Australian history as it should be: a new book

I have, this morning published an ebook and a paperback with the same content. One has full-colour illustrations and costs $6, but because of printing costs, the $34 paper version is monochrome.

The pricing if you buy both is exactly the same as any one of the four editions published by the National Library of Australia. The difference? 264,000 words here, as against 80,000 there. Now I have added in all of the improbable, unlikely but true details. You might call this the QI (Quite Interesting) of Australian history.

Two of my history teachers would approve my work, but I am sure that conservative politicians (ptui!) would not. For starters, I offer S. T. Gill's two views of  'squatter', 1788 and 1863, as evidence. These offer warts-and-all history, all the stuff that prim conservatives shriek and run away from. Here they are:

I detest those conservative fogeys who demand that History be LISTS OF PEOPLE ("like me", implied). History should not be endless lists, it needs to be stories that we can learn from.  

Those conservatives want our history to be tales of  BCDEFG: Bushrangers and Convicts (all scum), Diggers (the military ones), Explorers (brave openers of untamed total wilderness), Farmers (who turned the sterile wilderness into riches at no cost) and Gold (ours by right of conquest). They cannot name even five of more than 2000 bushrangers; their grasp of the convict system is pitiful (they can’t tell a ticket of leave from a pardon); they could not locate a single battlefield on a map; they would be lucky to name more four explorers worthy of note (and  Burke and Wills don’t count!); they don't know the harm that farming does  on our fragile soils, they know nothing about gold before Hargraves.

No lists of things, dates or people here. I had to learn lists in the 50s, like all the rivers Leichhardt crossed or followed in 1844 – 45, and performing that is my party trick among people who think. I enjoy watching them wince in horror as they realise (or recall) that such tasks were once thought to be education.

My version of Australian history is written by a science-trained story-teller, so it begins with geology and biology, then the first Australians and then the invaders. It also argues that Australia Day should be January 30.

I mention a few usual suspects, but you will also meet some Melbourne pirates; intellectuals; fools; geniuses; crooks, liars, hoaxer, frauds and cheats; eccentrics; runaways and women who wore trousers, swam naked or ran races in crinolines. I offer Governor King’s official thief and Moondyne Joe, pardoned for being good at escaping; a monster snake; a governor who owned slaves and a bureaucrat who saved Macquarie Street in Sydney; and teenage, girl and women explorers: they don't mention those in schools!

You will learn how poor people survived the Depression; their medicines, what they ate and wore, and meet a cannibal who died of plague—stuff that was left out of my school classes, as were the crimes against the first Australians. You will learn the true tale of gold discovery, which is not at all what you read, and how the Australian Light Horse annoyed Lawrence of Arabia. I also explain the first redback on a dunny seat.

Then there are bunyips, how to treat scurvy, how Eyre is usually shown walking backwards and Major Mitchell’s duel. Also, there are the scandals like the German’s fat-bellied fish: honestly it sound like fiction but it isn’t, and there are references to let you check.

Why did I write this book? I know where the bodies are buried, but more to the point, George Santayana said “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” In my view, those who seek to cover up our past must be wickedly determined to ensure that we all repeat it. We can do better than that, and for the good of our nation, we have to do better than that. The stuff here may trigger hissy-fits among the white-blindfold mob: so be it.

I have lived in Australia for just over one-third of the elapsed time from 1788, when Australia was invaded* by my people, up to now. Our population has quadrupled since I was born, and our ways of thinking have changed during that time, mainly for the better. In the past, I have talked to old Anzacs, old World War II POWs,19th century motorists, and people who knew the explorers. I used to sit under dining tables and behind lounges and heard unsuitable things, as the adults would have said.

This is history as it should be.

* For the cretins who think 1788 was not an invasion, chew on this: taken from David Collins, An Account of the English Colony in New South Wales, vol. 1, 2-3, published 1798.

It must however be observed, that at Botany Bay the natives had hitherto conducted themselves sociably and peaceably toward all the parties of our officers and people with whom they had hitherto met, and by no means seemed to regard them as enemies or invaders of their country and tranquillity*.

[footnote on page 3:]
* How grateful to every feeling of humanity would it be could we conclude this narrative without being compelled to say, that these unoffending people had found reason to change both their opinions and their conduct!

Or, consider William Westgarth, Personal Recollections of Early Melbourne & Victoria, 15 (1844).

This was a grand corrobboree, arranged for amongst themselves by surrounding tribes, including the still considerable tribe of the River Goulburn. This was, as it were, one last aboriginal defiance, hurled in despair from the expiring native cause against the too-victorious colonial invasion.

These quotes are part of my 280,000-word collection Australianisms, to be released on Amazon, just a few days from now: go for the ebook which has colour, and is much cheaper.

Oh yes, I forgot: as part of my support for multiculturalism, here is the whole of chapter 21.

You don’t have to be crazy to be a writer (It does help, though.)

This is a resurrection of an article I wrote ten years back, because it says a few important things, and it had been locked away behind a paywall.

 

Biography

Peter Macinnis is a Sydney-based writer. Being no longer able to claim he is a New Kid, he blogs as Old Writer on the Block. He has two Australian history books at the printer, Not Your Usual Bushrangers and Not Your Usual Gold Stories, out through Five Mile Press, later this year. He usually works on four books at a time. Right now, he is working on just one thing, something he calls the Big New Project: currently at 400,000 words but likely to be larger than War and Peace, this is a collection of original Australian historical source material, gathered from the archives, and assembled into a logical order. Because of its size and the need for internal navigation, this will be released as an e-book.

This story began in a talk I gave at Birrong Girls High, when I used this shot of myself near a lava flow on Kilauea on the Big Island of Hawaii. You could see from the photo that I was sweating profusely, but one of the girls asked about the heat, and I mentioned that it was sufficient to frizzle the hairs on my legs.

The girls were largely NESB, but with the bubbling confidence of young Australians. ‘You’re mad!’ one of them told me firmly. ‘You’d have to be!’

I told her of an old and probably apocryphal Chinese curse. ‘I’m not mad,’ I explained after explaining the curse. ‘I just like living in interesting times. Interesting is good.’

As a small boy, I knew I would write books one day. As a five-year-old early reader, any books within reach were fair game for me, but after tackling Salmond’s Law of Torts one morning, I learned to review the available data more closely before choosing my reading.

In the late 1940s, as we emerged from World War II austerity, most books had dust jackets, which contained enticing splashes of colour, and information about the book and its author. I read the blurbs and then, because I wanted to be a writer, I examined authors’ life stories.

I suspected that if a writer lacked a background of hair’s-breadth escapes, desperate acts of derring-do, like quelling a riot with a derringer and a solar topee, they never got published. As I approach advanced middle age, my cynical streak has expanded to a broad band, and I wonder if they made their adventures up, but that came too late to save me.

I just knew that I needed to live an interesting life. By the time I left school, I had mastered most of the skills of subterfuge that I might need to prosecute a guerrilla war after if I ever became an escaped prisoner-of-war.

Against that, I long ago placed a value on my pelt that ruled most of those plans out. I am a good shot with a rifle, but I only shoot at things that don’t bleed, scream, or shoot back. That’s quite proper for humans, but it might be problematic for guerrillas, so I dropped that idea.

In the early 1960s, my dreams included sailing a lakatoi from Port Moresby to Singapore, but that became submerged in a desire to be a pre- and post-Islamic mediaeval Javanese historian, and I set to work building a bank roll to pay for that.

The 1965 coup in Indonesia, and a consideration of the leftish politics of my Indonesian friends led me to conclude that perhaps this was an unwise ambition, given that leftists were dying on Java, so I made the obvious choice and started a science degree.

My thoughts of living an interesting life were put to one side as I threw myself into the riveting mysteries of apical meristems in plants and mesoderm in animals. To save my sanity, I started going bush, and became at least as much a naturalist, and the interesting life was suddenly back on the agenda.

Then one day, I realised that everybody has an interesting life. The difference is that authors make proper use of their interesting lives. My next task was to make the acquaintance of interesting people, and see where that led.

As a botanist, I got work tending the gardens of people who had ‘Australian native’ gardens, the idea being that I wouldn’t mistake the waratahs for onion weed. That gave me the time to tackle two key questions: what do we mean by interesting? and who should I respect?

In the end, my first answer came down to this: if anything makes me want to run and find out, like Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, then it is interesting. That answered the respect question: anybody that knows more than I do about anything interesting is worthy of respect.

Given my highly-developed Rikki-Tikki- Tavi tendencies, that first answer meant that almost the whole world deserved my respect. Later, I discovered that philodopher Karl Popper went through a similar bout of introspection while working as a cabinet-maker, but he used his time far better.

Still, my two criteria for interesting and deserving of respect put me in the way of interesting ideas, and gave me a life rationale as a teacher and as a writer: provoke them to the point where they want to run and find out. And that, dear reader, is why I trot off out into the wilderness, seeking provocative things to share with my readers.

(This month, I have met a 2-metre python and a 1.5 metre goanna.)

In the first years of this century, I got a bee in my bonnet about Australian exploration. My cohort were all taught that Lawson, Blaxland and Wentworth (that was the order in which Macquarie listed them) were the only ones wise enough to head ‘up the ridges’ (meaning the spurs) to get to the top. We were also taught that explorers went out into trackless wastes.

As any fule kno, walking up the spur is always the easiest route, and any bushwalker looking at a mountain always runs an eye up the spur. More to the point, any wilderness walker knows there are traces of past feet out there, pads and tracks that show the way. The explorers knew this and followed ‘native roads’, especially when they sought water in an arid zone.

Reading up on the old explorers, I came across Harry the Camel, who shot his owner, John Ainsworth Horrocks, and of course I had to Run and Find Out. In 1846, Horrocks had the only camel in Australia, and it looked as though Harry was badly managed, but the only way to test this was to go out with camels and learn the basics of camel management, how to make friends with them, how to hobble them, and so on.

(No, I won’t explain how Harry the Camel shot John Horrocks: look it up on Google, but as a side note, while checking that Google had the answers, I discovered that the Charles Sturt Memorial Museum had plagiarised seven pages on Horrocks from my Australia’s Pioneers, Heroes and Fools. I took two days off from writing the first draft of this to teach them a harsh lesson, and you may come across an account of that in my blog. I do pro bono stuff like this for free, and I happily give my text to worthy causes like museums, but I equally happily burn thieves.)

This article is a case in point: I gave it for free, but somehow, there is no public access to a journal called (ironically) Access. As I had lost my copy in a hard disc crash, I asked RMIT to deliver the text to me: they did so without demur, but I want it out there, in public. It is also pages 1 to 12 of the March 2015 issue of Access. Just as well they did deliver, as I had a burning plan ready to roll.

While studying camels, I learned that scorpions circle a camp fire at a distance determined by the heat of the fire. Sleep across that circle, and you may get stung, as I have noted in two books, but I don’t think I have yet used what happened later that night: it was a full moon, and a pale and ghostly dingo came to visit me as I lay in my swag. I would have used the story if I had been properly prepared.

You see, I should have had my digital camera on and ready, because the dingo had visited two others of the party in the previous 20 minutes, and I knew it would visit me. Instead, when the pale face loomed up, I said certain stern words of dismissal, and so missed taking the shot of a lifetime. I won’t make that mistake again.

With a science degree, I am always on the lookout for wildlife. I wear soft rubber shoes and walk silently, which can be alarming for the kangaroos I disturb, and not too good for my heart as they thump off into cover. That happened nine times, one day on Mount Exmouth in the Warrumbungles. None of them was a mean old man roo like this one: you need to know the difference!

