You may think the men work hard strike a drill,
Or you're weepln' fer the bushmen, whose great mauls, an' axes rang,
As they slaved for railway sleepers or the mill.
P'rhaps your' bosom's fairliy burstin' fer the fireman in the stoke.
Or the shearer or the miner in the drive.
Or the hodman, or the lumper, or the host of hungry folk,
That scramble fer a crust to keep alive. Let me tell you they're in clover, and should thank the spechul luck,
That has kep' 'em from the livin' death we die,
Who must milk the gentle bovine, bogged up to our knees in muck.
From before the dawn till stars are in the sky,
Though your fingers are all festered from the milkrots,
an' the rain, is just pourin' as it pours 'fore break of day,
Though your teeth are all a-chatter and your hands are numb with pain,
you must work on, fer the fact'ry can't delay. If your boss goes in fer farmin' an' grows , fodder fer the cows.
Then a kid can drive the fact'ry cart, an' you.
An' your fellow mournful milkmen can yoke up an' man the ploughs,
An' can cuss the clods an' 'stumps the long day through,
An' he'll bring your dinner to you cos you'd los a bit of time
A-toddlln' back an' forrads to the farms.
Then when evening's sun is sinkin' Just behind the mountain's chime,
You've your hundred teats to pull with weary arms. Then the playful pigs and poddies must be fed--you wish them all
where the devil drags his tall around the flames,
While the boss's cubs of kiddies love to nark you, an' they call
You Paunchy Bill, or Squintin' Mick, or sich-like names.
When you've cut a load of fodder fer the bovine 's mornin' meal,
An' you've tied the dawgs, 'an seen the gates is right,
You bolt your supper quickly, an' to bunk you softly steal,
Fer corn-huskin' might be programmed fer that night. 'An ' our day is fourteen hours, an' fer seven days a week,
Fer all holidays an' Sundays count the same.
We forget that they existed, we forget they're ours to seek.
It's a mercy that we don't forget, our name.
An' we're paid in silver shilling when the week is fully worn,
An' the rulin' rate of pay is eight to twelve.
But the thoughts of how we earn it make us grieve that we were born
To this ceaseless life of drudgery an' delve. If your tastes should run to darncln' 'an there's darnces held about,
With' your hair well oiled, an' new snake belt an' all.
An' your nose-wipe in your pocket, with a half-span danglin' out.
You proceed to paralyse 'em at the ball.
An' you pass a 'tart' your right wing, an' you arst her fer a waltz.
With a sniffle she turns her head ! -says "thank you, No."
An' she wrinkles up her dial same's if she was takin' salts,
Or had smelled a corpse that died a month ago. Then another tart will arst her, with, a titter "who's your friend.
With the Perfume de la Cowyard reekln' strong?"
"There's another couple wanted !" shouts the M.C., then you bend,
An' pluck an ancient wall flower from the throng.
Then you spin your partner through 'em like a dogged bull through a gate,
An' you leave 'em sprawlin' in spangled silk,
Fer the clock has struck a dozen, an the hour is growln' late--
Just another turn, an' then' off home to milk. P'rbaps your boss has got a 'daughter, 'an she sorter twists your heart,
Makin' eyes an' smllin' at you 'cross the ball.
Well of course your only human; an' you make eyes at the tart,
'An' into-her shell-like ear you pours a tale.
But her ole Mum has been foxzln', an ' her ole Dad smells a ratt,
Then spare me days ! you're fairly taken back
When they tells you they don't pay you for light duties sich as that.
An' presents you with the order of the sack. No; we haven't time for pleasure, an we haven't time to pray,
We're idolaters who; worship Madam Cow,
So if all they preach is gospel, then alas ! for us, I say.
If the devil casts his net he'll catch us now.
But we'll all get free some glad day from this life we little love,
An' there'll be no cows, no matter where we go,
For no bovine beast may bellow in the Pearly Realms above.
An' its far too hot to keep milk down below. Notes From the NSW Newspaper The Dungog Chronicle 27 Mar 1914 p. 10.