The Pannikin Poet

There's nothing here sublime,

But just a roving rhyme,

Run off to pass the time,

With nought titanic in

The theme that it supports,

And, though it treats of quarts,

It's bare of golden thoughts —

It's just a pannikin.

I think it's rather hard

That each Australian bard —

Each wan, poetic card —

With thoughts galvanic in

His fiery soul alight,

In wild aerial flight,

Will sit him down and write

About a pannikin.

He makes some new-chum fare

From out his English lair

To hunt the native bear,

That curious mannikin;

And then when times get bad

That wandering English lad

Writes out a message sad

Upon his pannikin:

“Oh, mother, think of me

Beneath the wattle tree”

( For you may bet that he

Will drag the wattle in )

“Oh, mother, here I think

That I shall have to sink,

There ai n't a single drink

The water-bottle in.”

The dingo homeward hies,

The sooty crows uprise

And caw their fierce surprise

A tone Satanic in;

And bearded bushmen tread

Around the sleeper's head —

“See here — the bloke is dead!

Now where's his pannikin?”

They read his words and weep,

And lay him down to sleep

Where wattle-branches sweep,

A style mechanic in;

And, reader, that's the way

The poets of to-day

Spin out their little lay

About a pannikin.