Some might call my actions that day crazy. I was out on Mt Exmouth on my own, but I had survival gear, I was on a marked track, and I had filed a walk plan. Also, I expected other people to be on the mountain, but they weren’t out there.

All the same, there is crazy, and there is apparently crazy. If I wasn’t prepared for the dingo that came to visit, I am always prepared for troubles when I go bush, either on my own or in a small group. Like those writers of almost a century ago in their biographical notes, I work hard to deliver a good yarn, but I don’t really take risks.

While catching piranha in the headwaters of the Amazon, a few months ago, I proposed doing a Rex Hunt and kissing the fish before releasing it, and that thought may seep into my writing one day — but my blood never seeped into the Amazon. Look at the jaw on the right of the photo below, if you are wondering why. Equally, when I was swimming with hammerheads in the Galapagos, a week later, I stayed five metres above them.

On Thursday Island, we found ourselves in crocodile territory, where we had gone to examine a dugong jaw, because when William Dampier found one in a shark’s belly, he mistook it for a hippopotamus jaw.

Luckily, a saltwater crocodile cannot ‘gallop’ like the smaller and less aggressive freshwater crocodile. Salties can reach speeds of 10 or 11 km/h when they ‘belly run’. They go faster if sliding down muddy tidal riverbanks — a sort of a crocodilian toboggan with teeth, but that is downhill on mud.

Uphill and on dry land, the saltwater crocodile, Crocodylus porosus, has no chance of catching an active human. In water, it is another matter. The ‘salties’ can swim faster than us, at up to 15 km/hr, though they rely mainly on being able to surge out of hiding and to grab their prey on the water’s edge.

Anaconda at my feet

We stayed away from the water, and kept an eye on the sparse vegetation behind the mud, and I assured my wife that if your hand is already inside its jaws, the trick is to reach down for the palatal valve that stops water running into their throats and drowning them. Grabbing this floods their lungs and leaves them unable to continue the attack. She looked me in the eye. ‘I’d like to shake the remaining hand of whoever came up with that one!’ she told me, as we proceeded cautiously. 

Like me, she is a biologist, and she stands happily by, pulling ferns aside so I can get a better shot of a tarantula, or holds still as an anaconda slithers over our gum-boots. No, I am not willing to comment on the camera shake in the anaconda shot above.

She also wrangles leeches for me, but she drew the line once at poking a funnel-web with a stick to make it rear up and show its fangs, and she mostly leaves the mountains to me.

So back to my Warrumbungle mountain; a wedge-tailed eagle was there that day, and it swooped me repeatedly as I worked around a difficult rock face, and I elected not to get the camera out until I was safe.

As soon as I got past the hard bit, it moved away of course, but when I was on the peak, it circled me, always staying in the sun, casting its shadow near or over me and preventing a shot.

Animals are often uncooperative, so plants and rocks are often easier, though when the plants are poisonous, you can still get into trouble. London’s Chelsea Physic Garden has many poisonous plants, but I drew odd looks when I asked where they were in 2006.

I have written several books on poisons and poisoners and I have been translated into a number of other languages. When I explained my background as a poisons specialist, and mentioned how Jo in Little Women, while seeking material for stories ‘… excited the suspicions of public librarians by asking for works on poisons …’, the severe expressions eased. One of the crew that day knew my book.

Still, that required my looking affable and cuddly. As I get older and more sinister-looking, I have taken to hunting rocks. Pretty much by definition, rocks are out of doors, often in scenic places, and they don’t get you into trouble.

Rocks that float are fun, and for the past couple of years, the coasts of NSW have been littered with pumice that came from east of New Zealand, but by the time they washed up here, most of the larger pieces were inhabited.

Chasing those on Myrtle Beach, I recalled that the lowest level of the Sydney Basin was exposed in the cliff behind the beach, so of course we hunted that down. Below, you can see my wife’s hand spanning more than 100 million years.

One example is never enough, so my sons helped me traipse in, almost to another good exposure, 15 km from the road, in a place we had visited before, Christine and I before we had children, and then us with the kids.

We made good time on this trip, until the fog came in and we came to a patch that had been burned at the same time I was on Myrtle Beach.

The track sort of disappeared, and there were brown snakes about. This forced us to go slowly, and in the end, 1.5 km from our target, we reached our turn-around time, and not being crazy, we turned back

Some of my friends are a bit crazy, and when we went looking for alleged fossil trees near Box Head, one of them felt the need to get close to the ‘trees’ to act as a scale. I just took shots, angling them so as to make it look more dangerous than it was.

Basically, my geologising involves temporary obsessions, but tilted strata and folded rocks are always high on my agenda.

We went to Switzerland for several reasons, and the geology was high on the list, but I also needed to go to the Reichenbach Falls, because there is a comic fantasy novel lurking in the wings, and it opens when the hero is saved from drowning by Sherlock Holmes, returns to Australia and invents most of 20th century science.

Why would I do this? Well, at one stage in my mixed career, I conned some violent frauds into giving me the evidence I needed to convict them, after one colleague had been injured, and another had been shown a handgun.

(I have a strong concern about honesty: in December 2025, I am pursuing an insurance company that tried to rip me off for miserly sum. I suggested to them that they Google The Battle of The One-Armed Sculptress to see what level of determination I bring to bear: it isn't the money, it's the principle, you see.)

Now back to the violent villains: I played the role of Mr Bean so well, they sniggered at me and handed over damning papers to the idiot they saw. I wrote a very interesting report.

Then again, I once spent three days displaying two savages in a cage as an art event/hoax. I write history most of the time, and all of the history will be good, but severely misrepresented and invaded by fictional characters.

The falls are close to the town of Meiringen, claimed to be the place where meringues were invented. People who know their Holmes canon will recall that Holmes staged his death at the top of the falls: anybody who visits Meiringen cannot avoid the connection because there are images, signs, statues and more, celebrating Holmes.

I concluded that I could rewrite the area’s geography to meet my needs, and I realised that after Holmes disappeared, he accompanied our Australian hero to his home and laboratory, somewhere on the NSW coast, and reverted to the geology. It remains a legitimate expense for taxation purposes!

We went up Mount Pilatus for the rocks, strayed into the wilderness of Heidiland, where I found a perfect setting for the Reichenbach Falls sequences. There was just one danger: the area was completely deserted, and the bus out had been empty, but when we went to board the last bus back, geriatric Switzerland had emerged from the woods and crammed the bus to overflowing. In the end, we fitted in, albeit poked by walking poles, but that was the closest we came to danger in Switzerland.

We came home, and for a while, we concentrated on rocks that push in, making dykes and sills. That isn’t too dangerous: you just have to clamber over them, but often the best exposures are on rocky seashores, and that means looking out for blue-ringed octopuses (or octopodes, if you must have a classically correct plural), gaps in the rocks, and waves (plus seals if one is in New Zealand).

It is a curious fact that in Scots English, a dyke can be either a wall or a ditch, but igneous dykes take both those forms, and we chase them. Only once have we found one where the weathering of the dyke had kept pace with the surrounding rock.

The other danger that I have faced in the quest for material is eating local foods. On one occasion, as a representative of the Australian government (long story), I was constrained to eat part of a dog that I had heard being killed while one of my colleagues made a speech. Diplomacy often adds challenges.

After that, it was a downhill run, and in the past two years, I have eaten foal steak, llama, alpaca and guinea pigs, but I will only be happy when I have tried camel, which is recommended by several early Australian travellers.

You don’t have to be crazy to be a writer, but having crazy temporary obsessions, pursuing crazy ideas, makes your writing more interesting.

 

Australianisms

Update April 2026

This book is now avaialble as an e-book, through this link.

A short sampler of one of the works up in the air, right now. 

There is room for a very interesting dictionary of Australianisms. But I have no time to collect such a list.
Richard Twopeny, Town Life in Australia, 1883.

There are probably 2000 terms and phrases that we regard as Australian (some of them aren't).

Some of them are now lost to the common parlance, but I wondered when they first came into use, because I was writing YA historical fiction.

I speak all three Australian dialects, and adjust my accent and vocabulary, based on where I am, so Struth Bruce, it's down to me to deliver the good oil, right? Take a dekko (1896) at these:

a bad apple: 1890

Bunyip (Gawler, SA), 10 October 1890, 3.

Put a bad apple in a basket of good ones and the whole will become diseased.

billy: 1848

The Courier (Hobart), 29 July 1848, 2. The earliest located instance by a large margin, implying a Tasmanian origin for the word.

… we went in the evening, and he put some bread on the table, and the “billy” on the fire; we told him we would not wait for anything to eat, but would take the things he was going to give and go away.

Collins street cocky: 1924

Williamstown Advertiser (Vic), 15 November 1924, 1. See also Pitt Street farmer; Queen Street cocky and St George’s Terrace cocky.

Before polling day the Farmer’s Union said that the return of a Collins street cocky of the Peacock type would be a tragedy. Now John Allen, leader of the Country party, is proud to lead a Government of which the same Peacock, always eager to be in the ministry, is his second in command. It’s a wonder the paid organisers in the Country party are not ashamed to draw their salaries.

cooee: 1826

The Australian (Sydney), 20 December 1826, 3. This was during a trip, by foot and by boat, to Brisbane Water, via Manly and Pittwater, to somewhere near Terrigal.

Evening was approaching, our provisions were gone — the servant had been despatched to announce us and prepare for dinner, and the struggling through the rich luxuriant vegetation had wearied us more than all the open country, we were nearly exhausted; the freshest of our party was despatched in the right direction, according to the sun, while we rested ourselves anxiously waiting the concerted signal of “coo-ey,” as soon as the path was found.

damper: 1825

Hobart Town Gazette and Van Diemen’s Land Advertiser, 28 January 1825, 2. A report on the harvest.

Then notwithstanding it is so limited as to forbid the enjoyment of superfluities, we have no doubt that it will give the working family a rasher of good bacon, an excellent damper, and a copious draft of new milk, which, we are presumptuous enough to assert, do not appear indicative of famine.

drop bear: 1967

Australian Army (National), 12 October 1967, 1. (The KSLI were the King’s Shropshire Light Infantry, engaged in exercises with the Australian Army.)

Something else to come out of PIPING SHRIKE was the hide of a dreaded Drop Bear, below, nailed to a tree outside the Q Store. The KSLI heard many reports from Diggers about this beast. ARMY’s full report on the habits and habitat of the Drop Bear appears on p13, this issue. [Note: Page 13 does not exist.]

Esky: 1955

The Beaudesert Times (Qld), 4 March 1955, 6.

The gifts were a[n] Esky Ice Box and Magic Bric.

fat lamp: 1827

The Australian (Sydney), 20 March 1827, 2. A ride to Bathurst.

Some dirty pork fat or dripping, in a bit of broken plate, was our only lamp…

fat lamp: 1847

Sydney Morning Herald, 22 March 1847, 3.

TAYLOR’S PATENT FAT LAMPS, FOR BURNING TALLOW IN PLACE OF OIL.
This newly invented Lamp is admirably adapted for the Bush and Country Gentlemen, as it will burn waste grease, tallow, or fat of any description, and saves the inconvenience and expense of sending oil into the interior.

It now stretches to 3800 entries covering 1850 terms in 275,000 words. 

More to the point, my work gets the earliest dates far closer to right:

The only competing works fall into two classes: giggle booklets for tourists, presenting Ockers as clones of Paul Hogan or Steve Irwin, offering a few sometimes dubious definitions. These works pay no attention to the origins or changing senses (and no, I don’t define the terms). Then there are two OUP projects which are clearly sub-standard on their research. They are:

Australian words and their origins, edited by Joan Hughes, Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 1989; and

The Australian national dictionary: Australian words and their origins, edited by Bruce Moore. South Melbourne: Oxford University Press, second edition, 2016.

