In
the shearing shed at Fairfield in the Glenroy district, where
Joe and his wife had a farm in the 1950s, he was asked by his
neighbour, Doug Gray, to put on the billy for the shearers'
morning smoko.
The gun shearer, knowing Joe's kind of tea from their days of
building bridges for the County Council, called out, "No
dish-water, Joe—I like it black!"
Black billy tea! The smell of wood-smoke in the bush by the
roadside and the river. Wherever men worked or played all up
and down these islands, they brewed tea.
Kick out your fire, boy, roll up your pack, Don't forget your billy, boy, billy burnt and black. Black billy tea, boy, black as it can be, Black billy tea, boy, that is the stuff for me.
Up on the snow line, chasing after deer, I'd sooner have a cup o' tea, than all your blinking beer.
Down in the coal mine, driving in a drive, Black billy tea, boy, keeps a man alive.
Black billy tea, boy, etc.
Drink her from a tin, man; drink her from a cup, Fill her up again, man; turn the bottoms up. Brew it in a billy, brew it in a pot, Throw in a handful, pour it out hot. Black billy tea, boy, etc.
Mouth-organ Jack, and John the Baptist too, The old-time swaggers, they knew how to brew.
Black billy tea, boy, black as Stockholm tar, Black billy tea, boy, put us where we are.
Black billy tea, boy, etc. Up in the bush, getting out a log, Upset my outfit in a ruddy bog. Took out my billy, made a cup o' tea; Got the outfit out again, as easy as can be. Black billy tea, boy, etc
Used up all my ammo, lost my best dog, With a Captain Cooker, bailed up in a log. Hauled out my billy, brewed her up BLACK! Blocked up the log's end, and rolled the piggy back.
Black billy tea, boy, etc.
Black
Billy Tea is the first ballad in the book of the same name
that Joe Charles published in 1981.
Joe
had a desire to record the stories of
New Zealand's colourful folk-past in verse while
there were still old-timers with anecdotes to tell. This is
the history of the obscure people who helped build a
nation—history which is gathered from bar-rooms and shearing
sheds. From the Northland gumfields to the gold rushes in
the valley of the Clutha, there was as much drama,
excitement, and tragedy in New Zealand as in any Wild West
novel.
There are true tales of tragedy and disappointment, like
Somebody's Darling, the story of an unknown young man who
died with his dreams unfulfilled; and poems of modern-day
heroism, like The Phosphate Flyers . Tall stories are
blended with genuine historical events; many of the ballads
spring from that shadowland between fact and fiction that is
the origin of all good legends.
They find their strength in Joe Charles's love of the land,
its mountains, rivers and wild-life, in his commitment to
the history of ordinary people and his interest in their
exploits, heroic, comic or criminal.
