letra de the man from ironbark - slim dusty
it was the man from ironbark who struck the sydney
town,
he wandered over street and park, he wandered up and
down.
he loitered here he loitered there, till he was like to
drop,
until at last in sheer despair he sought a barber’s
shop.
“ere! shave my beard and whiskers off, i’ll be a man of
mark,
i’ll go and do the sydney toff up home in ironbark.”
the barber man was small and flash, as barbers mostly
are,
he wore a strike-your-fancy sash he smoked a huge
cigar;
he was a humorist of note and keen at repartee,
he laid the odds and kept a “tote”, whatever that may
be,
and when he saw our friend arrive, he whispered,
“here’s a lark!
just watch me catch him all alive, this man from
ironbark.”
there were some gilded youths that sat along the
barber’s wall.
their eyes were dull, their heads were flat, they had
no brains at all;
to them the barber p-ssed a wink his dexter eyelid
shut,
“i’ll make this bloomin’ yokel think his bloomin’
throat is cut.”
and as he soaped and rubbed it in he made a rude
remark:
“i s’pose the flats is pretty green up there in
ironbark.”
a grunt was all reply he got; he shaved the bushman’s
chin,
then made the water boiling hot and dipped the razor
in.
he raised his hand, his brow was black, he paused
awhile to gloat,
then slashed the red-hot razor-back across his victim’s
throat;
upon the newly-shaven skin it made a livid mark,
no doubt it fairly took him in, the man from ironbark.
he fetched a wild up-country yell might wake the dead
to hear,
and though his throat, he knew full well, was cut from
ear to ear,
he struggled gamely to his feet, and faced the
murd’rous foe:
“you’ve done for me! you dog, i’m beat! one hit before
i go!
i only wish i had a knife, you blessed murdering shark!
but you’ll remember all your life the man from
ironbark.”
he lifted up his hairy paw, with one tremendous clout
he landed on the barber’s jaw, and knocked the barber
out.
he set to work with tooth and nail, he made the place a
wreck;
he grabbed the nearest gilded youth, and tried to break
his neck.
and all the while his throat he held to save his vital
spark,
and “murder! bl–dy murder!” yelled the man from
ironbark.
a peeler man who heard the din came in to see the show;
he tried to run the bushman in, but he refused to go.
and when at last the barber spoke, and said “’twas all
in fun’
twas just a little harmless joke, a trifle overdone.”
“a joke!” he said, “by h-ll, that’s fine; a lively sort
of lark;
i’d like to catch that murdering swine some night in
ironbark.”
and now while round the shearing floor the list’ning
shearers gape,
he tells the story o’er and o’er, and brags of his
escape.
“them barber chaps what keeps a tote, by h-ll, i’ve had
enough,
one tried to cut my bloomin’ throat, but thank the lord
it’s tough.”
and whether he’s believed or no, there’s one thing to
remark,
that flowing beards are all the go way up in ironbark.
that flowing beards are all the go way up in ironbark.
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