Chorus:

Well it's lonesome away from your kindred and all

By the camp fire at night,

Where the wild dingos call.

But there's nothin' 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 far away look on the face of the bum

the maids got all cranky and

and the cooks acting queer

what a terrible place, is a pub with no beer.



Then the stockman rides up with his dry dusty throat

He presses up to the bar and pulls a wad from his coat.

But the smile on his face quickly turns to a snear

As the barman says sadly,