He's on the road with his hungry sheep, and he's certain to raise a row,
For he's bullied the whole of the Castlereagh till he's got them under cow --
Just pick a quarrel and raise a fight, and leather him good and hard,
And I'll take good care that his wretched sheep don't wander a half a yard.
It's a five-pound job if you belt him well -- do anything short of kill,
For there isn't a beak on the Castlereagh will fine you for Saltbush Bill.'
`I'll take the job,' said the fighting man; `and hot as this cove appears,
He'll stand no chance with a bloke like me,
what's lived on the game for years;
For he's maybe learnt in a boxing school, and sparred for a round or so,
But I've fought all hands in a ten-foot ring each night in a travelling show;
They earned a pound if they stayed three rounds,
and they tried for it every night --
In a ten-foot ring! Oh, that's the game that teaches a bloke to fight,
For they'd rush and clinch, it was Dublin Rules, and we drew no colour line;
And they all tried hard for to earn the pound, but they got no pound of mine:
If I saw no chance in the opening round I'd slog at their wind, and wait
Till an opening came -- and it ALWAYS came -- and I settled 'em, sure as fate;
Left on the ribs and right on the jaw --
and, when the chance comes, MAKE SURE!
And it's there a professional bloke like me gets home on an amateur:
For it's my experience every day, and I make no doubt it's yours,
That a third-class pro is an over-match for the best of the amateurs ----'
`Oh, take your swag to the travellers' hut,'
said Smith, `for you waste your breath;
You've a first-class chance, if you lose the fight,
of talking your man to death.
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