The Old Survey

Our money’s all spent, to the deuce went it! The landlord, he looks glum, On the tap-room wall, in a very bad scrawl, He has chalked to us a sum. But a glass we’ll take, ere the grey dawn break, And then saddle up and away— Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay. With a measured beat fall our horses’ feet, Galloping side by side; When the money’s done, and we’ve had our fun, We all are bound to ride. O’er the far-off plain we’ll drag the chain, And mark the settler’s way— Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay. We’ll range from the creeks to the mountain peaks, And traverse far below; Where foot never trod, we’ll mark with a rod The limits of endless snow; Each lofty crag we’ll plant with a flag, To flash in the sun’s bright ray— Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay. Till with cash hard-earned once more returned, At “The Beaver” bars we’ll shout; And the very bad scrawl that’s against the wall Ourselves shall see wiped out. Such were the ways in the good old days!— The days of the old survey! Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.