Эндрю Бартон Патерсон (Andrew Barton Paterson)

Bottle ’O’

I ain’t the kind of bloke as takes to any steady job; 
I drives me bottle cart around the town; 
A bloke what keeps ’is eyes about can always make a bob -- 
I couldn’t bear to graft for every brown. 
There’s lots of handy things about in everybody’s yard, 
There’s cocks and hens a-runnin’ to an’ fro, 
And little dogs what comes and barks -- we take ’em off their guard 
And we puts ’em with the Empty Bottle-O! 

Chorus -- 
So it’s any ”Empty bottles! Any empty bottle-O!” 
You can hear us round for half a mile or so 
And you’ll see the women rushing 
To take in the Monday’s washing 
When they ’ear us crying, ”Empty Bottle-O!” 

I’m driving down by Wexford-street and up a winder goes, 
A girl sticks out ’er ’ead and looks at me, 
An all-right tart with ginger ’air, and freckles on ’er nose; 
I stops the cart and walks across to see. 
”There ain’t no bottles ’ere,” says she, ”since father took the pledge,” 
”No bottles ’ere,” says I, ”I’d like to know 
What right ’ave you to stick your ’ead outside the winder ledge, 
If you ’aven’t got no Empty Bottle-O!” 
I sometimes gives the ’orse a spell, and then the push and me 
We takes a little trip to Chowder Bay. 
Oh! ain’t it nice the ’ole day long a-gazin’ at the sea 
And a-hidin’ of the tanglefoot away. 
But when the booze gits ’old of us, and fellows starts to ”scrap”, 
There’s some what likes blue-metal for to throw: 
But as for me, I always says for layin’ out a ”trap” 
There’s nothing like an Empty Bottle-O!

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