The Old Stockman's Lament

Wrap me up in me stockwhip and blanket,     And bury me deep down below,     Where this piffle and sham wont disgust me,     In the land where the coolibahs grow;     For Ive stayed with some well-to-do people,     And Ive dined with some middle-class folk;     And Ive sorrowed by clock-tower and steeple     Till my heart for the Commonwealths broke.     They have flown in another direction,     Who used to clack-clack by the hour     Of this awful Freetrade and Protection,     Of our dear darling member in power,     And the Higher Religion for Dossers,     And the Need of an Object for Drunks,     Now theyre all of them Red or Blue Crossers,     With their tails sticking out of their trunks.     There are citified Martins in dozens,     The Darling Point Martins the pick,     Who used to be horrified cousins     Of a Martin we knew as Mad Mick.     He is hanging out somewhere where French is;     But they heard hed enlisted, somehow,     And twould paralyse Mick in the trenches     To know how hes glorified now.     You remember the George Henry Crosses?     Theyve packed up twelve trunks in despair.     Hes the boss of the back-station bosses,     And Ernies the son and the heir.     He has never put hands on a wether,     Nor heard a pithed store-bullock grunt;     So theyre taking the mailboat to England     To see Ernie safe to the Front.     And each of the war-going parsons     Costs many a heart-breaking tear,     Like that caddish young cub of old Carsons,     All found and four hundred a year.     He feels not a word that he preaches,     But he will not be criticised there,     Where, out where the flying shell screeches,     Poor Tommy must fight, sweat and swear.     Our relatives, too (hang the Censor!)     Each girl has a tear on her cheek.     Cousin Roger has gone as dispenser     (Expenses and three pounds a week.     More risky than listning to sermons,     As some of our fellows will find,     Is a fierce fortnights fight with the Germans     In front, and with Roger behind.)     And the Girls, they are writing like blazes,     And Auntie is moaning like hell;     And I wish I was under the daisies,     Or the bluegum would do just as well.     So I want to be wropped in me blanket,     And buried down, deep down, below;     Where this cant and this cackle wont reach me,     In the land where the coolibahs grow.