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Slim Dusty
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Peter Anderson & Co
He had offices in Sydney, many years ago,
And his shingle bore the legend 'Peter Anderson and Co.',
But his real name was Careless, as the fellows understood,
And his relatives decided that he wasn't any good.
'Twas their gentle tongues that blasted any 'character' he had,
He was fond of beer and leisure, and the Co. was just as bad.
It was limited in number to a unit, was the Co.
'Twas a bosom chum of Peter and his Christian name was Joe.
Oh, the office was their haven, for they lived there when hard-up,
A 'daily' for a table cloth, a jam tin for a cup;
And if the chance, the landlord's bailiff happened round in times like these,
Just to seize the office-fittings, well, there wasn't much to seize.
And when morning brought the bailiff, there'd be nothing to be seen,
Save a piece of bevelled cedar where the tenant's plate had been;
And there'd be no sign of Peter, and there'd be no sign of Joe,
For another portal boasted 'Peter Anderson and Co.'
Peter always met you smiling, always seemed to know you well,
Always gay and glad to see you, always had a joke to tell;
He could laugh when all was gloomy, he could grin when all was blue,
Sing a comic song and act it, and appreciate one too.
Glorious drunk and happy, till they heard the roosters crow,
And the landlady and neighbours made complaints about the Co.
But that life! it might be likened to a reckless drinking-song,
But it couldn't last for ever, and it never lasted long.
Debt-collecting ruined Peter, people talked him round too oft,
For his heart was soft as b___er, and the Co.'s was just as soft;
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But, of course, it wasn't business, only Peter's careless way;
And perhaps it pays in heaven, but on earth it doesn't pay.
They got harder up than ever, and, to make it worse, the Co.
Went more often round the corner than was good for him to go.
'I might live,' he said to Peter, 'but I haven't got the nerve,
I am going, going, no reserve.
Peter's fault is very common, very fitting and bereft
Paid the undertaker cash and then got drunk on what was left;
Then he shed some tears, half-maudlin, on the grave where lay the Co.,
And he drifted to a township where the city failures go.
In a town of wrecks and failures, they appreciated him.
Men who might have been, who had been, but who were not in the swim,
They would ask him who the Co. was, that queer company he kept,
And he'd always answer vaguely, he would say his partner slept;
That he had a 'sleeping partner', jesting while his spirit broke,
And they grinned above their glasses, for they took it for a joke.
Till at last there came a morning when his smile was seen no more,
He was gone from out the office, and his shingle from the door,
And a boundary-rider jogging out across the neighb'ring run,
Was attracted by a something, that was blazing in the sun;
And he found that it was Peter, lying peacefully at rest,
With a bottle close beside him and the shingle on his breast.
Yes he had offices in Sydney, many years ago,
And his shingle bore the legend 'Peter Anderson and Co.',
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