ON the Sunday morning mustered,
    Yarning at our ease;
Buggies, traps and jinkers clustered
    Underneath the trees,
Horses tethered to the fences;
Thus we hold our conferences
Waiting till the priest commences—
    Pitchin’ at the Church.

Sheltering in the summer’s shining
    Where the shadows fall;
When the winter’s sun is pining,
    Lined along the wall;
Yarning, reckoning, ruminating,
“Yeos” and lambs and wool debating,
Squatting, smoking, idly waiting—
    Pitchin’ at the Church.

Young bloods gathered from the others
    Tell their dreamings o’er;
Beaded-bonneted old mothers
    Grouped around the door;
Dainty bush girls, trim and fairy,
All that’s neat and sweet and airy—
Nell, and Kate, and Laughing Mary—
    Pitchin’ at the Church.

Up comes someone briskly driving,
    “Cutting matters fine”:
All his “fam’ly lot” arriving
    Wander in a line
Off in some precise direction,
Till they find their proper section,
Greet it with an interjection—
    Pitchin’ at the Church.

“Mornun’, Jack.” “Good mornun’, Martin.”
    “Keepin’ pretty dry!”
“When d’you think you’ll finish cartin’?”
    “Prices ain’t too high?”
Round about the yarnin’ strayin’—
Dances, sickness-frocks surveyin’—
Wheat is “growed,” the “hens is layin’”—
    Pitchin’ at the Church.