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Project Gutenberg Australia HomeReturn to Index of Poems
Through scented gum, through brigalow and mulga,
Along the Darling, Paroo and the Culg’a,
From wild Orara to the thirsty Bulga,
Lord stitch my pants!
(’Tis persecution, man, that makes me vulga’)
There’s plaguing ants.
Although I’ve wandered in the tramp’s regalia,
From sea to sea, into its penetralia,
I’ve never yet discovered in Australia
Wild elephants,
Or that delightful spot (alas, the failure!)
Unknown to ants.
I’ve pitched my camp according to convention,
In every kind of place that you could mention;
To sand, and loam, and clay I’ve giv’n attention,
Likewise to plants;
But nary once by chance or with intention
Eluded ants.
The night when I proposed to Hannah Thatcher
(There was no girl in all the land to match her),
She bounded up and off—nor could I catch her,
Because—O Cant!
Where ’twould have been indelicate to scratch her,
There was an ant.
In drought and flood, in every kind of weather,
’Tis certain man and ant will be together;
And though it is a battery ’gainst a feather,
He mostly grants,
When one or two invade his basement leather,
The field to ants.
A spot at times belieth my conclusion,
When man awhile knows freedom from intrusion;
But jam or steak soon shows him his delusion;
And he descants,
With qualifying adjuncts in profusion,
On swarming ants.
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