Their errors come, I think, from hiring bored undergrads to do their research. Either that or they relied too much on books as sources (and as I know, to my dissatisfaction, it often takes years to get a publisher interested in a slowly-mouldering ms, making the first-use dates appear later). Newspapers are far more immediate, so dates from there for the same phrase tend to be earlier than those drawn from published books. I relied heavily (but not solely) on the National Library of Australia’s Trove newspaper database.

aerial ping pong: Hughes has 1964 for this Moore has 1947, but I have The West Australian, 24 November 1945, 5. Article ‘Brave New Words’.

ant-bed floor: Hughes and Moore have 1913 for this, but I have The Australasian (Melbourne), 12 July 1890, 43.

ant caps: Hughes has 1955 for this, but I have Kalgoorlie Miner, 28 October 1896, 2. I missed checking this in Moore.

Anzac biscuits: Hughes has 1943 for this, Moore has 1923, but I have Sunday Times (Perth), 4 June 1916, 7.

ANZAC Day: Hughes has 1916 for this, but I have The Advertiser, 28 August 1915, 2. The date was to be October 13.

apples (she’s): Hughes and Moore have 1943 for this, but I have Western Mail, 18 December 1941, 35.

I have billy from The Courier (Hobart, Tas.), 29 July 1848, 2, but Bruce Moore p. 92 dates it at 1849.

I have lollies from Bell’s Life in Sydney and Sporting Reviewer, 5 September 1846, 2, but Moore. p. 94 dates it at 1854.

Even the Macquarie Dictionary gets it wrong!

The Macquarie Dictionary website gives “since the 1960s” for Things are crook in Tallarook, but I have it in the Benalla Ensign (Vic), 24 January 1941, and I have another hit from 1952.

And then there is Gerry Wilkes’ Dictionary of Australian Colloquialisms.

There, the dates there do not hold a candle to mine. I gave up after the letter C, but here are his source dates, with my carefully researched dates in brackets. Note the bolded dates: some of the discrepancies are more than half a century!

(I found one instance, where his date was older than mine, but I could not confirm it.)

aerial pingpong 1963 (1945); Albany doctor 1922 (1906); Apple Isle: 1963 (1903); apples (she’s) 1952 (1945); Arthur or Martha, 1957 (1943); Aussie, 1918 (1915); Aussie rules, 1963 (1907); Aussie salute, 1972 (1966); babbler 1919 (1904); back block, 1872 (1864); back country, 1863(1824); back of Bourke, 1898 (1871); Bagman’s Gazette, 1954 (1900); bags, rough as, 1919 (1911); Bananaland, 1893 (1881); bandicoot, 1845 (1799); bardie 1941 (1897); bathers 1936 (1911); beaut, you, 1964 (1908); Big Fella, 1971 (1938); billabong, 1883 (1838); bindii, 1910 (1907); bitser, 1941 (1926); bitumen, 1953 (1926); Blamey, Lady, 1945 (1942); Block, do the, 1869, (1854); bluetongue (rouseabout), 1943 (1910); Bondi tram, 1951 (1943); boomerang, 1901 (1824); boot, put in the, 1915 (1906); box seat, 1949 (1832); brickfielder, 1833 (1829); bullocky, 1933 (1884); Bundy clock, 1936 (1905); bushman’s clock, 1846 (1850); bush telegraph, 1878 (1863); BYO, 1975 (1968); chain, drag the, 1933 (1840); chiack, 1893 (1875), cooe, within, 1876 (1853); cracker night, 1953 (1905).

When did we begin to say that?

William Strutt's depiction of
an Australian giving a cooee.

This is a prologue to my pitching a very different sort of book to publishers: it is about the words and phrases that we Australians use among ourselves, to the utter confusion of outsiders.

Here you see a refined selection from a far larger number of entries in my ms, and these all start with A. Right now, there are 1250 distinct expressions (you can find them all listed at the end of this page) and some 2600 quotations from carefully recorded and checked original sources, most of them online. In most cases, I have been able to push back the first recorded use date from what you will find in other similar works: each entry has been meticulously checked: I am right, and they are wrong.

The print sources are all sorts of books, the Trove newspaper archive, on which I am an active voluntrove. The collection presents Australian English at its most inventive.

Freebies: schools and scholars can get a 4.12meg PDF by emailing me at petermacinnis44@gmail.com. This PDF may be shared with other scholars, or loaded on school networks. No charge, but as I am pitching it to publishers, I would be happy to get nice reviews. More to the point, I want people, especially young ones, to enjoy being Australian without necessarily sounding like a footy player. (And "footy"? Toowoomba Chronicle and Darling Downs General Advertiser, 22 May 1894, 3.)

The main surprises in this sample:

* how early some Australians realised that our indigenous people were being badly treated;
* how early some expressions crept into the language (33 entries from the 1790s);
* that alligator in The Rocks  (it had to be a goanna);
* how we learned to make floors out of ant bed;
* how soon we started marking Anzac Day;
* when we started saying 'Australia'.

I could go on about the rest, but just scroll down to the list of sample entries below. Now get your chops around this lot, and ask when you last mullenised something. or wore a donkey-supper hat...they are both covered.

* * * * *

Abolitionists: 1840

The Sydney Gazette and New South Wales Advertiser, 5 May 1840, 4.

We entirely concur with him also as to the course which it behoves the Archbishop of Dublin and other Transportation Abolitionists to pursue. Transportation stopped, they would be bound to promote emigration on the greatest possible scale to the Colonies which had been Penal…

Aboriginals killed: 1837

John Dunmore Lang, An Historical and Statistical Account of New South Wales, 2nd edition, 1837, volume 1, 37.

There is black blood, at this moment, on the hands of individuals of good repute in the colony of New South Wales, of which all the waters of New Holland would be insufficient to wash out the deep and indelible stains!

Aboriginals killed: 1883

The Diary of Emily Caroline Creaghe, Explorer, 28 February 1883, 26.

Mr. Watson has 40 pairs of blacks’ ears nailed round the walls collected during raiding parties after the loss of many cattle speared by the blacks.

Aboriginal land: c. 1852

Rudston Read, What I Heard, Saw and Did at the Australian Gold Fields, 252.

I heard a native in the town of Sofala … amusing a lot of diggers by chaffing a sergeant of mounted police … asking him what business had he or any other white fellow to come and take his land, and rob him of his gold? What would he … say, if black fellow went to England and “turn em Queen out”?

aborigines: 1798

David Collins, An Account of the English Colony in New South Wales, vol. 1, 454.

Conversing with Bennillong after his return from England, where he had obtained much knowledge of our customs and manners … I then asked him where the black men (or Eora) came from? He hesitated; did they come from any island? His answer was, that he knew of none: they came from the clouds (alluding perhaps to the aborigines of the country); and when they died, they returned to the clouds (Boo-row-e). He wished to make me understand that they ascended in the shape of little children, first hovering in the tops and in the branches of trees; and mentioned something about their eating, in that state, their favourite food, little fishes.

aborigines: 1814

The Sydney Gazette and New South Wales Advertiser, 10 December 1814, 1. This is a remarkable document, and well worth reading in full. The governor in question is Lachlan Macquarie.

GOVERNMENT and GENERAL ORDERS.
Government House, Sydney Saturday, 10th December 1814
HIS Excellency the Governor having long viewed with Sentiments of Commiseration the very wretched state of the aborigines of this Country; and having revolved in his Mind the most probable and promising Means of ameliorating their Condition, has now taken the Resolution to adopt such Measures as appear to him best calculated to effect that Object, and improve the Energies of this innocent, destitute, and unoffending race …

absentee: 1803

The Sydney Gazette and New South Wales Advertiser, 11 September 1803, 4.

JAMES WEST, a Convict-servant, By HIS EXCELLENCY’S Permission taken off the Store.
All Persons are hereby strictly Cautioned against Harbouring and Employing the said Absentee; and whoever will give Information concerning him to Henry Kable, at Sydney, shall be handsomely Rewarded.

absquatulate: 1841

Sydney Free Press, 13 July 1841, 3. In 1933, the Adelaide Advertiser called it an ‘Americanism’.

A rumour is current in town that a country gentleman, who was for some time resident here, has “absquatulated” with a large amount of the money of the public-ans [sic]. This gent has left several tailors’ bills long overdue, who of course will suffer much from his sudden disappearances.

absquatulate: 1846

South Australian Gazette and Colonial Register, 8 August 1846, 2.

When Governor Grey “absquatulated” to New Zealand, he carried off with him, by no other authority than his own that we ever heard of, about £6000 of money belonging to the colonists of South Australia …but [as] a second supply of money of nearly the same amount is on its way to New Zealand, it is time to inquire by what authority is the money of the colonists misappropriated?

absquatulate: 1856

Melbourne Punch, 20 November 1856, 3. Humorous proposed slang dictionary entry.

ABSQUATULATE—Originally written Absquostatulate. Verb neuter: To clear, to vamos, to mizzle, to cut one’s stick, to hook it, to slide, to bolt to break out, etc. Derivation—From the Latin—ab or abs-quo-status and latum from fero, i. e., to be carried or to carry one’s self away from the place in which one previously was.

according to Cocker: 1822

The Sydney Gazette and New South Wales Advertiser, 2 August 1822, 4.

This, according to Cocker, would be 60 per cent per annum on their nominal capital ; and if, as I have been told, one half this capital was lost by the defalcation of their late cashier, it will amount to 120 per cent annually on their real capital.

according to Cocker: 1826

The Australian (Sydney), 27 September 1826, 2. This phrase means reliably or correctly calculated.

Consequently, only one fourth of the whole number of flocks and herds in the Colony graze on the waste lands. That is, according to Cocker, out of profits amounting to one hundred thousand pounds, a Government Regulation in one instant deducts twenty thousand pounds, and abstracts that sum from the pockets of settlers…

according to Cocker: 1874

The Maitland Mercury & Hunter River General Advertiser, 19 February 1874, 2. A charge under the Masters and Servants Act, heard at Walgett.

He had hired her in Sydney as cook at fourteen bob a week, and the “run of her Dover,” and she had pleased him mightily these four months, but the other evening she skedaddled, and left them potluck, and he didn’t think that according to Cocker. She had ten pounds odd coming as wages.

act your age, not your shoe size: 1995

The Canberra Times, 18 April 1995, 24.

Peper was also told that the spectator was drunk, and that he had also clashed with Norman last year. “Last year Greg evidently told this guy to, ‘Start acting your age, not your shoe size’. This guy held the grudge for a year.”

aerial ping pong: 1945

The West Australian, 24 November 1945, 5. Article ‘Brave New Words’.

The most popular Army gamble is the “swi game,” from the German for two. Rugby is “organised wrestling”; Australian rules football, “aerial ping pong.” Any type of dessert is “pudding”; rice is “Ah Foo Ballast”; sausages are “snaggers”; tea is “chi” or “brew.”

aerial ping-pong: 1947

The West Australian, 22 April 1947, 5.

In 1941 he enlisted in the A.I.F. and joined a unit which fostered rugby football. Renfrey did not join in the “mud bath” and did not play “aerial ping-pong,” as the rugby exponents in the army termed the Australian game, until 1946.

Aeroplane jelly: 1928

Daily Advertiser (Wagga Wagga), 12 July 1928, 5.

AEROPLANE JELLIES AND CUSTARDS
5½d Packet 5½d Packet.

a few sandwiches short of a picnic: 1983

The Canberra Times, 8 May 1983, 3.

