Well we tried 'em all the babbling brooks, the cooks
and the cuckoos,
Between them and wilful murders, there's not a lot to
choose,
Oh we get 'em every season and I am more or less
resign,
When riding in for tucker, to hear the cook has pulled
his time.
For the flour is always weepy and the beef is always
tough,
And no matter what the wages are, oh, they never are
enough,
They growl about the water and they moan about the
wood,
And no matter where you make the camp, it's never any
good.
(Grizzling so and so’s)
The offsider's always lazy and the men eat twice as
much,
As any other blokes I’ve met and your just a such as
such,
Oh the beef is always under cooked, the spuds are hard
as hell,
And what they put in rissoles would be really hard to
tell.
Oh there isn't any picnic when your bullocks rush all
night,
To come riding in when daybreak, cook’s a shadow all a
flight,
To find the billy cans are cold and the beef all boiled
to rag,
And when you've had your say old mate, the cook has
rolled his swag.
(hey!)
We only had one decent cook, he made bread like a
dream,
He made us soup and puddings with some buns for in
between,
He never moaned, he never groaned, for two days was
content,
Till we asked for second helpings and the barmaid
snatched his rent.
So now I've kind of had it an' when the season thru
again,
You may look among the ringers but you'll look for me
in vain,
For I'm sending to the city for a Mrs Beaten’s book,
And next year I'll get my own back, for I'm goin' out
as cook.
(Hey)
Oh we get 'em every season and I am more or less
resign,
When riding in for tucker, to hear the cook has pulled
his time
