I've recently discovered the "poem" below. Do any Australian readers know its background and which tune(s) may be associated with it? I suspect it to be a satire based as a parody on Byron's "Don Juan" but would appreciate any information you may have.

THE BOLLARD OF CAP'N SCHOONER
"A ryme of old salte" and ode to a livin' legend; jest arsk 'im.

Come all ye folksong mummers, all ye scraping ballad hummers
And lend your fond attention (if you can);
Here's a saga for the pupils of that Houdini of scruples,
That Methuselah of muses, Great-Ur-Dan.

In '65 (or was it '66?), "Two lads off a whaler" out for kicks
Found Melbourne Town in shanty singing mood.
They heard Moonbeam's soft bellow along a Marty Winding-Road
And joined right in as all good folkies should.

Wee Gordie was a Scot who liked to play a lot
Onna wee Martine acoustical guitar;
The other one, named Daniel, ("Desperate Dan the Spaniel")
Was borne that night upon a wondrous star.

Frankly Traynor's was the Mecca for this folkish trendy setter;
Fishy jerseys, gummy boots rolled to the knee (knee knee),
Singin' salty songs of sail, often mentioning the whale
And "a hoyes me buoys" and a-blowin' out to sea (see see?)

Dandy diddled-oh and bent the alt ego; the pleasantry were all there oh,
In sunny Oz where wattle blossom blooms.
Our lad let out his trousers, playing knightly to packed houses,
Shurrup folk clubs and all kinds of baah rooms.

When 'e were only three e' first run away away ter sea;
Saw the ocean's briny deeply…………Salty! Cold!
'E was'is capting's pride (and joy), 'e was the "'andsome gabbin' boy"
And they'd go Jim Hawking, jolly sailors bold.

'Twere no vessel faster than their stately twenny marster,
With freedom of the Thames (and Heartly Pool),
And so the little bugger became first mate of a lugger
Before he even thought of going to school.

Oh tempestuous River Thames! Where the matelot lands ends
And the tarry ring-tailed Rodgers roll ashore!
The boys they all went cockneyed and the girls became all knock-kneed
When they heard the tales of our great commodore.

How he sailed from old Nantucket in a jumbly-sieved gut bucket
Out by Greenland's fairy islands and beyond;
And remember? How with one grab he sequestered Cap'n Ahab
And caught the great white whale way underground?

A queer Queeg for 'ard sailin', 'e was a terror at the whalin'
All Berts and You'uns better "Stand aside!"
In iceberg or in monsoon 'e would ply 'is hardy harpoon
On his Stormy sudden notions wild and wide.

Up the great St Lawrence seaway, Dan Rosbif gave no leeway
When the staunchly Admiral, Brave Benbow and he
Scaled Abraham and Alma (Monty Zuma? Monty Karma?);
The bravest Wolfe to sail the seventies.

In his lunchbreak he was legend. You just could not imagine
How 'e played right out, won Spurs for Arse 'n' all
And centre half wit' Chelsea (or was it left harfwit wit' Swansea?),
An' 'ow the 'Ammers could've 'ad 'im inner goal.

In the square ring he was mighty, an Olympian for Blighty!
Once 'e knocked down seven wit' one blow (me bully boys, blow!).
He clearly was no chump at the noble art of thump;
See the meddle ribbons glistening, all in a row?

'e went big-hewin' doon the mine (jest by way of overtime)
And 'eld the great Mc'Coalls within 'is 'and.
And when he singly sung the fishin', some L'arners they was wishin'
They could be just like this oarsome fishyman.

And while we was just survivin' O O Dan was M.I.5n'
And bored the white man's burden far away.
Fifth columnist or commie were no match for 'super pommie';
That's why the Hempire's wiv us still today!

Now, this blustery, blistery bloke could, in one bluff blinding stroke,
Becalm the fulsomely informed, on every subject.
Though sometimes the shpiel he shpoke weren't quite the same as wrote,
It all sounded as real as a brick object.

"I was there wiv Nelson!" he would mutter, and sententiously utter
All the misremembered record sleeves of yore
And the cringing adulation of the lost sheep of Folk Station
Only made him think the poor fools wanted more!

Jacker Ryan (and Dan), jammin', fiddled mightily with Tamlin,
On the roof and 'round the mulberry tree,
While the populace, enraptured, never realized 'twas captured.
Truth's an exponential riddle game. (You see?)
And the Fenian, (Vile Colonial!), with sceptic insult only
Will disturb the poise of Noble Deacon Dan,
So be banished, lonely seeker! To the old stockade, Eureka,
Where truly blue, the Bush Band Boom began.

Some "other singers", it must be told, were unbecoming, bold;
It's hinted that they too were valued, subtly.
But their questions hypothetical were condemned as quite heretical;
They were excommunicastaway, quite utterly!

"They don' luv fo' music!" he would say "And don' know the way.
They 'ave transgressed the great unwritten law!
For Lord Dan, He are the greatest, an' they are jus' the latest
In a rough riff-raff of folksingers impure!"

Who dares to come and say it could be any other way
Than Goshpell from the Bishoprick of Dan?
"Only innit fer a quid!" Did Dan say that? Yes he did!
"A bit mean" I thought, from such a wholly man.

Once, an ethnomusicologist (neither fawning nor apologist),
Tried to ascertain; was there a grain of truth?
His questions, calmly posed, showed the Emperor with no clothes!
'Smithsonious Felonious' forsooth!

For the 'Ruler of the Queen's Navee' never rooly went to sea
("'cept Soufend, goin' on a summer 'oliday")
And 'the old crew' (mostly scattered) can be seen (some bruised and battered)
In the Tattered Remnant Folk Club, not OK!

So, as the lofty ship of state (are you still awake?),
Wears its tacky way through fairly stormy weather,
The poor bewildered crew are left blubbering in the stew,
For "Cap'n's gorn!" and POQ'ed their Endeavour.

But his laurels rudely wrested where the cuckoo-bardies nested
Are backstaged to avoid all complications.
Noughtical medals and diplomas, high degrees (or vague misnomers?);
A pretty plethora of dubious qualifications!

"Yeah, but worrabout a 'K'?" Is there anyone to say
He DON'T deserve the gracious sovereign's gong?
Sir Paul, Sir Mick, Sir Elton, why he'd give them all a beltin';
There's none of them could sing his mighty song.

Now a vain, though fragile, man (By Appointment, Prophet) Dan
'aunts the draughty 'alls of 'igher learnin' classes
And from eminences folklorix the old tory waxeth prolix,
Casting erudition's pearlers 'fore the masses.

And interminably we suffer from excess of this old buffer,
The endless bo'sun of 'is deeds the mast before;
Yaw yaw yawning day and night! Oh, how piteous our plight,
Slowly dying from hex caliber, small bore!

But, all hail the hoary folker! Be ye topman, be ye stoker,
Be ye joker in the quarterdeck of fate,
With the delicacy of Flashman he now lectures to the trashcan;
A fishy 'roamer lingering in his wake………….Wake up!

What a testament to man! (Note resemblance to P. Pan
Or Wandering Matthew, Master Marineer)
Ah, the cruel sea still rages while our Dandy hardly ages
But spreads the Bounty blithely, year by year.

So while we poor mortals stray, in our strangely folked-up way,
The "Living Bible" leads us mile by mile,
Down the path so broadly winding that the elf-queen showed with warning
Still he leads us on and on, smile by smile.

His career has been so glorious, self-aggrandisment so stentorious
He surely shouldn't stop; not yet awhile?
But the thing that I find oddest, is now he's so 'credibly modest
In a fine, upstanding, grand, old-fashioned style.