# Revised Ballads of Bung and Other Verses/The Register

THE REGISTER
These are the boys of the good old mob No matter what the weather, These are the boys of the good old mob that always pull together.
These are the boys that laugh and pass Still young, the years they weather; These are the boys of the good old mob Who always pull together.
Adams, F. V., pioneer, ’twas his noble brother Bill Who won the Battle of Waterloo, they tell the story still.
Allen, R. C., postal clerk, a novice in the crew, Shaping well at “mopping up”—think that he will do.
Bakor, I. V., railway head, is rather on the serious side; Gags from William Shakeseare at any time supplied.
Barry, T. J., postal clerk, the fastest talker known; We'll bet a hundred any time he'll stop a gramophone.
Bignell, C. V., engineer, and a hell of a cove to go, Believes in keeping “engines” running at top, you know.
Bourke, T. J., horse trainer, all the tricks of the game knows well, An Irishman, with a Scotch horse, known as Sandy Bell.
Brown, H. V., ex-soldier, fought in the Boer War, Though very quiet and peaceful—never known to roar.
Cairney, T. V., boiler boss, and good sport all the time, A demon in the garden, chasing slugs with lime.
Casey, P. M., contractor, an amateur jockster, who Once rode Tommy Allerton and rode him right well, too.
Casey, W. A., ex-soldier, as a Chow talker he ranks high ‘‘Quong lee fat soy—quee moy, quee soy, How gui?”
Chalk, H. B., ex-soldier, our pianist, if you please; A rival to St. Peter (Boss Commander of the Keys).
​Corcoran, J. V., grocer, young, but with hair so gray; Quite a catch of the season, but hard to hook, I say.
Conaghan, J. P., grocer, gentle, meek and mild; Pity his simplicity, he’s not a forward child.
Cunliffe, W. V., railway head, one of the oldest of the crew, With an unbeaten record—likes a shandy, too.
Fraser, V. de P., ex-soldier, a wicked, wicked flirt, As a female impersonator, a cuddlesome bit of skirt.
Gittos, W. V., draper, in a shrewd, quiet sort of way, Has got the girls all thinking, they’ll catch him yet one day.
Johnston, F. J., agent; for a wowser no time at all; Reckons the Garden of Eden was perfect before The Fall.
Jones, N. W., ex-soldier, with vast experience at the war; But a charge like that on Kumara Beach he never saw before
Keating, M. J., County Clerk, going well and strong; Says to carry Prohibition would be a grievous wrong.
Lindsay, W. A., ex-soldier, guaranteed to sell Any old sort of hardware, or dress circle seats in hell.
Lord, E. I, surveyor, drew a rabbit on his head, To show there was a little “hare” when all his “hair” was dead.
Moncrief, R. V., sailor, hails from the Shetland Isles; A woman’s heart is shattered every time he smiles.
Mullins, T. J., ex-soldier, with “tabbies” Boss-Tom of the lot; But doesn’t seem to choose one. Got too many! What?
McGilligan, P. J., baker, his “dough” he puts in right: Sure to get a dividend, for style the limit quite.
McGrath, J. F., accountant, swears that rich brown beer, Is twice as sweet as a sheila’s lips and a damned sight more sincere.
McKay, G. M., ironmonger, and one of the Old Brigade: Of a pint of shandy, not a bit afraid,
McKeowen, H. V., railway head, a son of Erin bold; Prescribes a drop of whisky for keeping out the cold.
​Ogilvie, A. V., mercer, florid, fat and fair; Could kid a man to wear a suit of goat or camel hair.
O'Callaghan, T. J., bank clerk, as a “ped” the fastest we have known. Why is he like an aeroplane? Why, simply because he’s flown.
O’Neill, L. M., postal clerk, an apprentice rather shy; If he got the “glad” from a cuddlesome tart, would straight to Mummy fly.
Oxenham, S. V., bailiff, once seized some beef and pork But simply couldn’t hold it, for it began to walk.
Peebles, H. V., ex-soldier, quiet, has not so much to say, But the sort that always “gets” there—they’re often built that way.
Pendergast, W. P., stoker, a light provides for the dark; A boom and blessing everywhere, except—in a quiet park.
Rathbun, W. J., grocer, in Hades a celluloid cat; Would have as much chance to get him, as getting a celluloid rat.
Roberts, J. V., ex-soldier, a singer of renown; Fifty pounds to back ’against anything in town.
Roberts, T. V., ex-soldier, says that now the war is o’er, It ought to be 10 o’clock license, same as it was before.
Rose, C. H., land salesman, will “rise,” yes that is a “cinch,” For he’s already “risen” in the firm of J. D. Lynch.
Rugg, C. C., carrier, plays the hungry school boy’s part, And always wants a dozen—no good to him, one tart.
Ryan, T. P., ex-soldier, a “babbling brook” at the war; Natural fighting instinct, Irish to the core.
Shrives, F. R., ex-soldier, will answer you straight and well, That you can’t be a man and a wowser, that you sure go to hell.
Smith H. H., ex-soldier, lives on epicurian fare— Mountain duck, asparagus, green peas and caviare
Smith, W. V., tailor, though he’s always all forlorn “Cut out,” “fitted,” “suited,” for his trade was born.
​Sullivan, H. V., engineer, and hard head as you live. When he puts in his “sugar,” sure to get a div.
Sullivan, M. J., steamer engineer, in every port a “queen”; Cuts a dash, makes a splash, everywhere he’s been.
Trouland, H. V., ex-soldier, would take your life at any time; A desperate insurance agent, the subject of my rhyme
Webster, G. H., motor man, with an immaculate car; Strike a match on the back of the seat, and you won’t know where you are
Weenink, H. V., stockman, turns the air quite blue, “Addressing” a mob of cattle, he has but equals few.
Weenink, W. V., ex-soldier, with wicked eyes of brown; The flappers are all a flutter, when he comes to town.
White, A. V., fireman, and if mayhap to hell he goes, He’s sure to put the fire out, he’s a demon with the hose.
Williamson, J. W., steamer engineer, and hard man in the main; He never forgets the password—it’s “Fill ’em up again!”
Winchester, H. V., carpenter, they say very quiet and shy; But when he got the “glad” from a flapper naturally shut one eye.