death Our fate in other lines might fall: ‘ Oh, send us to our just reward
In Hay or Hell, but, gracious Lord, Deliver us from Booligal!’
Cookies on Poetry Cove