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Quotes about eisdell tucker

Waltzing Matilda

Words and music: m. cowan
Roy sang this song whilst on an australian tour
It was taped by a fan and circulated.....
Once a jolly swagman, campd by a billabong,
Under the shade of a coolibah tree,
And he sang as he watchd and waited till his billy boiled,
Youll come a waltzing matilda with me.
Waltzing matilda, waltzing matilda,
Youll come a waltzing matilda with me,
And he sang as he sat and waited till his billy boiled,
Youll come a waltzing matilda with me.
Down came a jumbuck to drink at that billabong,
Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him with glee,
And he sang as he shaoved that jumbuck in his tucker bag,
Youll come a waltzing matilda with me.
Waltzing matilda, waltzing matilda,
Youll come a waltzing matilda with me,
And he sang as he shaoved that jumbuck in his tucker bag,
Youll come a waltzing matilda with me.
Up rode the squatter mounted on his thoroughbred,

[...] Read more

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Mister Muffin Tucker

That's right.
That's what I like to call myself.
Mister Muffin Tucker.
You can call me Muffin,
When I get to stuffin'.
But don't call me rough...
Before I get deep inside your stuff.

That's right.
That's what I like to call myself.
Mister Muffin Tucker.
You'll be the one huffin' and puffin'
When you find out I'm not bluffin'.
And when I get done...
You just might end up the only one,
I'll muffin tucker for!
And that depends,
On how well you bake and shake your cookies.

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The Yellow House on Tucker Avenue

Saturday mornings brought promises,
of starting over,
beginning anew.
Trying to make the week over
and re-invent my life,
a life that I wanted with you.

The house sat high against a slope,
far enough away from the road to make it seem inaccessible
Painted a cheerful yellow, the colour
of happiness
And there in the yellow house on Tucker Avenue
I imagined my life with you.

Loving you in rooms filled
with laughter,
days and nights turning into years
In a house painted the colour of sunshine
and happy children that looked like you,
There in that yellow house on Tucker Avenue

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Possum A Lay of New Chumland

SO YER trav’lin’ for yer pleasure while yer writin’ for the press?
An’ yer huntin’ arter “copy”?—well, I’ve heer’d o’ that. I guess
You are gorn ter write a story that is gorn ter be yer best,
’Bout the “blunders an’ advenchers ov a new chum in the west?”
An’ you would be very thankful an’ acknowledge any hint?
Well, I karn’t say as I hankers fur ter see my name in print;
But I know a little story an’ I’ll tell it out ov hand
If yer’ll put it down in writin’ that the swells kin understand—
(It’s a story ov a new chum, and—a story ov the land.)


He had lately kum from Ingland—you cud tell it by ’s cap—
Fur “kerlonial exper’ence” (an’ he got it, too, poor chap).
’Twas in town he met the squatter, an’ he asked, as if in fun,
“If the boss ’ud want a flunkey or a coachy on the run?”
Well, it riz the boss’s dander, an’ he jumps clean orf ’is ’oss—
“Now, me fresh, sweet-scented beauty, watyer giv’nus?” sez the boss;
“I hev met yer kidney often, an’ yer mighty fresh an’ free,
But yer needn’t think yer gorn ter come a-lardin’ over me!”

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Faye Tucker

On the night they killed faye tucker
I was gambling away my last dime
Yeah well I pulled down the lever
And I sent up a prayer
That my luck would not be denied
My luck would not be denied
So roll out the head of faye tucker
Yeah well never you mind what they say
Well you may be reborn
But its all just for scorn
And thats what youll take to the grave
Thats what youll take to the grave
Well the minister wants you to live now
And the governor wants you to fry
And whatever it was that you thought might occur
Well they got something else on their minds
They got something else on their minds
If you live they gonna make you a campaigner
(if you live they gonna make you a campaigner)
If you die they gonna make you a grave

[...] Read more

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Sophia Bush

We've all known a John Tucker. We've either known one, dated one or our best friend has dated one. I think a lot of men at one point or another have been a John Tucker.

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Waltzing Matilda

OH! there once was a swagman camped in the Billabong,
Under the shade of a Coolabah tree;
And he sang as he looked at his old billy boiling,
“Who’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.”

Who’ll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling,
Who’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?
Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag—
Who’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?
Down came a jumbuck to drink at the water-hole,
Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him in glee;
And he sang as he put him away in his tucker-bag,
“You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me!”

Down came the Squatter a-riding his thorough-bred;
Down came Policemen—one, two, and three.
”Whose is the jumbuck you’ve got in the tucker-bag?
You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.”

But the swagman, he up and he jumped in the water-hole,

[...] Read more

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The Fact of the Matter

I'm wonderin' why those fellers who go buildin' chipper ditties,
'Bout the rosy times out drovin', an' the dust an' death of cities,
Don't sling the bloomin' office, strike some drover for a billet,
And soak up all the glory that comes handy while they fill it.

P'r'aps it's fun to travel cattle or to picnic with merinos,
But the drover don't catch on, sir, not much high-class rapture he knows.
As for sleepin' on the plains there in the shadder of the spear-grass,
That's liked best by the Juggins with a spring-bed an' a pier-glass.

An' the camp-fire, an' the freedom, and the blanky constellations,
The 'possum-rug an' billy, an' the togs an' stale ole rations -
It's strange they're only raved about by coves that dress up pretty,
An' sport a wife, an' live on slap-up tucker in the city.

I've tickled beef in my time clear from Clarke to Riverina,
An' shifted sheep all round the shop, but blow me if I've seen a
Single blanky hand who didn't buck at pleasures of this kidney,
And wouldn't trade his blisses for a flutter down in Sydney.

[...] Read more

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Out Back

The old year went, and the new returned, in the withering weeks of drought,
The cheque was spent that the shearer earned,
and the sheds were all cut out;
The publican's words were short and few,
and the publican's looks were black --
And the time had come, as the shearer knew, to carry his swag Out Back.

For time means tucker, and tramp you must,
where the scrubs and plains are wide,
With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide;
All day long in the dust and heat -- when summer is on the track --
With stinted stomachs and blistered feet,
they carry their swags Out Back.

He tramped away from the shanty there, when the days were long and hot,
With never a soul to know or care if he died on the track or not.
The poor of the city have friends in woe, no matter how much they lack,
But only God and the swagmen know how a poor man fares Out Back.

He begged his way on the parched Paroo and the Warrego tracks once more,

[...] Read more

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Outback

The old year went, and the new returned, in the withering weeks of drought,
The cheque was spent that the shearer earned,
and the sheds were all cut out;
The publican's words were short and few,
and the publican's looks were black --
And the time had come, as the shearer knew, to carry his swag Out Back.

For time means tucker, and tramp you must,
where the scrubs and plains are wide,
With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide;
All day long in the dust and heat -- when summer is on the track --
With stinted stomachs and blistered feet,
they carry their swags Out Back.

He tramped away from the shanty there, when the days were long and hot,
With never a soul to know or care if he died on the track or not.
The poor of the city have friends in woe, no matter how much they lack,
But only God and the swagmen know how a poor man fares Out Back.

He begged his way on the parched Paroo and the Warrego tracks once more,

[...] Read more

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