Thinking up less-than-charitable descriptions of people, it appears, is an art. The Federal Police Association journal printed a number of them supplied by Trooper Charles Black, a police officer, of Des Moines, Iowa. They included … hasn't seen the ball since the opening kickoff; one of his walls is not plastered. The boys of the AFP made a few additions: a sandwich short of a picnic; if his brains exploded he'd be safe; his woodwind section is short a flute; a middy short of a schooner; if his ears weren't watertight his brains would fall out.

a few sandwiches short of a picnic: 1988

Torres News (Thursday Island), 7 October 1988, 3.

Considerable damage was done to the school office. Mr Koster said the items meddled with include the photocopier, electronic type writer, electronic calculator, telephone and electric urn. “The culprits were obviously a few sandwiches short of a picnic…”

aggro: 1970

Tribune (Sydney), 5 August 1970, 2.

The present society gives them their values, turning their aggressive revolt against their boring school or factory existence into physical aggression (“aggro” in skinhead language) and a philistine hatred for culture.

aggro: 1975

The Canberra Times, 23 September 1975, 2. It may have been an English term that we adopted.

The “soccer specials”—which have made it possible for example, for young Visigoths from Manchester to go to London for a day’s “aggro” with Chelsea fans and have, a little pyromania on the way home at British Rail’s expense for just £3.50 (about SA5.60) have been abolished. The same pleasures will now cost £13 (about $A21).

aggro: 2002

Tharunka (Kensington, NSW), 5 February 2002, 23.

If there’s something that makes you angry, and you want to vent it in the most aggro fashion possible, without bashing anyone, contact or email Tharunka. But please: guest columnists will not be published if your pissed-offness pertains to really important stuff.

aggy: 1899

The Queenslander, 15 April 1899, 673, Column ‘Jottings by the Way’. The aggy was a marble.

The Trades and Labour Council of New Zealand is very anxious to get legislation to prevent the individual acquisition of wealth… A law to prohibit the individual acquisition of marbles would prevent the “muckers” of the school—such is the term by which the crack marble players are known—gathering in the “chows” and “stonys” and “aggys” of his schoolmates.

all froth and no beer: 1889

Newcastle Morning Herald and Miners’ Advocate, 14 December 1889, 9.

Sympathy without something substantial is all froth and no beer.

all froth and no beer: 1950

The Age, 22 July 1950, 9.

The feature film at the Capitol is Bride for Sale… In it Claudette Colbert Is a young financial genius who uses her, gifts to secure the richest man in the U.S. as a husband… The crazy details keep the audience rocking, but it is only afterwards one recognises it is all froth and no beer.

alligator: 1770

James Cook, Captain Cook’s Journal During the First Voyage Round the World. August 1770

In the rivers and salt creeks there are aligators.

alligator: 1788

Arthur Bowes Smyth, Journal, HRNSW (2), 394. This was actually a lace monitor, or goanna.

16 February 1788 An alligator, ab’t 8 feet long, was seen close by where I go to birdlime just behind the camp, and has been seen among the tents at night more than once.

alligator: 1819

Lt. P. P. King, Narrative of a Survey of the intertropical and western coasts of Australia, vol. 1, 299.

In the evening (since we had lately seen no appearance of sharks) the people were allowed to bathe; but they had no sooner finished, and every one on board, than an alligator swam past the vessel.

all my eye: 1825

Hobart Town Gazette and Van Diemen’s Land Advertiser, 12 August 1825, 4. The Lord Chamberlain had banned a play in London, so the phrase is imported.

The fact, however, is, if we judge aright, that Mr. Colman and the Chamberlain have proved, by their rejection of this play, that they consider our freedom to be “all my eye;” for if we be not permitted to speak of tyrants except with respect and reverence, those who prevent us must certainly consider themselves tyrants, and imagine that whenever we talk of tyrants our allusion is to them.

all over, red rover: 1984

Port Lincoln Times (SA), 24 August 1984, 32.

Coffey tried hard all day and took some good marks, but mistakes further down the line wasted these precious opportunities. At the last change it was all over red rover unless someone was able to perform a miracle.

all over, red rover: 1994

The Canberra Times, 21 May 1994, 12.

If the moderates don’t make a decision and move collectively and be seen to be the ones to make the change as bloodlessly as possible, there’ll be less place for us in the new leadership group. We’ve got to say to Hewson: ‘It’s all over red rover, we’re going to X and he will be leader.’

ambo: 1928

Western Mail (Perth), 27 December 1928, 2. Very early, but is it related?

“Ambo” (Perth) writes: “From what is the word ambulance derived?” The word ambulance is derived from the Latin “Ambulare,” to move about, and has come into English through the French, the substantive “ambulance” being formed from the objectival participle “ambulant,” as in “hopital ambulant” (moving hospital.)

ambo: 1999

Port Lincoln Times (SA), 16 November 1999, 9.

He said he became an ambulance officer after years in the printing industry. “I did 15 years in the printing industry and they sent me to do a first aid course and I got such a buzz out of it I thought I wouldn’t mind being an ambo,” he said.

ambo: 2000

Port Lincoln Times (SA), 10 February 2000, 1. We can safely blame the Port Lincoln Times…

Ambo crisis deepens
The ambulance service crisis in Elliston has deepened with a poor community response to a call for new volunteers.

a middy short of a schooner: 1983

The Canberra Times, 8 May 1983, 3.

The boys of the AFP made a few additions: a sandwich short of a picnic; if his brains exploded he'd be safe; his woodwind section is short a flute; a middy short of a schooner; if his ears weren't watertight his brains would fall out.

ankle-biter: 1900

Referee (Sydney), 12 September 1900, 5. (A different meaning?)

But the optics of the young millionaire fairly, glistened as they lit upon a speaking likeness of Mr. E. H. Fry, side by side with an ‘ankle-biter’ of Mr. ‘Joe’ Thompson.

ankle-biter: 1982

The Canberra Times, 17 December 1982, 19.

She wades bravely through the schmaltz of Annie’s enduring goodness and optimism until one finds oneself almost liking the little ankle-biter.

another pair of sleeves: 1850

The Maitland Mercury and Hunter River General Advertiser, 2 February 1850, 3. Filler item from the US: the text indicates the term’s origin.

Hurrying back to the bank, he informed the paying teller that he had made a mistake. “We rectify no mistakes after the parties have left the bank,” was the reply. “Yes, but you’ve paid me too much money.” This was quite “another pair of sleeves.” The officers of the bank were instantly on the qui vive. Mr. Jesserun handed in the 1000 and received a 100 in return, without even a “thank you!” by way of difference. [New York Globe.]

another pair of sleeves: 1892

Darling Downs Gazette, 15 June 1892, 2. Protection, free trade and Federation.

Resentment in this case will cast about for some method of returning tit for tat, and scourging Victoria with centipedes in return for her scorpions. We cannot say we ever loved Protection, but retaliation is another pair of sleeves.

another pair of sleeves: 1931

Miles Franklin, Old Blastus of Bandicoot, 1931, chapter 1.

It was another pair of sleeves when Sandy Lindsey and his son Ross came back from Sydney with a car of their own. Motor cars became a personal and local concern from Canberra to Brindabullah, Bombala to Yass, and back again to Bandicoot, and the kernel of gossip.

ant-bed floor: 1890

The Australasian (Melbourne), 12 July 1890, 43.

Consequently he stopped, and going down upon his knees on the ant-bed floor, opened his box, took out a bundle of papers and a small packet.

ant-bed floor: 1893

Mrs A. (Julia) Blitz, ‘An Australian Millionaire’, serialised in Evening News, (Sydney), 18 September 1893, 7. At the close of the 19^th century, Julia Blitz felt she needed to explain ant bed to the readers of her novel. The drawing room she describes was in a house that was once a station manager’s quarters.

The “drawing-room” floor was of ant-bed, which, when crushed to powder and mixed with water, hardens like cement; the walls were papered at intervals with woodcuts from illustrated periodicals and some painted almanacs, which served to partly conceal the ungainly fissures of the slabs and curtain their ugliness.

ant-bed floor: c. 1896

K. (‘Katie’) Langloh Parker, Australian Legendary Tales, 1896. The dardurr was the Yuwalaraay name for the Eora gunya.

The young men did as they were bade. When they had the bark cut and brought in, Wirreenun said: “Go you now and raise with ant-bed a high place, and put thereon logs and wood for a fire, build the ant-bed about a foot from the ground. Then put you a floor of ant-bed a foot high wherever you are going to build a dardurr.”

ant bed floor: 1899

The Northern Miner (Charters Towers), 11 November 1899, 5.

…office and store for tools, detonators, &c., combined, 12 by 10 tent, with the added luxury of an ant-bed floor…

ant caps: 1896

Kalgoorlie Miner, 28 October 1896, 2.

In about six or seven weeks hence the members of the local Presbyterian denomination will worship in a new building in Cassidy-street … Bricks have been used for the base work, and these have been covered with ant caps.

ants: 1770

Sir Joseph Banks, The Endeavour Journal of Sir Joseph Banks, vol. 2.

23 May 1770…upon the sides of the lagoon grew many Mangrove trees in the branches of which were many nests of Ants, one sort of which were quite green. These when the branches were disturbd came out in large numbers and revengd themselves very sufficiently upon their disturbers, biting sharper than any I have felt in Europe.

ants: c. 1844

Louisa Ann Meredith, Notes and Sketches of New South Wales, 69. This is a bull ant.

Many various kinds of ants inhabit New South Wales and Van Diemen’s Land: I know about a dozen species myself. One is a very formidable-looking personage, full an inch long, with a shiny coat of mail gleaming purple and blue, and a threatening sting, which I am told inflicts a most painful wound, as severe as that of the hornet.

ants: 1854

F. Eldershaw, Australia as it really is, 46–7. The largest known Australian ants are ~40 mm long.

Different kinds of Ants, black, white, and red, lend their important agency towards the torment of the dwellers in the Bush; they also play their part effectively as scavengers. The Warrior-Ants, soldier or sailor, according to colour, are bold and formidable insects; they are sometimes very large, between two and three inches in length, and do not seem afraid of attacking anything …

Anzac: 1915

The Advertiser, 8 June 1915, 12. At this early time, ‘Anzac’ is a place, or HQ.

During the progress of the fight I received information from Anzac that enemy reinforcements had been seen advancing from Maidos towards Krithia.

Anzac biscuits: 1916

Sunday Times (Perth), 4 June 1916, 7. A recipe contest: she got an engraved electroplated butter knife. The leading winners were melon and lemon conserve; chilli wine and wheaten meal biscuits.

Fourth prize is awarded to Mrs. M. Sutherland Grosvenor, Mt. Kokeby, for recipe—
Anzac Ginger Biscuits.
Ingredients: One cup treacle, quarter-cup dripping or butter, quarter-cup sugar, quarter-cup milk. Put on stove to make hot. Then put in dessertspoonful of ginger, one teaspoonful of baking soda and enough flour to roll out stiff. Cut round. Bake in moderate oven.

Anzac biscuits: 1920

The Argus, 15 September 1920, 7. There had been no further mentions of these biscuits during the war, so did Australian women bake and send them to the troops? After that, there were many further recipes.

Anzac Biscuits or Crispies. “Josephine” (E. Brunswick) has been kind enough to contribute the following recipe for Anzac biscuits:—Two cups John Bull oats or flaked oatmeal, 1 cup flour, 1 table-spoonful golden syrup, half-cup of sugar, 1 teaspoonful carbonate of soda, 1 good pinch salt, 2 tablespoonfuls boiling water, half-cup melted butter. Put oatmeal, flour, sugar, and salt together. Pour on the melted butter, mix syrup and boiling water, and stir in the soda. Mix all while frothing. Put on the greased oven slide with a teaspoon, bake brown in a moderate oven. They must be very ripe when ready for the table. They are usually eaten with a spoon.

