Текст пісні
We were camped by the creek where the red dust flies
Tin mugs rattlin', flies in our eyes
Young Jackson's missus near lost her mind
Boy needs a name and the clock's outta time
No church for miles, no preacher near
Just a mob of mates and a case of beer
Sun burnin' holes in the brim of our hats
Someone said,: Well hell, we'll figure it out
Sent a rider north, sent one back west
Find a holy bloke, we'll do the rest
Old Bill reckoned he knew a fella
Bit rough round the edges, but close enough, yeah
We laughed too hard, but none of us left
Bush ain't fancy, but it's honest at best
When you're short on rules but long on heart
That's where these kinds of stories start
We ain't saints, we ain't learned men
But we stand together now and then
Dust on our boots, truth in our hands
Do what you can where you stand
We were there when the bush stood still
Round a baby, a creek, and a stubborn will
No steeple bell, no silver crown
Just a splash of rum on dusty ground
Laughin' loud at the rough-cut plan
Sayin' grace the only way we can
If you ask how the young bloke got his name
Bundaberg Brown, yeah Bundaberg Brown
Preacher rocked up lookin' worse for wear
Boots held together with hope and prayer
Spoke half Latin, half bush swear
Said: Righto lads, we'll do this fair
Tin cup passed where the water should be
Someone laughed: That'll bloody do for me
Then the bottle tipped, the brown stuff ran
And fate took hold of the preacher's hand
He wiped his chin, looked down and said
Well... guess that's settled it then, I reckon, eh?
We were there when the bush stood still
Round a baby, a creek, and a stubborn will
No marble floor, no velvet rope
Just dusty hands and a whole lotta hope
Laughin' loud at the rough-cut plan
Sayin' grace the only way we can
If you ask how the young bloke got his name