(Air: 'The Mistletoe Bough.') The Saddle Was Hung On The Stockyard Rail, And The Poor Old Horse Stood Whisking His Tail, For There Never Was Seen Such A Regular Screw As Wallabi Joe, Of Bunnagaroo; Whilst The Shearers All Said, As They Say, Of Course, That Wallabi Joe'S A Fine Lump Of A Horse; But The Stockmen Said, As They Laughed Aside, he'd Barely Do For A Sunday'S Ride. Chorus: Oh! Poor Wallabi Joe. O'Oh! Poor Wallabi Joe. 'I'm Weary Of Galloping Now,' He Cried, 'I Wish I Were Killed For My Hide, My Hide; For My Eyes Are Dim, And My Back Is Sore, And I Feel That My Legs Won't Stand Much More.' Now Stockman Bill, Who Took Care Of His Nag, Put Under The Saddle A Soojee Bag, And Off He Rode With A Whip In His Hand To Look For A Mob Of The R.J. Brand. Chorus: Oh! Poor Wallabi Joe, &C. Now Stockman Bill Camped Out That Night, And He Hobbled His Horse In A Sheltered Bight; Next Day Of Old Joe He Found Not A Track, So He Had To Trudge Home With His Swag On His Back. He Searched Up And Down Every Gully He Knew, But He Found Not A Hair Of His Poor Old Screw, And The Stockmen All Said As They Laughed At His Woe, 'Would You Sell Us The Chance Of Old Wallabi Joe.' Chorus: Oh! Poor Wallabi Joe, &C. Now As Years Sped By, And As Bill Grew Old, It Came Into His Head To Go Poking For Gold; So Away He Went With A Spade In His Fist, To Hunt For A Nugget Among The Schist. One Day As A Gully He Chanced To Cross, He Came On The Bones Of His Poor Old Horse; The Hobbles Being Jammed In A Root Below Had Occasioned The Death Of Poor Wallabi Joe. Chorus: Oh! Poor Wallabi Joe, &C.