TROUBLE ON THE SELECTION

You lazy boy, you’ re here at last,

You must be wooden-legged

Now, are you sure the gate is fast

And all the sliprails pegged

And all the milkers at the yard,

The calves all in the pen?

We don’ t want Poley’ s calf to suck

His mother dry again.

And did you mend the broken rail

And make it firm and neat?

I s’ pose you want that brindle steer

All night among the wheat.

And if he finds the lucerne patch,

He’ ll stuff his belly full;

He’ ll eat till he gets‘ blown’ on that

And busts like Ryan’ s bull.

Old Spot is lost? You’ ll drive me mad,

You will, upon my soul!

She might be in the boggy swamps

Or down a digger’ s hole.

You needn’ t talk, you never looked

You’ d find her if you’ d choose,

Instead of poking’ possum logs

And hunting kangaroos.

How came your boots as wet as muck?

You tried to drown the ants!

Why don’ t you take your bluchers off,

Good Lord, he’ s tore his pants!

Your father’ s coming home to-night;

You’ ll catch it hot, you’ ll see.

Now go and wash your filthy face

And come and get your tea.