The Old Survey

A poem by Andrew Barton Paterson

Our money’s all spent, to the deuce went it!
The landlord, he looks glum,
On the tap-room wall, in a very bad scrawl,
He has chalked to us a sum.
But a glass we’ll take, ere the grey dawn break,
And then saddle up and away—
Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.

With a measured beat fall our horses’ feet,
Galloping side by side;
When the money’s done, and we’ve had our fun,
We all are bound to ride.
O’er the far-off plain we’ll drag the chain,
And mark the settler’s way—
Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.

We’ll range from the creeks to the mountain peaks,
And traverse far below;
Where foot never trod, we’ll mark with a rod
The limits of endless snow;

Each lofty crag we’ll plant with a flag,
To flash in the sun’s bright ray—
Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.

Till with cash hard-earned once more returned,
At “The Beaver” bars we’ll shout;
And the very bad scrawl that’s against the wall
Ourselves shall see wiped out.
Such were the ways in the good old days!—
The days of the old survey!
Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.