With pannikins all rusty,
And billy burnt and black,
And clothes all torn and dusty,
That scarcely hide his back;
With sun-cracked saddle-leather,
And knotted greenhide rein,
And face burnt brown with weather,
Our Andys home again!
His unkempt hair is faded
With sleeping in the wet,
Hes looking old and jaded;
But he is hearty yet.
With eyes sunk in their sockets
But merry as of yore;
With big cheques in his pockets,
Our Andys home once more!
Old Uncles bright and cheerful;
He wears a smiling face;
And Auntys never tearful
Now Andys round the place.
Old Blucher barks for gladness;
He broke his rusty chain,
And leapt in joyous madness
When Andy came again.
With tales of flood and famine,
On distant northern tracks,
And shady yarnsbaal gammon!
Of dealings with the blacks,
From where the skies hang lazy
On many a northern plain,
From regions dim and hazy
Our Andys home again!
His toil is nearly over;
Hell soon enjoy his gains.
Not long hell be a drover,
And cross the lonely plains.
Well happy be for ever
When hell no longer roam,
But by some deep, cool river
Will make us all a home.
