(By J.H.C.G.)
Sing a song of taxes,
A pocket full of bills;
Eighty score of cockies
Telling of their ills,
With the last bill open
They all began to see,
That the days were over
When they could be free !
Sing a song of taxes,
And ore of dull despair ;
If Eighty score of cockies
With their loads to bear,
With the last load added,
They took the downhill track--
Time will come in plenty
When we'll wish them back.
Sing a song of cities,
And laws made for the land ;
From the hive of pleasure,
With report on ev'ry hand ;
Sing a song of "Cocky,"
Who fenced and grubbed and made
From the wilds a garden,
Where his children played.
Sing a song of Cocky
Towns rose in his wake;
Now they seek to plunder
All he has at stake.
When his days are over,
Still his work will stand,
Just another clearing
From the virgin land.
Sing a song of fool laws,
That break a country's back,
Passing all the burdens
Along as Cocky's whack.
Isn't he a worker ?
Hardest in the State !
Sad, the times that grind him
To such a dismal fate.
Sing a song of sixpence,
A pocket full of chaff ;
Eighty score of cockies
Who fail to raise a laugh.
When their pie was opened,
They found it full of bills--
Wasn't that a pretty dish
To add to Cocky's ills ?
Notes
From the NSW Newspaper The Gosford Times and Wyong District Advocate 12 Aug 1926 p, 10.
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