The tattie-liftin's nearly through,
They're ploughin' whaur the barley grew,
And aifter dark, roond ilka stack,
Ye'll see the horsemen stand an' crack
O Lachlan, but I mind o' you!

I mind foo often we hae seen
Ten thoosand stars keek doon atween
The nakit branches, an' below
Baith fairm an' bothie hae their show,
Alowe wi' lichts o' Hallowe'en.

There's bairns wi' guizards at their tail
Clourin' the doors wi' runts o' kail,
And fine ye'll hear the skreichs an' skirls
O' lassies wi' their droukit curls
Bobbin' for aipples i' the pail.

The bothie fire is loupin' het,
A new heid horseman's kist is set
Richts o' the lum; whaur by the blaze
The auld ane stude that kept yer claes—
I canna thole to see it yet!

But gin the auld fowks' tales are richt
An ghaists come hame on Hallow nicht,
O freend o' freends! what wad I gie
To feel ye rax yer hand to me
Atween the dark an' caun'le licht?

Awa in France, across the wave,
The wee lichts burn on ilka grave,
An' you an' me their lowe hae seen—
Ye'll mebbe hae yer Hallowe'en
Yont, whaur ye're lyin' wi' the lave.

There's drink an' daffin', sang an' dance
And ploys and kisses get their chance,
But Lachlan, man, the place I see
Is whaur the auld kist used to be
And the lichts o' Hallowe'en in France!

You come and see me, boys,' he said;
'You'll find a welcome and a bed
And whisky any time you call;
Although our township hasn't got
The name of quite a lively spot —
You see, I live in Booligal.

'And people have an awful down
Upon the district and the town —
Which worse than hell itself they call;
In fact, the saying far and wide
Along the Riverina side
Is "Hay and Hell and Booligal".

'No doubt it suits 'em very well
To say it's worse than Hay or Hell,
But don't you heed their talk at all;
Of course, there's heat — no one denies —
And sand and dust and stacks of flies,
And rabbits, too, at Booligal.

'But such a pleasant, quiet place,
You never see a stranger's face —
They hardly ever care to call;
The drovers mostly pass it by;
They reckon that they'd rather die
Than spend a night in Booligal.

'The big mosquitoes frighten some —
You'll lie awake to hear 'em hum —
And snakes about the township crawl;
But shearers, when they get their cheque,
They never come along and wreck
The blessed town of Booligal.

'But down in Hay the shearers come
And fill themselves with fighting rum,
And chase blue devils up the wall,
And fight the snaggers every day,
Until there is the deuce to pay —
There's none of that in Booligal.

'Of course, there isn't much to see —
The billiard table used to be
The great attraction for us all,
Until some careless, drunken curs
Got sleeping on it in their spurs,
And ruined it, in Booligal.

'Just now there is a howling drought
That pretty near has starved us out —
It never seems to rain at all;
But, if there should come any rain,
You couldn't cross the black soil plain —
You'd have to stop in Booligal.'

'We'd have to stop!' With bated breath
We prayed that both in life and death
Our fate in other lines might fall:
'Oh, send us to our just reward
In Hay or Hell, but, gracious Lord,
Deliver us from Booligal!'