The Ballad Of Mabel Clare

Ye children of the Land of Gold,     I sing a song to you,     And if the jokes are somewhat old,     The main idea is new.     So be it sung, by hut and tent,     Where tall the native grows;     And understand, the song is meant     For singing through the nose.     There dwelt a hard old cockatoo     On western hills far out,     Where everything is green and blue,     Except, of course, in drought;     A crimson Anarchist was he,     Held other men in scorn,     Yet preached that evry man was free,     And also ekal born.     He lived in his ancestral hut,     His missus wasnt there,     And there was no one with him but     His daughter, Mabel Clare.     Her eyes and hair were like the sun;     Her foot was like a mat;     Her cheeks a trifle overdone;     She was a democrat.     A manly independence, born     Among the trees, she had,     She treated womankind with scorn,     And often cursed her dad.     She hated swells and shining lights,     For she had seen a few,     And she believed in womens rights     (She mostly gotem, too).     A stranger at the neighbring run     Sojourned, the squatters guest,     He was unknown to anyone,     But like a swell was dressd;     He had an eyeglass to his eye,     A collar to his ears,     His feet were made to tread the sky,     His mouth was formed for sneers.     He wore the latest toggery,     The loudest thing in ties,     Twas generally reckoned he     Was something in disguise.     But who he was, or whence he came,     Was long unknown, except     Unto the squatter, who the name     And noble secret kept.     And strolling in the noontide heat,     Beneath the blinding glare,     This noble stranger chanced to meet     The radiant Mabel Clare.     She saw at once he was a swell,     According to her lights,     But, ah! tis very sad to tell,     She met him oft of nights.     And, strolling through a moonlit gorge,     She chatted all the while     Of Ingersoll, and Henry George,     And Bradlaugh and Carlyle:     In short, he learned to love the girl,     And things went on like this,     Until he said he was an Earl,     And asked her to be his.     Oh, say no more, Lord Kawlinee,     Oh, say no more! she said;     Oh, say no more, Lord Kawlinee,     I wish that I was dead:     My head is in a hawful whirl,     The truth I dare not tell,     I am a democratic girl,     And cannot wed a swell!     Oh love! he cried, but you forget     That you are most unjust;     Twas not my fault that I was set     Within the upper crust.     Heed not the yarns the poets tell,     Oh, darling, do not doubt     A simple lord can love as well     As any rouseabout!     For you Ill give my fortune up,     Id go to work for you!     Ill put the money in the cup     And drop the title, too.     Oh, fly with me! Oh, fly with me     Across the mountains blue!     Hoh, fly with me! Hoh, fly with me!,     That very night she flew.     They took the train and journeyed down,     Across the range they sped,     Until they came to Sydney town,     Where shortly they were wed.     And still upon the western wild     Admiring teamsters tell     How Mabels father cursed his child     For clearing with a swell.     What ails my bird this bridal night,     Exclaimed Lord Kawlinee;     What ails my own this bridal night,     O love, confide in me!     Oh now, she said, that I am yaws     Youll let me weep, I must,     I did desert the peoples cause     To join the upper crust.     O proudly smiled his lordship then,     His chimney-pot he floord,     Look up, my love, and smile again,     For I am not a lord!     His eye-glass from his eye he tore,     The dickey from his breast,     And turned and stood his bride before     A rouseabout, confessd!     Unknown Ive loved you long, he said,     And I have loved you true,     A-shearing in your guvners shed     I learned to worship you.     I do not care for place or pelf,     For now, my love, Im sure     That you will love me for myself     And not because Im poor.     To prove your love I spent my cheque     To buy this swell rig-out;     So fling your arms about my neck     For Im a rouseabout!     At first she gave a startled cry,     Then, safe from cares alarms,     She sighd a soul-subduing sigh     And sank into his arms.     He pawned the togs, and home he took     His bride in all her charms;     The proud old cockatoo received     The pair with open arms.     And long they lived, the faithful bride,     The noble rouseabout,     And if she wasnt satisfied     She never let it out.