The Pub Still Makes A Quid

Lyrics

Where has the brumbie-breaker gone, the man who lived by luck? Well, chances are, he's moved to town and drives a council truck Ah, the smithies and the saddlers have taken to the track The stockmen now ride motorbikes when they muster mobs out back The Northern runs are owned by Yanks, they bought up every head The rivers are polluted, and the barramundi's dead The old-time ringers are no more in the stock-camps further out And half their scrubbers drowned in flood, and the rest died in a drought But they drink it down and nearly drowned, as fast as they ever did Only one thing hasn't changed out back––the pubs still make a quid The swaggies never boil their billies by the billabong And shearers camp in caravans, and seldom sing a song Along the stock-routes of the North, the bright stars overhead Drovers camp in city-style, with white sheets on the bed The kangaroos have fled the plain, and gone is the dingo dog The wallabies have left the hill, and the buffalo from the bog And a motel stands upon the spot where a bush ranger once hid Only one thing hasn't changed out back––the pubs still make a quid But they drink it down and nearly drowned, as fast as they ever did Only one thing hasn't changed out back––the pubs still make a quid The station homestead is a wreck, and the waterholes are dry And cattle leave their sorry bones beneath a deadly sky And the jackaroo rolled up his swag, he didn't like the grub And now he's workin' overtime at some flea-bitten pub Yeah, they drink it down and nearly drowned, as much as they ever did Only one thing hasn't changed out back––the pubs still make a quid (Yodeling)