It's lonesome away from your kindred and all,
By the campfire at night where the wild dingoes call;
But there's nothing so lonesome, so morbid or drear,
Than to stand in a bar of a pub with no beer.
Now the publican's anxious for the quota to come,
There's a far away look on the face of the bum;
The maid's gone all cranky, and the cook's acting queer,
What a terrible place is a pub with no beer.
Then the stockman rides up with his dry, dusty throat,
He breasts up to the bar, pulls a wad from his coat;
But the smile on his face quickly turns to a sneer,
When the barman says sadly, the pub's got no beer.
There's a dog on the 'randa-h, for his master he waits,
But the boss is inside drinking wine with his mates;
He hurries for cover and cringes in fear,
It's no place for a dog 'round a pub with no beer.
Old Billy the blacksmith, first time in his life,
Has gone home cold sober to his darling wife;
He walks in the kitchen, she says you're early, me dear,
But he breaks down and tells her, the pub's got no beer.
[G] It's lonesome away from your [Am] kindred and all,
By the [D] campfire at night where the wild dingoes [G] call;
But [G] there's nothing so lonesome, so [Am] morbid or drear,
Than to [D] stand in a bar of a [Am] pub with no [G] beer.
It is lonely away from your kindred and all,
In the bushland at night when the warrigals call;
It is sad by the sea where the wild breakers boom,
Or to look on a grave and contemplate doom;
But there's nothing on earth half as lonely and drear,
As to stand in the bar of a pub without beer.
Madam with her needles sits still by the door,
The boss smokes in silence - he is joking no more;
There's a faraway look on the face of the hum,
While the barmaid glares down at the paint of her thumb.
Once it stood by the wayside, all stately and proud,
'Twas a home to the loafers - a joy to the crowd;
Now all silent the roof-tree that oftentimes rang,
When the navvies were paid and the cane-cutters sang;
Some are sleeping their last in the land far from here,
And I feel all alone in a pub without beer.
They can hang to their coupons for sugar and tea,
And the shortage of sandshoes does not worry me;
And though benzine and razors be both frozen stiff,
What is wrong with the horse and the old-fashioned ziff?
'Mid the worries of war there's but one thing I fear,
'Tis to stand in the bar of a pub without beer.
Oh, you brew of brown barley, what charm is thine?
'Neath thy spell men grow happy and cease to repine;
The cowards become brave and the weak become strong,
The dour and the grumpy burst forth into song;
If there's aught to resemble high heaven down here,
'Tis the place of joy where they ladle out beer.
One day in the town at the time of the blitz,
So dry I was spitting out threepenny bits;
I went to the pub and I called for a "pot",
But I found that the yankees had gobbled the lot.
The boss was laid out in his favourite chair,
And writ on his dial was a look of despair;
Madam and young Flossie looked languid and faint,
All gone was the glamour, the powder and paint.
The yardman had left with a rope and a knife,
Reports had come in he had taken his life;
The cook and the slushie were out at the back,
They both had gone down to a nervous attack.
Old Billy, the hum, he lay under a tree,
The poor fellow "had it", 'twas easy to see;
He was not improving, 'twas just the reverse,
We'd soon see him sailing away in the hearse.
The dog with a sorrowful look on his face,
Kept moping and mooning all over the place;
He sat on his tail and he looked up at me,
And started to wail like an Irish Banshee.
I raced to the water and turned on the tap,
And drank as I swore at the Hun and the Jap;
Sez I to myself - "Better get out of here,
What good is a town when the pub has no beer?"