(By "Bush Rat")
There's a paddock called the China man's
Out by Moran's Flat,
An old bark hut by the roadside,
Where a man lives on his pat.
Sometimes he caches rabbits,
At times he looks for gold ;
He likes to balance the budget
Now that he's getting old.
He rises early inf the morning.
Puts on the billy-can,
Then he makes himself a pot of tea--
The best drink for any man.
Then he walks out the old door
And has a look around.
He sees things of they were before
And hears the old familiar sound.
What's that rumble up the road ?
He turns around his head.
Sounds like some old thresher,
No, it's Sam Cook with the bread.
A dog barks in the distance,
An old bull gives a roar.
A puff or two at cigarette
And he limps back in the door.
As he gazes into the fire
And reflects upon the times,
He leaves the booze alone for months,
But then might have a drop of wine.
But by this time it's getting late,
He makes off to his traps.
There are not so many rabbits,
But he has to do the lap.
Now he struggles home for lunch,
He has his traps set up once more;
Only for those bally foxes
He would probably get a score.
As the months, the years roll by,
As far as he can see,
He will not leave this same old hut,
Because as happy he may not be.
He is a well-educated man
I have heard the people say ;
It does not matter who he is,
He's not Mr. McKay.
Notes
From the NSW Newspaper The Braidwood Dispatch and Mining Journal 8 Jun 1945 p. 1.