Meet Swaggie Campbell, bush poet and Australia's last jolly swagman

Hand-crafted bunting in leftover fabric was strung, but among it all, one true blue swagman stood alone.

He hunched over, resting on his right leg, and had contortioned his stance in such away that he appeared to be falling backwards.

"They call me Swaggie Campbell," the 70-year old said, reaching out to shake my hand, ever-so softly, his joyful smile making its way through a frizzy white beard and his flowing white hair.

Around the sun-stained skin of his right hand, several festival bracelets are tied - Wallaby Creek, Townsville, Woodford, and today's Cobargo Folk Festival.

"Port Fairy Folk Festival is next."

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His knees are revealed through tears in his denim, and his shirt is a faded, red ochre.

Perched on his head, sat three different hats, with the sturdiest at the base, gifted by a lady on his travels to "protect him from the rain."

The original, that was now two decades old, appeared like leaves as it crumbled on top, yet a safety pin tried its best to secure it, and ribbons interlocked in Indigenous colours.

His burgundy maroon swag rested in front of him, tied by two black straps, and against two aged thick plastic bags that held a large clock, books, and scribbled paper, and alongside a tarnished brown bag that stated "Not all who wander are lost."

An old billycan to collect money was propped on top. Money for others, not for him Swaggie said.

The brim of his hat obscured his view, and through pauses, his fingers appeared to tap his thumb, mustering the next words to manifest.

"I am about to do a performance," he whispered.

So I took a few steps back.

"We pay our respects to the Yuin people, this morning, and we'll go straight into the show itself. We'll start off with a story..."

He stood alone, his back hunched from tirelessly slugging his home along stockman routes and dusty tracks of the Australian Outback, something he's been doing since he arrived from Aotearoa 48 years ago.

Folk festival admirers would smile momentarily, but most would continue on their chosen path to coffee and other tangible goods, missing the true jolly swagman.

A lady with round rose-tinted glasses arrived on my left, she couldn't hold back her bright smile upon seeing Swaggie.

She wore silver and green peacock earrings, a leafy-green Akubra to hide her purple hair, a beige linen long-sleeve button up, black dungarees covered in a native floral pattern, and mustard yellow boots.

Her name was Liz Lester, an early childhood music teacher in Canberra from Gungahlin Children's Centre.

She stood in awe, witnessing what she described as a "Stream of consciousness coming from within him".

"Join in the chorus, here we go," said Swaggie, as he began singing "Inanay", an Indigenous Australian lullaby in the Yorta Yorta language blended with spoken word.

Liz began to sing, and Swaggie's smile grew more infectious, stopping festival goers in their tracks.

But only the two of them knew the words.

"We haven't got many singers here," Swaggie said with a chuckle; the same joyful laugh that ended every sentence.

But regardless of the crowd that gathered, Swaggie kept performing because, as he said, "I want to keep the spirit of Waltzing Matilda alive".

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