ANZAC Day: 1915

The Advertiser, 28 August 1915, 2. Note that this was to be October 13. The April 25 ANZAC day was still a long way ahead.

The Executive Committee of the MONSTER PROCESSION, PAGEANT, and CARNIVAL to be held on WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 13, in aid of THE WOUNDED SOLDIERS’ FUND, has decided that the day shall be known as ANZAC DAY. The Souvenir offered by the Committee to the person whose suggestion for a title was adopted has been awarded to Mr. Robert Wheeler, Prospect.

ANZAC Day: 1915

Barrier Miner, 13 October 1915, 3. This is the 161st instance of “Anzac Day” in Trove, and the first from outside South Australia (but it is from Broken Hill, which always looked to Adelaide).

Mr. James referred to the “Anzac Day” celebration which, was to be held in Adelaide in connection with the Eight Hours’ Day celebrations there the proceeds from which were to be utilised to swell the South Australian Wounded Soldiers’ Fund.

ANZAC Day: 1915

Sydney Morning Herald, 14 October 1915, 10. Before this event, there were almost 220 “hits”. This one was in the interstate press notices—on page 10!

ADELAIDE, Wednesday. This year the Eight-hours Day committee sacrificed the identity of its celebration by conducting a carnival in aid of the wounded Soldiers’ Fund. The committee was enlarged to embrace all sections of the community, and the day was observed as Anzac Day. Many thousands of people witnessed the street procession.

ANZAC Day: 1915

The Advertiser, 20 October 1915, 14. A brawl had broken out between drunken soldiers and police.

THE STREET RIOT. Incidents connected with the riot in King William-street on Anzac Day were again related in the Adelaide Police Court on Tuesday, when Allen Dalziell was charged with having hindered Constable Feudeloff in the execution of his duty, namely, while he was arresting John Davoren on a charge of drunkenness.

ANZAC Day: 1915

Gippsland Times, 16 December 1915, 3: yet another date for “the day”, 17 December. There were more than 400 instances of “Anzac Day” before this.

The … Lord Mayor’s Central “Button” Committee has fixed to-morrow as “Anzac” day, and have issued at special “remembrance” button to be sold throughout the Commonwealth at the usual price of 1/ [one shilling], the proceeds to be divided between all the tents working for the welfare of those under arms either at home or the front, viz., Y.M.C.A., Churches of England, Presbyterian, Roman Catholic, Methodist, and Salvation Army.

ANZAC Day: 1916

The Brisbane Courier, 10 January 1916, 8. And now the pattern was set: ANZAC day would be April 25.

Proposed Celebration in Brisbane. A public meeting will be held in the Exhibition Hall this evening to discuss the steps to be taken for the celebration of Anzac Day on April 25.

ANZAC Day: 1916

The Register (Adelaide), 10 January 1916, 4. He was an early adopter!

(‘Well, I was 70 years old last birthday,’ remarked the gentleman from Blackrock, ‘and I am not likely to forget it, because it was April 25, Anzac Day.’

apples (she’s): 1941

Western Mail, 18 December 1941, 35. This and the next entry both come from W.A.

Darkness, was approaching, so the three anti-tank gunners, reconciled to their unhappy position, placed the ammunition in a handy place ready for use … The corporal came along and during a “once over” found that in the hurry of the previous night the ammunition had not been primed! Imagine the feelings of the three anti-tank gunners! After the first dread thoughts had passed away out came the postal orderly’s final remarks: “Wouldn’t it——. Anyhow, she’s apples.”

apples (she’s): 1945

The West Australian, 24 November 1945, 5. Article ‘Brave New Words’.

Anything satisfactorily arranged or done is sometimes “sewn up” but more frequently: “she’s apples” or “she’s caster.” The roots of both phrases are unknown.

argy-bargy: 1888

Shepparton Advertiser (Vic), 16 August 1888, 1. Note that this is Scots dialect.

I winna argy-bargy wi’ ye, Tammas; but I dinna see hoo ye cud get at it by presentiment.

argy-bargy: 1893

Northern Star (Lismore), 4 November 1893, 6. Here, Alan Breck Stewart in Stevenson’s Kidnapped (serialised in Australian newspapers) speaks a less dense form of Scots.

“Captain,” said Alan, “I doubt your word is a breakable. Last night ye haggled and argle bargled, like an apple wife, and then passed me your word, and gave me your hand to back it, and ye ken very well what was the upshot. Be damned to your word!” says he.

artesian water: 1858

The Sydney Morning Herald, 22 December 1858, 4. They talked about, but knew nothing.

By the formation of dams, the construction of tanks, and the sinking of artesian wells, water may possibly be supplied in adequate quantities to this enormous district. And the increasing price of meat will be an inducement to squatters to make this outlay, if popular jealousy will show them a reasonable tenure of the lands.

artesian water: 1881

Gippsland Mercury (Sale, Vic), 5 May 1881, 3.

By direction of the mayor, the artesian well water was allowed to stream into the street during the afternoon hours, and considerable interest was manifested by our visitors in the, to them, unusual sight.

artesian water: 1881

The Sydney Mail and New South Wales Advertiser, 17 September 1881, 513.

The great under current is tapped at last. Mr. J. H. Angas has got Artesian water 2.5 miles north of the Blinman, and it runs to the surface. We shall have the real Australian rivers upon the surface yet.

artesian water: 1882

The Sydney Morning Herald, 4 August 1882, 4. It needed explaining.

An artesian well is simply the end of a pipe. It requires that water should exist somewhere at a greater elevation, and should pass continuously from that elevation to the outlet. There is only one part of Australia where the requisite elevation is furnished, and that is in the great Cordillera Range, and it is only there that there is a sufficient rainfall to be practically useful. Even there, it depends upon the character of the rock whether the water shall roll down the slopes along or near the surface, or whether it shall sink in to come out elsewhere.

artesian water: 1896

Banjo Paterson, The Bulletin, 17, 1896.

‘Song of the Artesian Water’
Sinking down, deeper down,
Oh, we’re going deeper down:
If we fail to get the water, then it’s ruin to the squatter,
For the drought is on the station and the weather’s growing hotter;
But we’re bound to get the water deeper down.

Arthur or Martha: 1943

Daily Mirror (Sydney), 7 September 1943, 6. The fish wrapper newspapers carried syndicated propaganda stories like this. There is an indecipherable instance of Arthur or Martha, in the Inverell Times 16 May 1941.

Some of the warships built a smokescreen on either flank and the landing boats surged forward into the valley in between. Others steamed offshore from Lae and pounded the town and the ‘drome. Bombers dropped their loads on Lae until the Japs didn’t know whether they were Arthur or Martha. Then the shelling of the beach suddenly ended and the time for wondering was over and the time for action had come.

Arthur or Martha: 1948

Truth (Sydney), 14 March 1948, 17. See Rafferty’s rules.

THE LATE lamented Mr. Rafferty would have jumped with joy had he been at Erskineville Oval yesterday, when Eastern Suburbs and Newtown staged trials for the coming League season. Players were all over the place like Brown’s cows, and most didn’t know whether they were Arthur or Martha. Still, the season’s only beginning, and Rafferty will be put to shame later.

arvo: 1926

Sydney Mail, 25 August 1926, 16.

‘And the shivoo’s this arvo?’
‘Er—yes.’
She slipped over to the window. Red and Alf were still busy with the car.
‘Slip off yer shoes,’ she said curtly. ‘Now follow me.’

arvo: 1929

Northern Star (Lismore), 8 June 1929, 14. “Unless a determined effort be made to overcome this modern tendency to contract and mutilate, the criticisms of the Australian use of the Mother tongue will have a great deal more justification than has been heretofore bestowed upon such as our nasal vowels, etc.”

A most regrettable feature of the present day speech is the tendency to mutilate or, to say the least, contract—many words of the English language. In addition to the recognised contractions, “isn’t,” “don’t” “that’s,” etc., on every side we hear the objectionable and wrong “ain’t” (I cannot spell this). Then again are heard the almost universal use of “exam.” and lately another objectionable expression “this arvo” for this afternoon, seems to have taken a firm hold of the younger members of the community.

arvo: 1932

The Brisbane Courier, 10 September 1932, 18. At least they were blaming the movies and not the teachers!

Films and Their Influence. By “HYGIEA.” “GEE, it was a beaut picsher—six blokes shot, and you could see fair-dinkum blood on some of ‘em,” said one of the small boys excitedly. “Oh, yeah,” said the other, superciliously. “Well, I bet it wasn’t half as good as the fillum that I saw this arvo. There was a bloke in it strangled with wire after he’d shot a man, and was just going to burn down his house with the woman and kids in it.

as clear as mud: 1835

The Australian (Sydney), 11 August 1835, 3.

Mr. Burton, from his Commission as a Judge at the Cape, being dated before that of Mr. Dowling for this Colony. The latter is the elder Barrister. Between such high contending powers it would ill become us to interfere— “When Doctors differ” as the poet says, “who shall decide?” To us however the case seems as “clear as mud”…

ash tray on a motor bike: 1990

The Canberra Times, 18 February 1990, 9.

Here is one more piece of very important advice. Check the expiry date on your card before your leave home. If it expires while you are overseas, it will be as useful as an ashtray on a motor bike.

Aussie: 1915

The Farmer and Settler (Sydney), 13 July 1915, 2. Letter from Private P. G. Stephens.

Writing on board a transport (May 3) a few hours before landing at Gallipoli from Egypt, he said: “Rare yarns are being told about the ‘Aussies’ at the front. On Thursday night I saw a train of wounded being unloaded … my stomach turned somersaults, and I broke out into a cold sweat…”

Aussie: 1915

Sydney Sportsman, 8 December 1915, 3. This seems to be the earliest instance of “an Aussie”, but see Aussie rules, below, for an earlier use of the adjectival form: it was clearly around in the spoken language.

Archie poked that little red demon about, and ran between the wickets like an Aussie chasing the Turks in Gallipoli. It really was refreshing to see Archie exciting himself so. You surely wouldn’t expect it from a cove with the appellation of Archie.

Aussie: 1917

The Forbes Advocate (NSW), 6 July 1917, 7.

Aussie (pronounced “ozzy”). An Australian soldier.

Aussie: 1917

Bairnsdale Advertiser and Tambo and Omeo Chronicle, 17 October 1917, 2.

Rumor hath it that the Americans are to take over portion and we are to go elsewhere. The ‘Aussies’ (Australians) have had a ‘box-on’ with the Americans already. One of the Yanks said ‘The Australians are no good now, and they had to send for us to finish the war.’ An ‘Aussie’ ‘all dressed,’ flew at him, with the result that there was a free fight, which resulted in favor of the ‘kangaroo’.

Aussie Rules: 1907

Coolamon-Ganmain Farmers’ Review, 19 July 1907, 11.

JUNEE SLOW TO START IN AUSSIE RULES GAME.
On Saturday, Junee Australian Rules team went down to Holbrook after a very slow start. Junee, it will be remembered, were very slow to get going against Yerong Creek after pushing The Rock to 10 points the week before, but on Saturday they slept through the first half until awakened by coach Roy Hart in the dressing room … but they had shut the gate too late.

Aussie Rules: 1924

The Bunbury Herald and Blackwood Express (WA), 5 September 1924, 6. Short news report, quoted in full. (See also Australian Rules.)

