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Version One
Now Murray Kane's the club's topshot
He leaves us in the dust
But mark my words we'll beat him yet
Just that or darn well 'bust'.
There's Jim Moffitt now
At shooting he's no 'sluggard'
He's ain't no good till he's drawn blood
Then he's darn near buggered
That long slab there he's 'lofty' Smith
His shooting sure treats him rough
The bloke that took him for a fool
Sure knew his bloody stuff
Along came James Black
He takes things nice and cool
But you watch them mark his shot
I bet he gets a 'bull'.
The Coubrough lad from on the hill
Is clever with the trigger
And if he'd pull his finger out
He'd darn near clean up "Nigger".
There's Harold now a likely lad
He's got me in a fog
He'd probably shoot quite well
If he'd just keep off the grog
Now there's Camperdown
He sometimes shoots quite well
He kids himself he'll win that cup
He will, like bleedin' hell.
There's Fassifern a likely lad
He'll make a fair good shot
It might take fifteen years or so
He's got to learn a lot.
There's that Jack White now
The markers treat him poor as piss
They wave him two's instead of bulls
And even wave a miss
J.C.M.
Version Two
Now Murray Kane's the Club's top shot,
He leaves us in the dust,
But mark my words - we'll beat him yet,
Just that - or damn well bust.
Keith Rodger now - well he's the chap,
Who sometimes gets "dug in",
And when he "digs in" deep enough,
I'll bet a quid he'll win.
Now Fassifern's a likely lad -
He'll make a fair good shot.
It might take fifteen years or so -
He's got to learn a lot.
Our Secretary's a piss poor shot,
At least he's known as such,
He shoots about as well as me -
An' that ai'nt sayin much.
Now Camperdown, our President,
He sometimes shoots quite well,
He kids himself he'll win that cup,
He will - like bleedin' hell.
The markers give poor Jack White hell,
They treat him poor as piss,
They give him two's instead of bulls,
They even wave a miss.
That long slab there - thats Lofty Smith,
This shooting treats him rough,
The chap that took him for a fool,
Sure knew his bloody stuff.
Now Moffit here's as keen as hell,
At shooting he's no sluggard,
He Ai'nt no good till he's drawn blood,
And then he's damn well buggered.
There's Jim Black now - he won't say much,
He takes things nice and cool,
But just you wait when they mark his shot -
I bet he gets a bull.
Now, Harold, well - lets think a bit -
He's got me in a fog,
Oh, well, he'd make a blinkin' shot
If he'd keep off the grog.
Now Bowman, with a rifle, well,
He's not so bloomin' hot,
He wants to buy a bloomin' bow,
And have a blinkin' shot.
Young Coubrough there, from on the hill,
Is clever with a trigger,
And if he'd pull his finger out,
He'd damn near clean up Nigger.
(Nigger was the affectionate nickname my grandfather Keith Rodger was known as - for he had dark hair and tanned skin. Interestingly the nickname has been carried down through the families and generations).
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