Down in the land of the Antipod-it-es
By the campfires that burn on the cold wintry nights,
The bushmen will tell you as night shadows fall,
There's a ghost, walks the ranges, with no boots at all.
Singing no boots, no boots at all,
Tramping the ranges with no boots at all!
In the big city so dreary and dark,
There lived a young fellow, named Antony Park,
He wanted to be a big bold mountaineer,
But his mother would say as she knocked back her beer:
You’ll have no boots, no boots at all,
Tramping the ranges with no boots at all!
Anthony murmured “Regardless, press on",
She woke in the morning, to find he was gone,
And down from the hills came an agonised call:
“It’s bloomin’ hard work, when you’ve no boots at all!”
Singing no boots, no boots at all,
Tramping the ranges with no boots at all!
The boss of the mountains looked down from his throne,
And saw that young mountaineer, climbing alone,
He called up his angels, they came with a swish,
Go down to that fellow, and give him a push!
Singing no boots, no boots at all,
Tramping the ranges with no boots at all!
The gist of my story should now be quite clear,
Pay heed to your mum, when she’s drinking her beer,
Stay down in the city Don’t climb up that hill,
If the mist doesn’t get you, The keas sure will!
Singing no boots, no boots at all,
Tramping the ranges with no boots at all.
Tramping the ranges with no boots at all!