Now I've listened to tales that the Ulster's told from Burke to Camelwheel,
And on dusty tracks in the southern states from Orbos to Warwickmobile.
Some were grave and some were gay and some with humour too,
And each of the tellers always swore that the tale that he told was true.
Old Paddy the Dancer, a swagman of note, who followed the bidgie run,
Found himself on the tucker track and most of his food was done.
So he pondered a while and thought at last, as far as he could see,
That he'd have to catch himself a cod to cook on the coals for tea.
So he rigged a line from bind to twine that he scrounged from a farmer's hay,
And then fashioned a hook from a rusty twine,
And a rusty nail that got stuck in his foot that day.
Well, he looked with pride on his fishing gear, and to try he could hardly wait.
Then he saw at last, as anglers do, you must cover your hook with bait.
He remembered a tale that someone told in the *** and distant past,
That frogs were the things that the anglers used for the fish to break their fasts,
That frogs were scarce as teeth on hens, or that's what he said to me.
But he searched around the world, and he found no fish to eat,
But he searched around till he found a frog at the foot of a lightwood tree.
Well, he stalked that frog on hands and knees, like big game hunters do,
But a black snake coming the other way had the same idea in view.
That both of them grabbed together, but the snake was a fraction fast.
It swallowed the frog, but found itself held in the swagman's grasp.
Well, he fished from his pocket a flask he had of very potent grog,
And said with a sigh, it must be done, I want that flamin' frog.
Well, he squeezed that wriggling reptile's neck till its jaws were opened wide.
Then with tears in his eyes he poured the lot into the snake's inside.
Well, it gave a gurgle, and then a gulp, and then quite a twist or two.
And there was that old frog in the light of day, almost as good as new.
Well, he grabbed that frog and then hurried away,
To bait up his rusty hook.
And then lay back on the grassy bank by the side of that peaceful brook.
Then he felt a tap on his shoulder blade and turned with eyes agog.
And there was that snake all bleary-eyed, in its mouth was another frog.
Well, that was the tale that was told to me in the camp on the Reedy Flat.
Maybe it's true or maybe not, you'd best be the judge of that.
But what I can hardly believe is, is the way that he liked the grog.
He would give it away to a worthless snake for the sake of a useless frog.
The End