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Morning in the Hut

Edward S. Sorenson

A din of tinware in the light
Of early morn at Bogan Bight,
    And bleats in shed and pasture;
A crusty cook who growls on sight,
“Hot coffee left, tea on the right,
    And there’s the buns, and blast yer!”

From rows of bunks they tumble out,
The shearer and the rouseabout,
    Dag-picker and the presser,
With sleepy eyes and half a doubt
That cook’s too early with his shout
    Of “There’s the bell and bless her!”

They rush the cookhouse fore and aft;
Enough to drive the babbler daft,
    A-crowdin’ near and nearer;
And oft the smoky breezes waft
Anathemas upon the craft
    Of picker-up and shearer.

He bangs the dough with main and might,
And bustling with the morning’s flight,
    He grumbles, “Let’s get past yer!”
And to each hesitating wight
Rasps “Coffee left, tea on the right,
    And there’s the buns, and blast yer!”

With brownie, bun and steaming tot
They stand around the buckets hot,
    All gorming in a hurry,
Until they’ve gulped and scoffed the lot,
Then leave the cook to plan and plot,
    And curse the rice and curry.

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