AUSSIE RULES. Under the Australian rules the semi-finals were entered into last Sunday when Yarloop met Mornington at Brunswick and after a stirring game Yarloop won by 8 points.

Aussie salute: 1921

The Mail (Adelaide), 21 May 1921, 3. What might this salute have been? We will never know…

Mr. Roberts gave a capital skit on soldiers saluting, and brought forth rounds of applause for his interpretation of the Aussie salute.

Aussie salute: 1966

The Australian Women’s Weekly, 1 June 1966, 10. Almost there…

On to Alice Springs, where Pat said she was given the traditional Aussie salute—flies! “Not that they bothered me much. Those fly sprays are pretty good.”

Aussie salute: 1989

The Canberra Times, 9 April 1989, 23.

Many people are asked to speak frankly about their problems with the fly, which seems to have become one of our national symbols: witness the worldwide acceptance of the Great Aussie Salute as we swat or swipe at the little devils.

Australasia: 1793

The Sydney Morning Herald, 20 May 1905, 14. Note that this is a 1905 account of an earlier usage.

Shaw evidently favoured Australia while Smith in the “Transactions of the Linnaean Society” vol. iv, p 213 (1798), uses Australasia for the continent several times. Neither name however, passed then into general use… 1793 G. Shaw and J. E. Smith, “Zoology and Botany of New Holland,” p. 2:
“The vast island, or rather continent, of Australia, Australasia, or New Holland, which has so lately attracted the particular attention of European navigators and naturalists…”

Australasia: 1808

The Sydney Gazette and New South Wales Advertiser, 6 November 1808, 2. Incorrectly rendered in one TROVE correction as “Australia”. It actually reads “Australasia”. Some Trove volunteers are dills!

“MR. PRINTER,”
“Your sage Correspondent affects to describe,
“The HABITS that grace Australasia’s Black Tribe;
“But if Habit means Dress, you’ll permit me to call
“The Dress of HER Natives—No Habit at all.”

Australia: 1793

George Shaw and James Edward Smith, Zoology and Botany of New Holland, vol. 1, 2, 1793.

The vast Island or rather Continent of Australia, Australasia, or New Holland…seems to abound in scenes of peculiar wildness and sterility…

Australia: 1813

The Sydney Gazette and New South Wales Advertiser, 30 January 1813, 3. A poem called ‘Effusions of Gratitude’, by Michael Massey Robinson. First Australian use in print. This is the first of six verses.

FROM Albion’s blest Isle have we cross’d the wide Main,
And brav’d all the Dangers, of Neptune’s Domain—
The Hurricane’s Whirlwind, the Tempest’s loud Roar,
An Asylum to find on Australia’s rude Shore
For the Genius of Britain sent forth a Decree,
That her Sons should be exil’d—once more to be free!

Australia: 1814

M. Flinders, “Voyage to Terra Australis,” introduction, 3, and footnote.

 “I have…ventured upon the readoption of the original Terra Australis, and of this term I shall hereafter make use, when speaking of New Holland, and New South Wales, in a collective sense.”
Footnote: “Had I permitted myself any innovation upon the original term, it would have been to convert it into Australia, as being more agreeable to the ear, and an assimilation to the names of the other great portions of the earth.”

Australia: 1817

The History of New South Wales From the Records, vol. 1, s. 1.11, n8, 1889.

Despatch to Lord Bathurst, of April 4th, 1817, from Governor Macquarie: “Lieutenant King expects to be absent from Port Jackson between eight and nine months; and, I trust, in that time, will be able to make very important additions to the geographical knowledge already acquired of the continent of Australia; which, I hope, will be the name given to this country in future, instead of the very erroneous and misapplied name hitherto given to it of New Holland, which, properly speaking, only applies to part of this immense continent.”

Australianisms: 1883

R. E. N. (Richard) Twopeny, Town Life in Australia, 1883.

The circumstances of a new colony naturally cause additions to the word-stock of the mother country. New occupations and modes of living need new words to describe them, or, as often as not, the settler not being of an inventive disposition, old words are used in a new sense … There is room for a very interesting dictionary of Australianisms. But I have no time to collect such a list.

Australianisms: 1888

Western Mail (Perth), 28 January 1888, 15. The writer’s spelling is less reliable than we might wish.

But much might be done by the teachers of our higher schools to correct the coarser Australianisms of speech, so unfortunately common amongst the children of the colony, and to form the pronounciation [sic] of our future men and women in fair accordance with educated English models. Nothing is so dreadful as to find a pretty and ladylike Australian girl open her mouth and deliver her words with a wretched nasal drawl.

Australianisms: 1891

The Mount Barker Courier and Onkaparinga and Gumeracha Advertiser (SA), 1 May 1891, 2.

A writer in London Notes and Queries points out: that “there are several good dictionaries of Americanisms,” and he wants to know whether there is “such a thing as a dictionary of Australianisms.” … He quotes from a recently-published Australian novel such words as “new chum,” “stuck-up,” “cattle-duffing,” “nobblers,” “bail-up,” &c., which, he says, require explanation in order to be intelligible to English readers.

Australianisms: 1891

The Sydney Morning Herald, 10 October 1891, 7.

But against objection to the inclusion of new words of aptness and expressiveness in our current vernacular, in the name of British liberty we protest. For why should we not increase the wealth of our native language by “Australianisms” as they are contemptuously called, provided only that, we find them useful to our hand?

Australianisms: 1894

Truth (Sydney), 7 January 1894, 1.

That Imperialism generally gives Australianism a back-hander or a bribe.

Australianisms: 1897

Clare’s Weekly (Perth), 18 December 1897, 10.

There’s one exception, and that’s a brilliant one. The Sydney Bulletin is the snappiest paper in the world. Suggested by the Americanisms of some American comics, it has created a new “ism” and flooded the world with “Australianisms.”

* * * * *

Creating the list of topics below took two hours, and I don't have the time, right now, so here's an out-of-date list.

