There's nothing here sublime,
But just a roving rhyme,
Run off to pass the time,
With nought titanic in
The theme that it supports,
And, though it treats of quarts,
It's bare of golden thoughts —
It's just a pannikin.
I think it's rather hard
That each Australian bard —
Each wan, poetic card —
With thoughts galvanic in
His fiery soul alight,
In wild aerial flight,
Will sit him down and write
About a pannikin.
He makes some new-chum fare
From out his English lair
To hunt the native bear,
That curious mannikin;
And then when times get bad
That wandering English lad
Writes out a message sad
Upon his pannikin:
“Oh, mother, think of me
Beneath the wattle tree”
( For you may bet that he
Will drag the wattle in )
“Oh, mother, here I think
That I shall have to sink,
There ai n't a single drink
The water-bottle in.”
The dingo homeward hies,
The sooty crows uprise
And caw their fierce surprise
A tone Satanic in;
And bearded bushmen tread
Around the sleeper's head —
“See here — the bloke is dead!
Now where's his pannikin?”
They read his words and weep,
And lay him down to sleep
Where wattle-branches sweep,
A style mechanic in;
And, reader, that's the way
The poets of to-day
Spin out their little lay
About a pannikin.