There's four of us'on Tuppal farms who very often meet,
We talk of horses, cows and sheep, and prospects of the wheat,
We' all were bright arid cheerful, till M'Grady got the pip,
His moaning put an awful strain on our good fellow ship.
We met one Sunday afternoon, and started talking "shop,"
I said to Mac. "What do you think you'll harvest from your crop"
He cried "Such questions make me mad it's getting past a joke,
I'll give you my opinion straight," and thus McGrady spoke :
"There won't be any harvest, man, Just see that fellow there--
I've worked it well, sowed 60 lbs an acre, and it's bare.
There's none of us will have a.crop--or just the lucky few,
Like Waite (whose luck would beat the chow), O'Reilly here and you.
You fellows talk about hard luck, andlook at your crops now,
Why wheat would grow just anywhere you like to stick the plow.
I work the land, and make it fine but you don't seem to care,
Just throw the seed in anyhow, and lo ! the crop is there ;
But as for me--my luck, is out, I tell you for a fact,
I sowed five hundred acres, and wont set my d--d seed back.
Both night and day I toiled to sow that crop I'll never reap,
I might have saved my energy, and had a lot more-sleep.
Altho' I really must confess, I twice have tapped you all,
As far as I can see, it only means a harder fall
For you can talk September rains, late spring; and all that rot,
The crop I'm going to get this year, won't strip one bag the lot.
A man's an ass who takes a farm; and tries to make it pay,
He plows and harrows, sows and reaps. and stacks a bit of hay.
The cash he makes, he pays away, for debt there's no excuse,
And all that he gets out of it, is plenty of abuse.
You fellows' land seems nice and clean, I'll bet a score of notes
The bit of crop that's up on mine, Is nothing but wild oats.
'Patterson's Curse, 'Wild Irishman,' and Thistles all are there,
I'm pretty certain I could find a clump of Prickly Pear.
The paper says we'll get some rain, Oh well, suppose we do !
It wont do any good to me, it might do some for you.
It's on the cards-I-tell you this--if once we get a break,
The rain won't stop till all my crop is covered with a lake.
And if the crop does grow, I'll never strip a bit,
Cut worms and caterpillars soon will make a mess of it.
Take-all, root-rot, and rust there'll be, and, as it's turning brown,
Along will come a gale with hail, the rest will all go down.
There's just a chance it may survive the things I've mentioned here,
But there's one thing above all else that and oil, and such I've got,
Just as I've ordered bags, and twine, and oil, and such I've got,
Some fiend will drop a cigarette, and burn the blanky lot.
-G. W. Corey
Notes
From the NSW Newspaper The Land 5 Jul 1929 p. 12.
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