| It’s lonesome away from your kindred and all |
| By the campfire at night where the wild dingoes call |
| But there’s nothing so lonesome, morbid or drear |
| Than to stand in the bar of a pub with no beer |
| Now the publican’s anxious for the quota to come |
| And there’s a faraway look on the face of the bum |
| The maid’s gone all cranky and the cook’s acting queer |
| Oh what a terrible place is a pub with no beer |
| Then the stockman rides up with his dry dusty throat |
| He breasts up to the bar and pulls a wad from his coat |
| But the smile on his face quickly turns to a sneer |
| As the barman says sadly «The pub’s got no beer.» |
| Then the swaggy comes in smothered in dust and flies |
| He throws down his roll and rubs the sweat from his eyes |
| But when he is told he says «What's this I hear? |
| I’ve trudged fifty flamin' miles to a pub with no beer» |
| There’s a dog on the verandah for his master he waits |
| But the boss is inside drinking wine with his mates |
| He hurries for cover and he cringes in fear |
| It’s no place for a dog round a pub with no beer |
| Old Billy the blacksmith the first time in his life |
| Has gone home cold sober to his darling wife |
| He walks in the kitchen she says «You're early my dear» |
| But then he breaks down and he tells her «The pub’s got no beer» |
| It’s lonesome away from your kindred and all |
| By the campfire at night where the wild dingoes call |
| But there’s nothing so lonesome, morbid or drear |
| Than to stand in the bar of a pub with no beer |