1. |
Narration (spoken)
00:55
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2. |
War Medley
02:18
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3. |
Narration 2 (spoken)
01:24
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4. |
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My sole address at present is a battlefield in France -
If it's ever going to alter there is only just a chance -
To dodge the "Jerry" rifles and the shrapnel flying around -
I've burrowed like a bunny to a funkhole in the ground.
The floor is just a puddle and the roof lets in the damp
I wish I was in Aussie where the Sleeper Cutters camp.
The tea is foul and bitter like an ancient witch's brew -
The bread is sour and scanty and you ought to see the stew -
The "Lootenant" that is leading is a leery kind of coot -
We always call 'im "Mr" so plain "Bill" would never suit.
I'd sell my chance of Heaven for five minutes with the scamp
Where the red bull's chewing nut grass near the Sleeper Cutters' Camp.
If another war is starting I'll hang out with the "jibs"
Not much in being a hero with a bayonet 'tween your ribs -
Hard fighting for the Froggies pushing Huns across the Rhine
They can take Alsace and Flanders and Normandy for mine.
All I'm needing is a pozzie where ground is not too damp
'Neath azure skies of Auzzie - just a Sleeper Cutters' camp.
Here, sitting in a dug-out, with a rifle on my knees -
I fancy I am back there once again among the trees -
With long-lost friends I'm chatting by the camp fire's ruddy glow
Where we boiled the old black billy in days of long ago...
The signal comes to " Fall-in"
I can hear the diggers tramp -
Farewell, perhaps forever
To the Sleeper Cutters' camp.
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5. |
Narration 3 (spoken)
01:48
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6. |
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Ten million soldiers to the war have gone,
Who may never return again.
Ten million mothers' hearts must break,
For the ones who died in vain.
Head bowed down in sorrowin her lonely years,
I heard a mother murmur thro' her tears:
Chorus:
I didn’t raise my boy to be a soldier,
I brought him up to be my pride and joy,
Who dares to put a musket on his shoulder,
To shoot some other mother’s darling boy?
Let nations arbitrate their future troubles,
It’s time to lay the sword and gun away,
There’d be no war today,
If mothers all would say,
I didn’t raise my boy to be a soldier.
What victory can cheer a mother’s heart,
When she looks at her blighted home?
What victory can bring her back,
All she cared to call her own?
Let each mother answer in the year to be,
Remember that my boy belongs to me!
(Chorus)
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7. |
Narration 4 (spoken)
02:04
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8. |
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Would you have freedom from Wage slavery,
Then join in the grand Industrial band;
Would you from mis'ry and hunger be free,
Then come, do your share, take a stand.
(Chorus)
There is power there is power in a band of workingmen,
When they stand hand in hand,
That's a pow'r, that's a pow'r
That must rule in every land—
One Industrial Union Grand.
Would you have mansions of gold in the sky,
and live in a shack, way in the back?
Would you have wings up in heaven to fly,
And starve here with rags on your back?
If you like sluggers to beat off your head,
Then don't organize, all unions despise.
If you want nothing before you are dead,
Shake hands with your boss and look wise.
Come, all ye workers, from every land,
Come, join in the grand industrial band;
Then we our share of this earth shall demand.
Come on! Do your share, take a stand!
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9. |
Narration 5 (spoken)
03:54
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10. |
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Tramp, tramp, tramp,
Tramp, tramp, tramp, can’t you hear the marching feet
As the sturdy sons of labour come swinging down the street?
With manly steps and bearing and faces shining bright,
They have taken up the gauntlet in the battle of the right.
Tramp, tramp, tramp,
In the van are labour’s heroes, who have fought and shed their blood
To save our daunted freedom being trampled in the mud.
They can hear their comrades calling, from far across the sea,
“As we fight in France for freedom, fight to keep our homeland free!”
Tramp, tramp, tramp,
“We have fought the German Tyrant and have written Austral’s name
In imperishable letters high upon the scroll of fame.
But our blood was spilt for nothing and our sacrifices were in vain,
If our own dear Australia is bound by Serfdom’s chain.”
Tramp, tramp, tramp,
So courage, comrades, courage, stand together one and all
For united we shall conquer but divided we shall fall
And with grim determination see the freedom flag still waves,
For the true sons of Australia never, never shall be slaves.
Tramp, tramp, tramp.
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11. |
Narration 6 (spoken)
01:05
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12. |
The New Exhibits
02:19
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"Say, what are these exhibits called?", the monkey asked her mate -
Those bipeds that the keeper has admitted through the gate,
A longing undeniable the problem to discuss
Have I - oh, tell me what they are, who come to live with us?"
"Your question is a poser, and my answer's Humpty Doo,
For I likewise am puzzled much", said monkey Number two.
I've eyed them up, I've eyed them down, I've viewed them near and far
But twist me tail if I can guess, what brand of beast they are.
Then went the Ape inquisitive, behind a pile of rocks,
And put her question to a seer, to wit the ancient fox.
"Oh Mr. Fox" the monkey asked, "I come to learn from you,
Particulars concerning those new tenants at the zoo",
The Fox he wunk a knowing wink, peculiarly a seer's,
"Oh they," he said, "are what are called, the rural volunteers."
And curious folk they are at best, the cussedest of all,
God gave them legs and yet how strange, they each prefer to crawl.
God gave them eyes with which to see, but bitter facts remind,
My comprehension stubbornly, that most of them are blind.
