Glenrowan Hills

There was an old sergeant in ol’ Glennies’ hill,
He was a rum cove, an’ his clothes made of twill
He loved to go hunting, (it was in his gene),
He got his first rifle when he was thirteen!
The police force employed him, ‘cos his shot was quite quick,
An’ he had a good head for tactics, (he wasn’t that thick.)
Some while later, he went on his first mis’un,
To track down a bushie, with lots of munitions
The bushranger rose up like a specter of the mist,
Shots rang around, but most of them missed.
But the sergeant shot true, straight into the sun.
The bushrangers moaned, one cried “I’m done!”
The old inn burnt down, the tale was spun.
There was an old sergeant, who lived in Glennies’ hill
Hero or villain, decide what you will,
But he still made his mark in the old wooded hills.


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