Sydney Town In 91

Let us sing a song as not a     Solitary poet sings,     For our seething brain has got a     Mighty grip on earthly things;     We can feel the strength within us,     And our soul is bounding high,     And our hissing pen shall win us     Wealth and Beauty by-and-bye.     Listen to the thunder swelling     Till the mighty west vibrates!     Tis the horny-handed yelling     For the Labour candidates!     Hear the language of the frisky     Push assisting at the fun:     Liberty, and rum and whisky!     Sydney town in 91.     Whack the poor and cut a caper,     Turn the taps and shout wharroo!     For each Sydney leading paper     Has a candidate or two.     Every new one is an ember,     Lighting up this land of sin,     Clever little B, , k is member     For the Sydney Bulletin.     Wherefore hang our curls in sloppy     Mats of ink upon our brow?     Hark! the devil yells for copy,     And the comps are swearing now.     Put in Parkes and Dan OConnor     While the nation swears and laughs,     They are good, upon my honour     They are good for paragraphs!     Stone them, egg them, flour-bag them,     Pelt and whelt them black and blue!     Swear at them, and bully-rag them,     Vote for them, and put them through!     What is fame, and what is money     While the sky is still oerhead?     I would vote for Garden Honey,     Only Garden Honeys dead.     Every mans as goods his neighbour,     We will lead the nations van.     (If hed swear to fight for Labour     Wed return a Chinaman.)     Squash the hills and shout Hosanna!     Wake the nations! New South Wales!     Nail the shining Southern Banner     To the Pole with two-inch nails!     Renegades! our hearts grow lighter     As the roving seasons flow.     Time will teach, for een the writer     Yelled for Freedom long ago;     Yelled unto the hungry toiler,     Fought to break the tyrants power,     Till his over-heated boiler     Needed wetting evry hour!     What care we for Federation?     And the loan may float or drown;     Will a brother in the nation     Only lend us half-a-crown?     Heavens! but our heads are aching,     Theres a throbbing in our brows;     Let us go to gaol for taking     Part in federated rows.     Ah! the land without elections     Is a lonely land indeed;     We must take our joy in sections,     While our flaming countries bleed!     Glorious harvest for reporters,     Load your pens and fire away,     While the railway guards and porters     Get a jolly holiday.     Let us think and rave and borrow     Yards from poets who are dead,     Bards who died of ruin and sorrow     In the gutter and the shed.     Federate the hanged creation!     (Snake thats born of rum! whats that?)     Lo! the throes of inspiration     Scare the mangy office cat!     Though the scythe of Time is brittle,     Taking every sweep a year,     We shall jog his arm a little     In the Southern Hemisphere.     Let the northern nations squabble,     We will row another boat;     Lord, well make the planet wobble     When we get One Man One Vote.     We will hold this Eldorado     Island of the evergreen;     Let the soldiers and Recardo     Go to hell, or Argentine!     Weve the power, and we are waiting;     Why the day of deeds defer     While our sons are emigrating     To the planet Jupiter?     Brightest spot upon the planet     Is the land where I was born,     And the lunatics who man it     Are the rising sons of morn.     Take the song and sing it gaily,     For the times are very ripe;     Let the crawling, lying daily     Set it up in mortgaged type.     The muse was forcibly ejected at this point.