Tooral-ooral, Oom-pah!

The band is in the street!

BESSIE AND THE BUNYIP

Bessie met a bunyip down along the track, In his hand a billy and a swag upon his back.

And you will hardly believe it, but when Bessie shouted,"Shoo!"

He turned a double somersault and went quite blue.

GOOD ENOUGH

I do not think there ever was, Or ever will, or ever could be, A little girl or little boy As good as she or as he should be.

But still, I think, you will agree, Though perfect very, very few are, They're not so bad when "pretty good"-- That's just about as good as you are.

THE PORTER

I'd like to be a porter, and always on the run, Calling out, "Stand aside!" and asking leave of none.

Shoving trucks on people's toes, and having splendid fun, Slamming all the carriage doors and locking every one-- And, when they asked to be let in, I'd say, "It can't be done."

But I wouldn't be a porter if . . .

The luggage weighed a ton.

Would you?

GROWING UP

Little Tommy Tadpole began to weep and wail, For little Tommy Tadpole had lost his little tail; And his mother didn't know him as he wept upon a log, For he wasn't Tommy Tadpole, but Mr. Thomas Frog.

THE UNSOCIABLE WALLABY

Willie spied a wallaby hopping through the fern-- Here a jump, here a thump, there a sudden turn.

Willie called the wallaby, begging him to stop, But he went among the wattles with a flip, flap, flop!

I wonder whether, all together, you and I and father Could eat a bun that weighs a ton. I'd like to try it, rather.

I want to know why roosters crow at dawning of the day.

Is it because they cannot think of something else to say?

THE SONG OF THE SULKY STOCKMAN

Come, let us sing with a right good ring (Sing hey for lifting lay, sing hey!) Of any old, sunny old, silly old thing.

(Sing ho for the ballad of a backblock day!) The sun shone brightly overhead, And the shearers stood by the shearing shed; But "The run wants rain," the stockman said (Sing di-dum, wattle-gum, Narrabori Ned.

For a lifting lay sing hey!)

The colts were clipped and the sheep were shorn (Sing hey for a lilting lay, sing hey!) But the stockman stood there all forlorn.

(Sing ho for the ballad of a backblock day!) The rails were up and the gate was tied, And the big black bull was safe inside; But "The wind's gone West!" the stockman sighed (Sing, di-dum, wattle-gum, rally for a ride.

For a lifting lay sing hey!)

The cook came out as the clock struck one (Sing hey for a lilting lay, sing hey!) And the boundary rider got his gun.

(Sing ho for the ballad of a backblock day!) He fired it once at an old black crow; But the shot went wide, for he aimed too low; And the stockman said, "Fat stock is low."

(Sing, di-dum, wattle-gum, Jerridiiii Joe.

For a lifting lay sing hey!)

They spread their swags in the gum-tree's shade (Sing hey for a lilting lay, sing hey!) For the work was done and the cheques were paid.

(Sing ho for the ballad of a backblock day!) The overseer rode in at three, But his horse pulled back and would not gee, And the stockman said, "We're up a tree!"

(Sing, di-dum, wattle-gum, Johnny-cake for tea.

For a lilting lay sing hey!)

The sun sank down and the stars shone out (Sing hey for a lifting lay, sing hey!) And the old book-keeper moped about.

(Sing ho for the ballad of a backblock day!) The dingo wailed to the mopoke's call, The crazy colt stamped in his stall; But the stockman groaned, "it's bunk for all."

(Sing, di-dum, wattle-gum, wattle-gum, wattle-gum, Hey for a backblock day!

Sing hey!

Sing hey for a lifting lay!)

OUR COW

Down by the sliprails stands our cow Chewing, chewing, chewing, She does not care what folks out there In the great, big world are doing.

She sees the small cloud-shadows pa.s.s And green gra.s.s shining under.

If she does think, what does she think About it all, I wonder?

She sees the swallows skimming by Above the sweet young clover, The light reeds swaying in the wind And tall trees bending over.

Far down the track she hears the crack of bullock-whips, and raving Of angry men where, in the sun, Her fellow-beasts are slaving.

Girls, we are told, can scratch and scold, And boys will fight and wrangle, And big, grown men, just now and then, Fret o'er some fingle-fangle, Vexing the earth with grief or mirth, Longing, rejoicing, rueing-- But by the sliprails stands our cow, Chewing.

THE TEACHER

I'd like to be a teacher, and have a clever brain, Calling out, "Attention, please!" and "Must I speak in vain?"

I'd be quite strict with boys and girls whose minds I had to train, And all the books and maps and things I'd carefully explain; I'd make then learn the dates of kings, and all the capes of Spain; But I wouldn't be a teacher if . . .