| It was somewhere in September and the sun was goin' down
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| When I came in search of copy, to a Darling River town
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| Come-And-Have-A-Drink we’ll call it, 'tis a fitting name I think
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| And 'twas raining, for a wonder, up at Come-And-Have-A-Drink
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| Underneath the pub verandah I was resting on a bunk
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| When a stranger rose before me, and he said that he was drunk
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| He apologised for speaking, there was no offence he swore
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| But he somehow seemed to fancy that he’d seen my face before
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| He agreed you can’t remember all the chaps you chance to meet
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| And he said his name was Sweeney, people lived in Sussex Street
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| He was camping in a stable, that he swore that he was right
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| Only for the blanky horses walkin' over him all night
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| He’d apparently been fighting, for his face was black and blue
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| And it looked as though the horses had been treading on him too
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| But an honest genial twinkle in the eye that wasn’t hurt
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| Seemed to hint of something better, spite of drink and rags and dirt
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| He was born in Parramatta and he said with humour grim
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| That he’d like to see the city, 'ere the liquor finished him
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| But he couldn’t raise the money, he was damned if he could think
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| What the Government was doing here, he offered me a drink
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| I declined, 'twas self-denial and I lectured him on booze
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| Using all the hackneyed arguments that preachers mostly use
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| Things I’d heard in temperance lectures, I was young and rather green
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| And I ended by referring to the man he might have been
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| But he couldn’t stay to argue, for his beer was nearly gone
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| He was glad, he said, to meet me, and he’d see me later on
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| But he guessed he’d have to go and get his bottle filled again
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| And he gave a lurch and vanished in the darkness and the rain
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| Now of afternoons in cities, when the rain is on the land
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| Visions come to me of Sweeney, with his bottle in his hand |