Aboriginal blood: 1837;  Aboriginal land: c. 1852;  aborigines: 1798;  absentee: 1803;  absquatulate: 1841;  according to Cocker: 1826;  act your age, not your shoe size: 1995;  aerial ping pong: 1945;  Aeroplane jelly: 1928;  aggro: 1970;  aggy: 1899;  all froth and no beer: 1889;  alligator: 1788;  all over, red rover: 1984;  ambo: 1928;  ankle-biter: 1900;  another pair of sleeves: 1850;  ant bed: 1890;  ant caps: 1896;  ants: 1770;  Anzac: 1915;  Anzac biscuits: 1916;  ANZAC Day: 1915;  apples (she’s): 1941;  argy-bargy: 1888;  artesian water: 1881;  Arthur or Martha: 1943;  arvo: 1926;  ash tray on a motor bike: 1990;  Aussie: 1915;  Aussie Rules: 1907;  Aussie salute: 1921;  Australasia: 1793;  Australia: 1793;  Australian Rules: 1865;  babbler: 1904;  back-blocks: 1862;  back chat: 1895;  backhander: 1894;  back of beyond: 1830;  back of Bourke: 1871;  bad trot: 1914;  bagman: 1841;  Bagman’s Gazette: 1900;  bail up: 1844.;  balls-up: 1970;  Bananaland: 1881;  bandicoot: 1799;  banker, running a: 1866;  barbie: 1973;  bar, bull: 1979;  bark hut: 1815;  barney: 1855;  barrack: 1883;  barracker: 1881;  barracking: 1878;  bar, roo: 1977;  bash hat: 1950;  basket weavers: 1982;  bastard: 1945;  bastardry: 1945;  bathers: 1911;  bathing: 1810;  bathing dress: 1830;  Bathurst burr: 1850;  battler: 1901;  beak: 1838;  beanie: 1945;  beano: 1908;  bean (without a): 1891;  beauty bottler: 1957;  bee’s knees: 1874;  belly buster: 1933;  belly-flop: 1924;  Belyando spew: c. 1864;  berko: 1988;  berley: 1871;  bicycle: 1851;  big hat no cattle: 1994;  big note: 1938;  big smoke: 1854;  big wigs: 1825;  bike: 1898;  bikkies: 1890;  bikkies (money): 1977;  bilby: 1886;  billabong: 1838;  billy: 1827;  billycart: 1898;  billy lids: 2000;  billy-o: 1887;  bindi-eye: 1907;  bingey: 1882;  bint: 1945;  bite his lug: 1900;  bitser: 1926;  bitumen, leave the: 1926;  blackbirding: c. 1827;  blackfellow: 1831;  blackleg: 1865;  Black Maria: 1868;  black stump: 1865;  black tracker: 1828;  Blind Freddy: 1907;  bloke: 1848;  blokey: 1990;  bloodhouse: 1901;  bloody: 1853;  blow: 1929;  blowfly: 1829;  blowie: 1911;  Blucher boots: 1821;  bludger: 1897;  bluegum: 1803;  blue (in the sense of lose money): 1898;  Blue Mountain parrot: 1823;  Blue Mountains: 1793;  blue, start a: 1938;  bluetongue: 1849;  Bluey: 1845;  bluey: 1880;  blunt: 1826;  bob (shilling): 1838;  bodgie: 1950;  Bogan: 1987;  bogey: 1788;  bog roll: 1988;  boiling down: c. 1843;  bolter: 1827;  bombora: 1901;  Bondi tram, like a: 1943;  bonzer: 1851;  boodle: 1898;  Boofhead: 1924;  boofy: 1993;  boomerang: 1804;  boots and all: 1838;  borak: 1893;  boring as batshit: 1999;  boshter: 1903;  bosker: 1912;  boss cockie: 1875;  Boss-of-the-Board: 1900;  Boss-of-the-Board: 1900;  Botany Bay: 1786;  boundary rider: 1860;  bowerbird: 1894;  bowlo: 2004;  bowyangs: 1889;  box tree: 1834;  brass razoo: 1927;  breakaway: 1893;  brekky: 1900;  brickfielder: 1829;  brickie: 1902;  brick short of a load: 1992;  bright-eyed and bushy-tailed: 1954;  Brown’s cows: 1841;  brown-eye: 1981;  brum (penny): 1861;  brumby: 1871;  brush: 1788;  bubbler: 1912;  Buckley’s chance: 1887;  budgerigar: 1845;  budgie smugglers: 2006;  bugger me dead: 1975;  buggy: 1806;  Bullamakanka: 1948;  Bulletin: c.1880;  bullock driver: 1813;  bull-roarer: 1888;  Bundy clock: 1905;  bunger: 1891;  bunny: 1952;  bunya bunya: 1841;  bunyip: 1845;  bunyip aristocracy: 1853;  burning off: 1805;  burrawang: 1831;  bush: 1801;  bush bashing: 1943;  bush carpenter: 1902;  bushed: 1847;  bushfire: 1831;  bush inn: c. 1850;  bush lawyer: 1835;  bush lemon: 1910;  bushman: 1832;  bushranger: 1805;  bush store: 1847;  bush telegraph: 1863;  bush tucker: 1884;  bushwoman: 1869;  busier than Bourke street: 1877;  busier than Pitt Street: 1869;  B.Y.O.: 1968;  Cabbage Garden: 1842;  cabbage tree hat: 1799;  cabbage tree mob: 1841;  cabs: 1852;  Cab Sav: 1974;  cackleberry: 1918;  call a spade a bloody shovel: 1897;  camp: 1788;  canary: 1853;  cane toad: 1935;  cark: 1983;  cart: c. 1854;  caser: 1892;  cask wine: 1975;  Catherine Hayes: 1859;  cedar: 1795;  celestials: 1856;  chalkie: 1928;  champagne tastes on a beer budget: 1941;  chap: 1898;  chardonnay socialist: 1987;  charged like a wounded bull: 1976;  chateau cardboard: 1987;  chats: 1917;  cheap as chips: 1875;  chewy: 1922;  Chico roll: 1958;  chocolate crackles: 1937;  chockers: 1990;  choof off: 1965;  chook: 1889;  chook raffle: 1956;  chook with its head chopped off: 1982;  Chow: 1855;  chow: 1899;  Christmas beetle: 1893;  chuck: 1838;  chuck a u-ey: 1975;  chuck a wobbly: 1986;  chunder: 1954;  churchyarder: 1900;  chyack: 1873;  cigar: 1859;  Circular Quay: 1836;  civvies: 1946;  Clayton’s: 1983;  clean skins: 1868;  clearing: 1788;  clear out: 1831;  clobber: 1884;  clothes hoist: 1911;  clothes props: 1846;  coach travel: 1821;  coal: 1797;  cobber: 1890;  cobbler: 1827;  cobbler’s pegs: 1864;  cockatoo: c. 1854;  cockatoo fence: 1842;  cockatoo (lookout): 1991;  cock-eye bob: 1884;  cockies: 1878;  cockie’s joy: 1901;  coffee: 1902;  coffee tent: 1852;  coldie: 1985;  Collins street cocky: 1924;  come good: 1948;  come in spinner: 1919;  comic cuts: 1922;  Compo: 1921;  concertina: 1892;  conchy: 1917;  constables: 1826;  cooee: 1826;  coolamon: 1854;  coot: 1915;  corduroy road: 1856;  corn: 1834;  Cornstalk: 1827;  cossies: 1903;  cot case: 1915;  could eat a horse and chase the rider: 1934;  country store: 1834;  Cousin Jack: 1864;  cove: 1817;  cow cocky: 1907;  cracker night: 1890;  crack hardy: 1897;  crack onto: 1974;  crawler: 1864;  creek: 1790;  cricket: 1804;  crimson: 1883;  crinoline: 1839;  cronk: 1900;  crook: 1896;  cropper, come a: 1859;  crow-eaters: 1870;  cry crack: 1871;  cuddy: 1826;  cultural cringe: 1951;  currency: 1822;  cut lunch: 1913;  cut out: 1867;  cycling: c. 1895;  cyclists: 1899;  dacks: 1982;  dag: 1971;  dags (wool): 1928;  Dagwood dog: 1951;  dam: 1869;  damper: 1825;  darg: 1879;  date: 2003;  dead cert: 1877;  dead flat: 1900;  dead marine: 1856;  dead set: 1954;  deaf adder: 1832;  deaner (shilling): 1892;  death adder: 1845;  death warmed up: 1922;  demo: 1952;  derro: 1976;  devon sausage: 1994;  didgeridoo: 1918;  did his block: 1904;  didn’t come down in the last shower: 1893;  digger: 1817;  digging: 1849;  dill: 1946;  dilly bag 1829;  dilly-dallying: 1826;  dingbat: 1887;  dingo: 1788;  dinkum: 1917;  dinky di: 1914;  diphthong ships: 1852;  dipstick: 1982;  disperse: 1805;  divvy: 1885;  Dixie: 1918;  do a Melba: 1950;  dob in: 1953;  dodgy: 1856;  dog’s breakfast: 1903;  do his lolly: 1954;  doing the Block: 1854;  dole: 1915;  dole bludger: 1975;  dollop: 1833;  Dolly’s wax: 1909;  donah: 1889;  done like a dinner: 1838;  done me dash: 1915;  donkey engine: 1852;  donkey-supper hat: c. 1897;  donkey vote: 1894;  don’t bust your foofer valve: 1884;  don’t give a rat’s: 1994;  doover: 1941;  double dink: 1914;  double-headed coins: 1885;  dowak: 1848;  down the gurgler: 1979;  down under: 1907;  drafting: 1836;  drag the chain: 1840;  dray: 1820;  drink with the flies: 1898;  drongo: 1837;  drop bear 1967;  dropsies: 1952;  drought: c. 1842;  drought: 1878;  drover: 1814;  drover’s dog: 1868;  dry-blower: 1869;  duchess (v): 1944;  duck’s disease: 1940;  dud: 1918;  duds: 1900;  duffer: 1853;  duffing: 1856;  dummy: 1896;  dumper: 1912;  dunny: 1942;  earbash 1944;  echidna: 1828;  ecology: 1905;  education: c. 1830;  elastic-side boots: 1896;  elderly: 1900;  emu: 1788;  emu eggs: 1829;  emu oil: 1860;  enemy origin place names: 1916;  Eora: 1798;  every man and his dog: 1902;  exclusionists: 1826;  fair cop: 1897;  fair crack of the whip: 1902;  fair dinkum: 1880;  fair go: 1863;  fairy bread: 1915;  fairy floss: 1906;  fart-arse around: 1975;  fat lamp: 1827;  fed up to the back teeth: 1919;  fell off perch: 1857;  Female Factory: 1826;  fence: 1788;  ferals: 1992;  fibro-cement: 1905;  finger talk: 1934;  first fleet: 1817;  fizzer: 1861;  Flash Jack: 1826;  flash your dover: 1872;  flat chat: 1986;  flat out like a lizard drinking: 1930;  fleahouse: 1935;  fleas: 1803;  flick, give him the: 1979;  flicks: 1918;  flies: c. 1842;  floater (pie): 1923;  Flying Doctor: 1922;  flying fox: 1793;  fly veil: 1849;  football: 1829;  foot in mouth disease: 1910;  footpath: 1803;  footrot: 1822;  footy: 1894;  forester: 1861;  fossick: 1852;  four by two: 1898;  freebie: 1991;  Fremantle doctor: 1873;  Freo: 1947;  fruit fly: 1862;  full as a goog: 1942;  full board: 1875;  funnelweb: 1927;  Furphy: 1915;  gaff: 1901;  galah: 1861;  gallows: c. 1838;  gammon: 1826;  gander: 1939;  garbage: 1823;  garbo: 1950;  gas lamps: 1855;  g’day: 1848;  gee-gee: 1898;  geek: 1953;  gerries: 1991;  get a guernsey: 1902;  gibber: 1793;  gilgai: 1868;  gin: 1831;  ginormous: 1942;  Gippsland earth-worm: 1889;  give it a burl: 1911;  give me the drum: 1925;  glory box: 1904;  goanna: 1832;  goat (act the): 1881;  go bush: 1871;  goldfield: 1849;  gold mine: 1788;  gone bung: 1868;  good fist of it: 1856;  good oil: 1914;  good on ya: 1973;  goog: 1914;  goolies: 1922;  goonack: 1873;  goon: 1972;  go-slow: 1916;  go you halves: 1870;  gramma: 1874;  grass-tree: 1831;  grazier: 1804;  green bough: 1896;  greenhide: 1836;  greenies: 1982;  gremlins: 1942;  grog: 1788;  groupers: 1946;  gully-raking: c. 1837;  gum-sucker: 1849;  gum tree: 1788;  gunya: 1798;  gutless wonder: 1936;  gutser: 1917;  had it: 1945;  hairy eyeball: 1982;  half a mo: 1898;  half drunk half the time: 1967;  hambone: 1964;  handkerchiefs: 1901;  hang around like a bad smell: 1941;  hanging up: 1853;  happy as Larry: 1857;  hard: 1896;  hard case: 1900;  hard up: 1827;  hardwood: 1823;  harness cask: 1827;  hashmagandy: 1883;  hatful of arseholes: 1957;  hatter: 1858;  have a bash: 1943;  have a lash: 1892;  have the wood on: 1889;  have your guts for garters: 1888;  hawker: 1818;  hidey: 1863;  history, Australian: 1888;  hobble: c. 1830;  homestead: 1817;  hoon: 1983;  hooroo: 1916;  horizontal scrub: 1860;  hospital paddock: 1888;  hot-cross bun maker: 1903;  Hoyts, man outside: 1935;  humpy: 1838;  hundreds and thousands: 1899;  Hungry Tyson: 1877;  hunk: 1883;  huntsman spider: 1914;  Hyde Park: 1810;  Hyde Park Barracks: 1829;  icebergs: 1905;  ice block: 1934;  idiot box: 1959;  illywhacker: 1985;  indications: 1885;  inexpressibles: 1824;  inland: 1806;  in good nick: 1878;  invasion: c. 1798;  ironbark: 1803;  iron gang: 1826;  iron lace: 1919;  iron lace: 1944;  itchy grub: 1925;  jackeroo: 1845;  jack jumper: 1882;  Jack the Painter: 1846;  Jacky Howe: 1900;  jake: 1918;  jigger: 1898;  jilgie: 1873;  jimmy brits: 1942;  Jimmy Grants: 1850;  Jimmy Woodser: 1876;  