Here's another that went well with Mark Noak reciting for Flying Pieman.

THE OATH OF BAD BROWN BILL
"Why there are no more bushrangers"
Stephen Axelson; Commended, 1979 Book of the year

One hundred years ago or more,
a bloke named Bad Brown Bill
ranged the bush from Binnaway
and Bourke to Castle Hill.

Gruff and tough, rude and shrewd,
a scoundrel to the core,
he plundered, stole, he robbed and thieved
and still went out for more.

A mare named Mudpie was his mount;
an old but nimble nag
as hard as nails, as bold as brass,
but something of a wag.

They bailed up every bank and pub
from Broome to Cooper's Creek
and bundled up the Mudgee mail;
not once, but every week.

They boldly stole the Queensland Mint;
just took it, right or wrong.
Then down the eastern coast they sailed
and stuck up Wollongong.

One day they caught the Governor;
they took his splendid hat
and made him dance a jig on it
until he squashed it flat.

When now and then the mounted troops
rode out to track them down,
Brown Bill would yell and whoop and cheer
and chase them back to town.

Our hero was quite sure he was
the bravest of the brave;
he bragged so much he nearly drove
poor Mudpie to her grave.

In desperation, Mudpie found
the power of speech and said,
"You brag, but are you bold enough
to rob the ghostly dead?"

This struck and stunned and sorely stung
Brown Bill's enormous pride;
he flew into a crimson rage.
"My oath I am!" he cried.

He knelt upon the stony ground
And bound his fat brown head.
He slowly swore an awful Oath
and solemnly he said....

The Oath

"Pure and simple, straight and neat,
I vow I'll rob the folks I meet.
Be they live, or dead and dry,
I swear I'll rob the folks I spy.
And, if I ever break this Oath,
I'll eat my boots; I'll eat them both!"

Right then and there he galloped off
to find himself a ghost
and that same night he saw a sight
that turned his teeth to toast.

He'd come across a hideous ghoul
astride a rotten log;
it grinned a slimy, slippery grin
and breathed a damp green fog.

Brown Bill stood fast beside his Oath;
fair dinkum and true blue,
He'd bound himself to rob this fiend,
this dread, pale, jackaroo.

He bit his tongue and grit his teeth
and yelled courageously,
"You'll stand and you'll deliver, sir;
your wealth belongs to me!"

Then with a whine and hiss it spoke,
"Brown Bill, you've caught me fair,
so come up to my camp with me;
my treasure's hidden there."

And, like a flash, the ghost was off
away into the night.
Brown Bill stood still, upon his horse,
three quarters dead from fright.

He hummed a hymn and shook himself
and rode in hot pursuit
until he reached the billabong,
malodorous and mute.

Gross and gruesome monster ghosts,
loathesome and befouled,
begrimed, beslimed and horrible,
they howled and scowled and growled.

They lumbered out and heaved about,
a moaning, groaning throng;
with dead and tuneless tongues they sang
a monster welcome song.

"G'day and welcome, Bad Brown Bill!
Where's your smile? You're looking ill.
We've got a nice surprise for you;
we thought we'd make Bushranger Stew!

"We'll chop and break, we'll bend and squeeze,
we'll mince your nose and grind your knees.
We'll boil your bones in Merry Hell.
We'll eat you up! Your horse as well!"

Brown Bill and Mudpie stood like stone,
their faces long and grey.
Their arteries were full of lead;
their bones were turned to clay.

Then something like a rusty spring
gave way in Brown Bill's head.
He ate his boots and kicked his horse
and like a gale they fled.

They wandered in the wilderness
for forty days or so;
Brown Bill just shook his head and moaned
and wallowed in his woe.

So Mudpie said her second line,
the last she ever spoke,
"You've had your day as 'Bad Brown Bill';
you're now a better bloke."

They bought a schoolhouse, by and by,
where bushrangers were told
the story of the Oath he made
and every heart turned cold.

Yes, everyone who heard the tale
went grey and shook with dread;
they swore they'd change their wicked ways
and settle down instead.

So that's the reason why they say,
from Perth to Kimberley,
there's not a single bushranger
that's left alive to see.

But, sometimes, in the dead of night
perhaps you'll see them still;
the ghostly shapes of Mudpie
and a bloke named Bad Brown Bill.

Cheers, Rowan