Exodus Parthenidae
The Lay of the Last Squatter
Draw your chair to the fire, old woman,
The days are warm, but the nights are cold ;
So, they've hunted our milkers off the common,
And pounded them, calves and all, I'm told.
Had I caught 'Long Henderson' driving 'Molly,'
I'd have made him tell me 'the reason why' ;
He'd scarcely have answered you so jolly,
Had I turned the corner suddenly.
Faith, 'tis time we laid our oars in the rullocks,
We've got no right of commonage now,
And the sheep are sold, and the working bullocks
And the cattle, all but the strawberry cow ;
I felt my heart for the moment soften
When the butcher offered me three pound five
For the poor old thing that you've milked so often—
She sha'n't be slaughtered while I'm alive.
And Robinson Brown has sent me his bill, dear,
And Morton Jones has taken the lease,
And the kangaroo dogs, 'Lion' and 'Kildeer,'
Are sold for fifty shillings apiece ;
I'm sorry to part with the red dog, truly,
At fifty shillings I call him cheap,
But the brindled dog is a trifle unruly—
Oh ! Carrington Jackson, mind your sheep.
I'm sure if Giles is satisfied, I am ;
The horses averaged well, and though
I'd like to have kept the colt by 'Priam,'
'Tis just as well that I let him go ;
For if my creditors won't be losers,
I've set them scratching their heads, mayhap,
And you know that some folk mustn't be choosers,
Which folk I belong to—'verbum sap.'
I've had an interview with the banker,
And I found him civil, and even kind ;
But the game's up here, we must weigh the anchor,
We've the surf before, and the rocks behind ;
So trim the canvas, and clear the gangways,
They've got the great unwashed on their side ;
It's no use sparring with 'Templar Strangways,'
It's no use kicking at 'Lavendar Glyde.'
And I guess it's all U P with the squatter ;
The people are crying aloud for the land ;
They've made it hot, and they'll find it hotter
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poem by Adam Lindsay Gordon
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