jinker: 1861;  jirrand: 1827;  joey: 1841;  John Chinaman: 1839;  Johnny cake: 1827;  Johns: 1915;  journo: 1969;  jumbuck: 1841;  jumper: c. 1853;  jump-up: 1828;  Jungle juice: 1941;  kangaroo: 1770;  kangaroo dog: 1806;  kangaroo feathers: 1900;  kangaroos in the top paddock: 1987;  kangaroo paw: 1892;  kangaroo skins: 1898;  kangaroo tail soup: 1837;  keep nit: 1890;  keg: 1803;  kelpie: 1879;  kerfuffle: 1935;  kerosene: 1854;  kibosh: 1835;  kick the bucket: 1832;  kindergarten: 1890;  kindy: 1933;  king hit: 1938;  kip (swy): 1910;  Kiwi: 1918;  knock off: 1825;  knockabout: 1856;  knock your socks off: 1978;  koala: 1804;  Kokoda track: 1908;  Kokoda trail: 1942;  kookaburra: 1829;  koori: 1972;  koradji: 1834;  kylie: 1842;  laced lizard: 1789;  Lady Blamey: 1942;  lag, old: 1831;  lagerphone: 1946;  lagging: c. 1830;  lagoon: 1803;  lamb down: 1838;  lamb’s fry;  Lamington: 1901;  land mullet: 1916;  larrikin: 1870;  lawn tennis: 1874;  leaks like a sieve: 1840;  leeches: 1817;  leg in: 1871;  legless: 1986;  leg pulling: 1890;  like a hairy goat: 1913;  like the clappers: 1920;  lime burners: 1804;  lime-juicer: c. 1855;  lime-juicer: c. 1855;  line ball: 1849;  lingo: 1825;  lippy: 1927;  little bottler: 1855;  little ripper: 1912;  lollies: 1846;  long neck: 1827;  long service leave: 1898;  lower than a snake’s belly: 1914;  lubra: 1838;  lumper: 1843;  lurk: 1904;  lurk merchant: 1945;  lumber: 1805;  lyrebird: 1800;  mad as a cut snake: 1946;  makarrata: 1937;  make a crust: 1860;  making wages: 1851;  mallee: 1882;  mallee bull: 1862;  march fly: 1843;  marmalade: 1808;  marsupial: 1829;  matches: 1841;  mate: 1860;  mateship: 1857;  meatworks: 1872;  meet the eye: 1827;  Melbourne: c. 1895;  metho: 1922;  mia-mia: 1847;  miles to Griffiths tea: 1913;  milko: 1904;  Minties: 1924;  missed the bus: 1893;  mixed-bathers: 1911;  mob (of animals): 1834;  moleskin: 1823;  mongrel: 1889;  moniker: 1888;  monotreme: 1876;  moonlighter: 1878;  moonlight flit: 1834;  more hide than Jessie: 1925;  mosquitoes: 1828;  motza: 1923;  mouse spider: 1947;  mozzies: 1922;  mucker: 1899;  muck up: 1896;  muck up: 1904;  mud map: 1896;  mug: 1888;  mug lair: 1924;  mulesing: 1939;  mulga: 1858;  mullenise: 1884;  mulligrubs: 1832;  mullock: 1889;  mushies: 1904;  mushies: 1915;  muso: 1956;  mutton dressed up as lamb: 1893;  myall: 1829;  my stomach thinks my throat’s been cut: 1933;  myxomatosis: 1938;  nark: 1885;  native raw materials: 1798;  nature strip: 1928;  neck, to get it in the: 1893;  Never Never: 1861;  new Australians: 1940;  new chum: 1827;  New year’s day: 1789;  nick: 1889;  nines, dressed up to the: 1835;  Norfolk Island pine: 1829;  not backwards in coming forward: 1991;  nothing between the ears: 1938;  not much chop: 1857;  not the full quid: 1947;  not worth a crumpet: 1947;  no worries: 1970;  nulla nulla: 1808;  numbat: 1854;  Ocker: 1971;  off her kadoova: 1883;  old hand: 1827;  offsider: 1871;  off the beaten track: 1855;  old hand: 1902;  omnibus: 1851;  one armed bandits: 1939;  one oar in the water: 1994;  on his hammer: 1932;  on his hunkers: 1851;  on spec: 1845;  on the nose: 1942;  on the ran-tan: 1854;  on the wallaby: 1858;  onion, to be off: 1879;  open go: 1882;  open slather: 1916;  ophthalmia: 1819;  other-sider: 1865;  outback: 1868;  out station: 1824;  overlanders: 1840;  packer: 1873;  Paddle Pop: 1954;  paddock: 1807;  pademelon: 1842;  patta: 1803;  Pavlova: 1934;  Peach Melba: 1912;  penny farthing;  peppered: 1851;  perish, doing a: 1881;  perve: 1968;  petrolhead: 1986;  piano 1788;  picnic: c. 1854;  piece of piss: 1987;  pig’s arse!: 1977;  pig-root: 1896;  piker: 1909;  Pinchgut: c. 1842;  pissed: 1984;  pissed off: 1981;  Pitt Street farmer: 1918;  Pivot City: 1855;  plant: 1835;  platypus: 1821;  plonk: 1916;  plute: 1900;  poler: 1848;  Pompey dodger: 1855;  pong: 1928;  portable soup: 1821;  pobblebonk: 1990;  poddy: 1864;  pointing the bone: 1901;  poison bait: 1847;  poisoner: 1900;  poke in the eye with a burnt stick: 1887;  poke mullock: 1912;  poker machine: 1895;  pokies: 1967;  Pommy 1912;  pooch: 1927;  possie: 1917;  possum: c. 1839;  possum skin cloak: c. 1840;  post: 1827;  preselection: 1857;  prezzies: 1998;  prickly pear: 1827;  Prince Alberts: 1894;  printing press: 1795;  privy: 1813;  Progress Association: 1860;  prospecting: 1849;  prospector: 1849;  puddling: 1851;  punt: 1834;  purler: 1848;  Push, the: 1899;  put the acid on: 1898;  put the boot in: 1906;  put the frighteners on: 1973;  quarantine: c. 1842;  Queen Street cocky: 1926;  quid: 1866;  rabbit-oh: 1894;  rabbit-proof fence: 1886;  rabbits: 1860;  rack off: 1976;  Rafferty’s rules: 1906;  ratbag: 1925;  rat with a gold tooth: 1953;  rawhide: 1849;  real corker: 1886;  redback: 1883;  redgum: 1816;  red ned: 1949;  reffo: 1945;  rego: 1972;  rellies: 1978;  remittance: 1864;  ribuck: 1891;  ridgy didge: 1974;  riding attire: 1900;  right as rain: 1874;  righto: 1902;  ring-barking: c. 1844;  ringer: 1870;  road: 1788;  road train: 1913;  ‘rock carvings’: 1788;  roof rabbit: 1891;  ropeable: 1847;  rort: 1901;  rosiner: 1930;  rotgut: 1831;  rough around the edges: 1952;  rough as bags: 1911;  rough as guts: 1920;  rough end of the pineapple: 1950;  rough spin: 1868;  rouseabout: 1907;  rum: 1826;  run: 1834;  runners: 1961;  runs like a dream: 1919;  rustbucket: 1949;  ruthless and toothless: 1945;  sacred sites: 1927;  Saint Andrews spider: 1939;  saltbush: 1848;  salted: 1854;  sand: 1846;  sandgroper: 1881;  sandy blight: c. 1865;  sandshoes: 1884;  sandy blight: 1900;  sanger: 1987;  saucy: 1860;  sausage roll: 1842;  sawney: 1826;  scab: 1842;  scads: 1925;  scallops: 1994;  scalp: 1852;  scalper: 1898;  schools: 1796;  scrammy: 1857;  screen door: 1903;  scribbly gum: 1886;  scrub up well: 1977;  scrub-bash: 1929;  scungy: 1927;  sea-breeze: 1830;  search party: 1833;  selector: 1862;  selfie: 2013;  semaphore: 1836;  semi-detached: 1850;  Send it down, Hughie: 1910;  sent out: 1882;  Seppo: 1998;  serve, give him a: 1986;  servo: 1985;  settler: 1803;  shag on a rock, a: 1843;  shandygaff: 1848;  shanty: 1830;  shanty: 1832;  shearing: c. 1840;  sheep dog: 1821;  sheila: 1921;  she’ll be right: 1848;  sheoak: 1803;  sheoak: 1803;  shicer: 1853;  shicker: 1883;  shindy: 1828;  shingle, lost or loose: 1846;  shirty: 1865;  shivoo: 1881;  shit for brains: 1984;  shivoo: 1882;  shonky: 1958;  shoot through: 1944;  shoot (wave): 1910;  short and curlies: 1982;  short arms, deep pockets: 1951;  shout: c. 1852;  show pony: 1940;  shypoo: 1881;  sick as a dog: 1830;  sickie: 1952;  silent cop: 1921;  silly coot: 1900;  silver-tails: 1879;  Simon Pure: 1832;  sin bin: 1968;  since sliced bread: 1952;  skedaddle: 1874;  skid lid: 1953;  skite: 1887;  sky-pilot: 1900;  slab of beer: 1911;  slanguage: 1896;  sledging: 1979;  sleepout: 1914;  sling off: 1891;  sling off: 1892;  sling your hook: 1884;  slip rails: c. 1845;  slop clothing: 1805;  slope: 1852;  slow as a wet week: 1923;  sly grog: 1825;  smallgoods: 1865;  smalls: 1945;  smoke: 1891;  smoke-oh: 1893;  smoodger: 1907;  snaggers: 1945;  snow-dropper: 1827;  Snowy Mountains: 1825;  Snowy River: 1834;  snuffle buster: 1875;  soldier settler: 1917;  songman: 1949;  sool: 1901;  sort: 1945;  southerly buster: 1854;  sparrow’s fart: 1942;  SP bookie: 1920;  Speewah: 1892;  spider: 1858;  spieler: 1881;  spifflicated: 1848;  spine bashing: 1941;  spitting chips: 1899;  spit the dummy: 1979;  split: c. 1833;  spruik: 1905;  squatter: 1825;  squiz: 1905;  standover: 1936;  station: c. 1860;  St George’s Terrace cocky: 1914;  sticky beak: 1917;  stiffener: 1906;  stir the possum: 1894;  stock horse: 1837;  stock station: 1823;  stockwhip: c. 1858;  stockyard: c. 1838;  stone the crows: 1913;  stonkered: 1918;  stony: 1899;  stony broke: 1883;  storekeeper: 1899;  stork (as a bringer of babies): 1920;  stoush: 1887;  strapped for cash: 1924;  stretcher: 1828;  strides: 1913;  stringybark: 1803;  Struth: 1895;  stubby: 1965;  stunned mullet: 1902;  such is life: 1880;  sucked in: 1863;  sulky: 1810;  sulky: 1900;  sundowner: 1906;  sunnies: 1961;  suss: 1994;  swag: 1851;  swag, humping the: 1851;  swag, humping the: 1852;  swagman: 1861;  swy: 1945;  Sydney Harbour: 1822;  Sydney or the bush: 1849;  Sydney side;  Sydneysider: 1852;  TAFE: 1974;  taipan (snake): 1932;  Tallowfat: 1862;  tall poppy: 1864;  tanks: 1791;  tanks: 1803;  tar pot: 1870;  tart: 1898;  Tassie: 1878;  Taswegian: 1940;  tea: 1834;  telephone: 1880;  Territorian: 1868;  The Ashes: 1882;  the pip: 1872;  the raw prawn: 1942;  The Rocks: 1803;  thick as two short planks: 1975;  thief: c. 1855;  thingummybob: 1945;  thongs: 1959;  thumb buster: 1873;  tickets of leave: 1806;  tickets on self: 1901;  tinny (beer): 1976;  tinny (boat): 1986;  tip the bucket: 1947;  tomahawker: 1873;  tommy: 1850;  too-hard basket: 1950;  too right: 1917;  Top End: 1923;  track: 1817;  tracky daks: 2000;  traps: c. 1831;  Traymobile:1919;  trey (threepence): 1900;  triantelope: c. 1845;  troppo: 1942;  truckie: 1945;  true blue: 1826;  tucker: 1852;  tucker bag: 1871;  tucker box: 1867;  turn dingo: 1940;  turps, on the: 1929;  turps, on the: 1962;  two-bob watch: 1922;  two men and a dog: 1887;  two shakes: 1839;  two up: 1855;  typhoid fever: 1883;  underground mutton: 1903;  under wet cement: 1978;  union: 1896;  union camp: 1887;  up a gumtree: 1845;  up the country: 1788;  up the duff: 1975;  up the pole: 1915;  up the spout: 1832;  urger: 1921;  Vandemonian: 1842;  veg out: 1986;  verandah: 1802;  vote with the feet: 1940;  waddy: 1801;  wag: 1885;  Walers: 1859;  walkabout: 1859;  wallaby: 1798;  wallaby stew: 1859;  wallaroo: 1828;  wanker: 1974;  waratah: 1797;  warrigal: 1841;  washing (for gold): 1849;  wash house: 1901;  water: 1788;  water bag: 1858;  wattle: 1789;  Wattle Day: 1895;  weather-board: 1838;  weirdo: 1968;  wet behind the ears: 1935;  whacko: 1934;  whaler: 1900;  wharfie: 1911;  wharf lumper: 1875;  What do you think this is? Bush week?: 1945;  what the cat dragged in: 1923;  wheelie bin: 1986;  whinger: 1907;  whiskers: 1829;  white-ant: 1919;  white ants: 1804;  wide awake hat: 1846;  widgie: 1950;  widow maker: 1990;  wigwam for a goose’s bridle: 1916;  wilga: 1879;  willy-willy: 1875;  wire: 1899;  within a bull’s roar: 1934;  within cooee: 1858;  wombat: 1799;  women in trousers: 1835;  Woolloomooloo: 1829;  woomera: 1793;  Woop Woop: 1910;  wouldn’t be dead for quids: 1921;  wowser: 1903;  wrinklies: 1969;  wurlie: 1839;  yabby: 1861;  yacker: 1875;  yarraman: 1846;  yobbo: 1975;  yonks: 1981;  your blood is worth bottling: 1903;  zack (sixpence): 1912;  Zambuck: 1926;  zonked: 1943;