Trouble On The Selection
By Henry Lawson
You lazy boy, youre 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 dont want Poleys calf to suck
His mother dry again.
And did you mend the broken rail
And make it firm and neat?
I spose you want that brindle steer
All night among the wheat.
And if he finds the lucerne patch,
Hell stuff his belly full;
Hell eat till he gets blown on that
And busts like Ryans bull.
Old Spot is lost? Youll drive me mad,
You will, upon my soul!
She might be in the boggy swamps
Or down a diggers hole.
You neednt talk, you never looked
Youd find her if youd choose,
Instead of poking possum logs
And hunting kangaroos.
How came your boots as wet as muck?
You tried to drown the ants!
Why dont you take your bluchers off,
Good Lord, hes tore his pants!
Your fathers coming home to-night;
Youll catch it hot, youll see.
Now go and wash your filthy face
And come and get your tea.