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DRAW your chair to the fire old woman
The days are warm but the nights are cold
So, they’ve hunted our milkers off the common
And pounded them, calves and all, I’m told
Had I caught “Long Henderson” driving “Molly”
I’d have made him tell me ‘the reason why’
He’d scarcely have answered you so jolly
Had I turned the corner suddenly
Faith, ’tis time we laid our oars in the rullocks
We’ve got no right of commanage now
And the sheep are sold and the working bullocks
And the cattle, all but the strawberry cow
I felt my heart for the moment soften
When the butcher offered me three pound five
For the poor old thing that you’ve milked so often—
She sha’n’t be slaughtered while I’m alive
And Robinson Brown has sent me his bill dear
And Morton Jones has taken the lease
And the kangaroo dogs, ‘Lion’ and ‘Kildeer’
Are sold for fifty shillings apiece
I’m sorry to part with the red dog, truly
At fifty shillings I call him cheap
But the brindled dog is a trifle unruly—
Oh Carrington Jackson, mind your sheep
I’m sure if Giles is satisfied, I am
The horses averaged well and though
I’d like to have kept the colt by ‘Priam’
’Tis just as well that I let him go
For if my creditors won’t be losers
I’ve set them scratching their heads, mayhap
And you know that some folk mustn’t be choosers
Which folk I belong to—‘verbum sap’
I’ve had an interview with the banker
And I found him civil, and even kind
But the game’s up here, we must weight the anchor
We’ve the surf before and the rocks behind
So trim the canvas, and clear the gangways
They’ve got the great unwashed on their side
It’s no use sparring with ‘Templar Strangways’
It’s no use kicking at ‘Lavendar Glyde’
And I guess it’s all U P with the squatter
The people are crying aloud for the land
They’ve made it hot and they’ll find it hotter
When they plough the limestone and sow the sand
“All flesh is grass,” so saith the preacher
“All grass is ours,” quoth Randolph Stow
Is the man related to Harriet Beecher?
With mobile vulgus he’s all the go
And years to come in the book of Hansard
You may read the tale of the frogs retold
How they prayed for a king, how their prayer was answered
How the king was crowned, and the frogs were sold
How they ended, the schemes whose names were ‘Legion’
In the Mephisopheles laughter note
From the depths of the Mariner’s gastric region
That rattled up to his innocent throat
I wish you’d write me a line to Maddox
(My fingers are cramped with that boring brute)
I’ll take his bid for the purchased paddocks
The sum we mentioned he won’t dispute
I might have made better terms with Parker
If he hadn’t known I was forced to sell
But I couldn’t have kept these matters darker
I didn’t try to—’tis just as well
Fred Carson made an offer for Lancer—
’Twas a little less than his hide would bring
You may guess I gave him a civil answer
Which put a stop to his huckstering
I loosed the old nag at the sliding railing
And carried my saddle up to the hut
His eyes, as well as his limbs are failing
He scarcely knew when the gate was shut
Aye, troubles are coming upon us thickly
’Tis hard to leave the old place at last
And you’re not strong, and the baby’s sickly
And your mothers ailing and aging fast
I remember the days when credit was plenty
And years were few, but those days are o’er
Old Beranger sings of the joy of twenty
But I shall never see thirty more
It’s no use talking, things might have been better
And then again they might well be worse—
You needn’t trouble about that letter
The youngster’s squalling for a nurse
And your hand is surely unsteady
That writing looks to be all askew
What! are there tears in your eyes already?
Come, old girl, this will never do!
I might have taken Time by the forelock
I might have made my hay in the sun
I might have foreseen—but wizard or warlock
Could never undo what has been done
And at least I’ve wantonly injured no man
Although I’ve lived on the people’s land—
Draw your chair to the fire, old woman
And mix a drop of the battle axe brand
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