God gave them each a brain to use, but this you wouldn't guess,
They get their thinking done for them, by bulging bellies press.
"God gave to them a backbone each (but right against their wish) -
They much prefer to emulate the spineless jelly-fish!
God gave them strength with which to help the weak who call for aid -
It was, I think, the one mistake that ever heaven made!"
I thank you much the monkey said, I felt most strangely queer,
As though impelled to vomiting, whenever they came near.
It isn't fair to our good name, to either fox or ape,
So when the night enfolds the zoo, I'm making my escape.
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13. |
Narration 7 (spoken)
00:46
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14. |
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Oh, give us a loud “hurrah-rah!” We’re the girls who work in the RRR;
We’ll serve you tea and coffee, and cake and scone,
Hot grills, cold meats, you know it won’t take long.
You’re here until your trip resumes at the Railway Refreshment Rooms.
We’ll satisfy your hunger with a meal or snack between your travels on the railway track.
We all work very hard though we’re not well paid,
But each and every one is a union maid!
We’ll join in when the battle looms at the Railway Refreshment Rooms.
When the railway men, they downed their tools, we waitresses we showed you that we’re no-one’s fools.
When a certain kind of patron crawled in to be fed, this is what we aproned warriors said:
“If you’re a government volunteer, a rotten strike-breaker, get out of here!
We won’t serve you and it serves you right, you should be supporting the workers’ fight!
So we’re waiting on justice, we’re waiting, it’s true; and til justice is served, we’re not waiting on you!”
The bosses said “You can’t discriminate. Each and every diner deserves his plate.”
So we took off our aprons, put on our hats – and they replaced us all with volunteer rats!
Replaced by finks and goons at the Railway Refreshment Rooms!
So give us a loud “hurrah-rah-rah!” for the girls who used to work for the RRR!
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15. |
Narration 8 (spoken)
01:08
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16. |
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I saw the casket carried
shoulder-high by union men,
Then into the hearse they lowered
their comrade and friend.
I saw the red-eyed children
of a family torn apart.
I felt the widow’s cries of grief
like daggers pierce my heart.
I heard the toll of a convent bell
and the muffled beat of the drum.
I saw thousands of grieving people,
oh, where had they all come from?
The procession stretched for a mile or more,
from Trades Hall it made its way,
Behind the four-horse funeral hearse
which lead the sombre parade…
Chorus:
To (the) Mortuary Station,
to (the) Mortuary Station,
On the Rookwood Cemetery line.
They were taking their dead
to the railway head
In a box of polished pine.
A one-way fare is all he’ll need
On the Rookwood Cemetery line.
I overheard folks talking
Of a local Irish larrikin,
Grew up in dusty city lanes,
A carter named Merv Flanagan.
He stood one day with strikers,
Watching rural volunteers
Drive by with black-banned cargo,
They began to boo and jeer.
The times were tense and bitter,
Tinder ready for the flame.
Whoever threw the first punch
Well, we’ll never know his name.
The government had given guns
to strike-breakers so that they
Could defend the law and order
And send strikers on their way…
(Chorus)
A strike-breaker named Reg(gie) Wearne
From Bingara came to town
For his God, his King and Country
To keep rebellion down.
Harassed by rowdy strikers,
He drew a pistol from his vest
Flanagan leapt to save his mates;
A bullet shattered his chest.
The judge declared it self-defence!
Rich graziers were relieved.
‘Scum of the earth’, ‘parasite on the state’-
Not a thought for the bereaved.
But the thousands I saw mourning ,
Down by the Mortuary station
were bidding farewell to a hero
on the way to his last destination.
(Final chorus)
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17. |
Narration 9 (spoken)
01:33
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18. |
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19. |
Narration 10 (spoken)
02:14
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20. |
The Scab's Dream
02:15
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Last night I lay a-sleeping
I had an awful dream
I dreamt that I was back again in 1917.
I saw the drivers and firemen
And thought it the greatest sight
To see such a body of workmen
Staying out for their rights.
So I came out on strike with them
But the boss came to me next day
And appointed me a driver
And a rise of four bob a day.
And when I saw my old mates
Men that always lent me a bob,
They turned their heads and whispered,
“He took an old man’s job”
And when I look at my little boy,
So happy, young and gay,
He doesn’t care if I scabbed it
But I wonder will he some day.
Then in my dreams I wander to 1937
My boy has grown to manhood
He is the pick of an Australian Eleven.
He comes to me one evening
With a look I had never seen,
And said: “Dad, what did you do in 1917?”
For a moment I was dumbfounded
He had taken my breath away
Then I answered,
“I stuck to the Government and worked sixteen hours a day”
Not another word was spoken
He left me with bowed-down head
Next morning when I went to his room
I found him lying dead
And there a note was written:
“I love you, dearly dad,
I could not live to be happy
To think I am a son of a scab.”
Then I woke with the consolation
It was only a silly dream
I would give all I possess in this wide, wide world
To live again through seventeen.
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21. |
Narration 11 (spoken)
01:37
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22. |
Second Class Wait Here
04:21
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Christina Mimmocchi Sydney, Australia
Christina is a songwriter and musician, and has been a choir-maker for close to 20 years. She writes for her own solo
projects, in collaboration with trio Strawberry Thieves and with composer/guitarist Greg White, and for various projects.
In past decades she performed with Blindman’s Holiday and the folk trio Touchwood.
... more
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