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The Days Of Lambing Down

Edward S. Sorenson

Whitty’s shanty, on the track to Koopa Creek
    Was a place of humble looks an’ wide renown
Blokes would land there, with a pile, an’ in a week
    They wouldn’t ‘ave as much as ‘alf a crown.
They could drown
A fortune in those days of lambin’ down.

There was old Morginty Bob, all straight an’ trim,
    Struck the shanty with his pockets bulgin’ out;
He’d the pick of all the Koopa under him,
    An’ his pack ‘orse ‘ad no equal thereabout;
But he’d shout,
An’ pretty soon the lot went up the spout.

Then were ‘ardened boozers waitin’ there for jobs,
    An’ though answerin’ to such names as Jack an’ Pat,
Whitty’s ledger made ‘em all Morginty Bobs,
    An’ no one dreamed of contradictin’ that!
Bob was fat.
But the leeches couldn’t muster up a sprat.

Well, Morginty in a week or so would wake,
    An’ ‘twas time for him to think o’ gettin’ back;
He was broke, an’ there was nothing more to stake;
    So, says Whitty, as he brought him out his pack,
“Here’s a snack,
An’ a ‘alf a flask o’ whisky for the track.”

With his quart an’ scanty swag he’d tramp away
    Revilin’ pubs that blocked the way to town.
But back he’d come ‘ere long, full-rigged an’ gay,
    An’ he’d open up proceedings with a crown.
Poor old clown!
‘Twas the anchor in the days of lambin’ down.

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