On a lonely selection far out in the West An old woman works all the day without rest, And she croons, as she toils 'neath the sky's glassy dome, `Sure I'll keep the ould place till the childer come home.' ...
Let us sing in tear-choked numbers how the Duke of Clarence went, Just to make a royal sorrow rather more pre-eminent. Ladies sighed and sobbed and drivelled, toadies spoke with bated breath,...
'The ladies are coming,' the super says To the shearers sweltering there, And 'the ladies' means in the shearing shed: 'Don't cut 'em too bad. Don't swear.' The ghost of a pause in the shed's rough heart,...
When you wear a cloudy collar and a shirt that isn't white, And you cannot sleep for thinking how you'll reach to-morrow night, You may be a man of sorrows, and on speaking terms with Care,...
When you fear the barber's mirror when you go to get a crop, Or in sorrow every morning comb your hair across the top: When you titivate and do the little things you never used,...
Who'll wear the beaten colours, and cheer the beaten men? Who'll wear the beaten colours, till our time comes again? Where sullen crowds are densest, and fickle as the sea,...
The Big rough boys from the runs out back were first where the balls flew free, And yelled in the slang of the Outside Track: 'By God, it's a Christmas spree!'...