The Old Conservative

THE old bush-whacker bowed his head,
And mournfully he sighed and sighed
Like one who has not tasted bread
Or meat or beer since morning-tide.

And I, in that old shanty-bar,
In sympathy above him bent,
And said, “Friend, is it ill you are?
Or broken by some sad event?”

“Oh, sad, indeed! Oh, sad, indeed!”
He paused to drink a proffered beer,
Regardless that the foaming mead
He swelled with many a scalding tear.

Then, as he choked a great sob back,
(Or one last mouthful left behind),
He said, “For years I’ve tried this track,
And all the cockies have been kind.

“But now they’ve got no time for Bill,
And yakker they so basely shirk –
Their laziness has grown until
They ask me if I’ll do their work.”

Another tear dropped in his pot;
Another mournful sigh he drew,
Then added, “Lord, I don’t know wot
Orstralier is comin’ to.”