“Quite right!” the weary pedestrian said,
as they doctored the shearer with tar;
“as you say, a ticket from Whitely King
In the West, won’t carry you far.
“For a manager runs to secure us as soon
as he hears we’ve landed in Bourke,
and says, as he putting us on, ‘Thank God!
I’ve now got some men who can work.”
And loafing for tucker in shearers’ huts
With us isn’t reckoned the thing,
We leave that sort of work to bummers who can’t
Get a ticket from Whitely King.
“Quite right!:” the battered old shearer said,
as he turned to his humpy to go;
Of course you’re aware what I said up above,
Is only the regular blow.”
Got up by those jokers who seem to be fit
For nothing but putting on airs;
The half-swell blokes, in the half-boiled shirts,
“Who howl ‘workers herwake,’ and ‘toilers herise,’
Though they know it isn’t the thing,
For both workers and toilers have ‘riz’d’ and ‘herwaked’
And they now swear by Whitely King.