The Drover's Cook - Slim Dusty

Now the drovers cook weighed fifteen stone and he had one bloodshot eye

He had no laces in his boots and no buttons on his fly

His pants hung loosly round his hips hitched by a piece of wire

And they concertined round his boots in a way that you’d admire

Well he stuck the billy on the boil and then emptied out his pipe

And with his greasy shirtsleeves he gave his nose a wipe

And with pipe in mouth he mixed a sod and the drip hung from his chin

And as he mixed the damper up the drip kept dripping in

I walked quietly over to him and said toss that mixtuer out

And in future when your working keep your pipe out of your mouth

Well he stood erect and eyed me with such a dirty look

And said in choice Australian «Get another bloody cook»

A cook I said you call yourself you greasy slop made lout

Why you should be jailed for taking work that you cannot carry out

Oh he then uncorked some language and I felt a thrill of fear

As he swung his hairy paws about and said «trot your frame out here»

In outback brawls there are no rules nor limits to the weight

So I had to squib or meet him with my meagre nine stone eight

And we both bounced into action and fell into a clinche

I put a headlock on him but I couldn’t make him flinch

For hours we fought in deathly grips swung uppercuts and crosses

We staggered and founded in distress like broke and winded horses

Then gaspingly he muttered «Oh I’ve fought all through the north»

«Your the gamest thing I’ve ever struck, here give me your hand old sport»

Well I can’t explain my feelings with joy I nearly cried

As we staggered to a shade close by where he sank down and died

Now you talk about that saltbush scrap why it was only play

Compared to that grueling battle we fought that fatal day

And now above his resting place where the grasses grown to seed

On stone is carved this epitath for travelers to read

Here lies the son of Donald Gunn none gamer ever stood

And he died in dinkum battle with Jimmy Underwood