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.