Trouble on the Selection by Henry Lawson

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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.

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