Itґs lonesome away
From your kindred and all
By the camp fire at night
Where the wild dingoes call,
But thereґs nothing so lonesome
So morbid or drear
Than to stand in a bar
Of a pub with no beer
Now the publicanґs anxious
For the quota to come
Thereґs a far away lock
On the face of the bum
The maidґs gone all cranky
And the cookґs acting queer
What a terrible place
Is a pub with no beer
Then the stock-man rides up
With his dry dusty throat