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Project Gutenberg Australia HomeReturn to Index of Poems
Now, where is old Lazy?
He’s drivin’ me crazy—
Say, lad, have you seen your grandfather about anywhere?
When he’s wanted he’s not to be found, when he isn’t he’s there.
I’ve called an’ I’ve called till I’m hoarse, and I’ve searched high and low;
He isn’t much use, but escapin’ a job he ain’t slow.
I waste half my time lookin’ round when there’s something to do.
Such a pest of my life is that man—he’s more worry than two.
All he is good for is loafin’ around ‘ere, an’ stuffin’ his tripe,
Or campin’ for hours in the paddock, an’ smokin’ his pipe.
That’s where he is now, or down yarnin’ at Carrotty Clegg’s;
An’ he’ll come home for dinner, an’ swear he’s been huntin’ for eggs.
Your grandfather’s ailin’?
His memory’s failin’.
He’s not quite as young, it is true, as he was in the past,
But it’s precious fine care he’s been takin’ to make himself last.
He can never remember to cut me a stick for the fire,
Unless I keep doggin’ him up—an’ that raises my ire.
When I take up the axe an’ I chop a few splinters meself,
He’s as deaf as that ebony image up there on the shelf;
Though when I’m extractin’ a cork from a bottle, my dear,
I’m often surprised at the keenness an’ po’w’r of his ear.
‘Tis lapses he has, so he says, of good hearin’ an’ bad;
But the lapses are never convenient, an’ that makes me mad.
See if he’s asleep in
The barn while I’m sweepin’—
What’s that you say, laddie? Lor’ save us, his hat’s in the well!
My poor Davie, he’s drowned! An’ I thought he was havin’ a spell,
As he was deservin’, poor man, after workin’ so hard,
A-weedin’ the garden this mornin’, an’ cleanin’ the yard.
The mate o’ my life! What I’ll do I dunno, if he’s dead.
Good, honest old Dave, the best ‘usband as ever broke bread.
Forty years we were married, next May, an’ the sun never shone
On a happier couple. An’ now he has left me alone—
A sorrowin’ widder. Oh, find me someone as can dive.
I’d give the last years of my life to see Davie alive.
I’ll die broken-hearted,
As sure as we’re parted.
Such a dear soul he was; so unselfish, an’ lovin’, an’ kind.
I’d never a wish but he’d grant, if he worked himself blind—
What’s that? There he is—are you sure?—risin’ up from the grass?
Good lawks! It’s his ghost! No, it ain’t—it’s himself—bold as brass!
Well, of all the old schemers! Deceivin’ a body like that!
For two pins I would scruff him, an’ pitch him in after his hat.
The dirty old loafer, who leaves all the toilin’ to me;
An’ me wastin’ me sorrer a-thinkin’ at last I was free.
It’s only when dinner time’s nigh he comes pokin’ about.
Get out o’ my sight, you old dog, or I’ll stiffen you out!
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