Trouble On The Selection

You lazy boy, youre 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 dont want Poleys calf to suck     His mother dry again.     And did you mend the broken rail     And make it firm and neat?     I spose you want that brindle steer     All night among the wheat.     And if he finds the lucerne patch,     Hell stuff his belly full;     Hell eat till he gets blown on that     And busts like Ryans bull.     Old Spot is lost? Youll drive me mad,     You will, upon my soul!     She might be in the boggy swamps     Or down a diggers hole.     You neednt talk, you never looked     Youd find her if youd choose,     Instead of poking possum logs     And hunting kangaroos.     How came your boots as wet as muck?     You tried to drown the ants!     Why dont you take your bluchers off,     Good Lord, hes tore his pants!     Your fathers coming home to-night;     Youll catch it hot, youll see.     Now go and wash your filthy face     And come and get your tea.