His old clay pipe stuck in his mouth,His hat pushed from his brow,His dress best fitted for the South --I think I see him now;
And when the city streets are still,And sleep upon me comes,I often dream that me an'Bill Are humpin'of our drums.
I mind the time when first I came A stranger to the land;And I was stumped,an'sick,an'lame When Bill took me in hand.
Old Bill was what a chap would call A friend in poverty,And he was very kind to all,And very good to me.
We'd camp beneath the lonely trees And sit beside the blaze,A-nursin'of our wearied knees,A-smokin'of our clays.
Or when we'd journeyed damp an'far,An'clouds were in the skies,We'd camp in some old shanty bar,And sit a-tellin'lies.
Though time had writ upon his brow And rubbed away his curls,He always was --an'may be now --A favourite with the girls;
I've heard bush-wimmin scream an'squall --
I've see'd 'em laugh until They could not do their work at all,Because of Corny Bill.
He was the jolliest old pup As ever you did see,And often at some bush kick-up They'd make old Bill M.C.
He'd make them dance and sing all night,He'd make the music hum,But he'd be gone at mornin'light A-humpin'of his drum.
Though joys of which the poet rhymes Was not for Bill an'me,I think we had some good old times Out on the wallaby.
I took a wife and left off rum,An'camped beneath a roof;But Bill preferred to hump his drum A-paddin'of the hoof.
The lazy,idle loafers what In toney houses camp Would call old Bill a drunken sot,A loafer,or a tramp;But if the dead should ever dance --
As poets say they will --
I think I'd rather take my chance Along of Corny Bill.
His long life's-day is nearly o'er,Its shades begin to fall;He soon must mount his bluey for The last long tramp of all;I trust that when,in bush an'town,He's lived and learnt his fill,They'll let the golden slip-rails down For poor old Corny Bill.
