Chorus

Hawk, hawk, hawk.

Our bread to win, we’ll all begin

To hawk, hawk, hawk.

The stockmen and the bushmen and

The shepherds leave the station,

And the hardy bullock-punchers throw

Aside their occupation;

While some have horses, some have drays,

And some on foot are stalking;

We surely must conclude it pays

When all are going hawking.

Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c.

A life it is so full of bliss

’Twould suit the very niggers,

And lads I know a-hawking go

Who scarce can make the figures

But penmanship’s no requisite,

Keep matters square by chalking

With pencil or with ruddle, that’s

Exact enough for hawking.

Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c.

The hawker’s gay for half the day,

While others work he’s spelling,

Though he may stay upon the way,

His purse is always swelling;

With work his back is never bent

His hardest toil is talking;

Three hundred is the rate per cent.

Of profit when a-hawking.

Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c.

Since pedlaring yields more delight

Than ever digging gold did,

And since to fortune’s envied height

The path I have unfolded,

We’ll fling our moleskins to the dogs

And don tweeds without joking,

And honest men as well as rogues

We’ll scour the country hawking.

Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c.