Trouble on the Selection

You lazy boy, you’re here at last,
  You must be wooden-legged;
Now, are you sure the gate is fast
  And all the sliprails pegged
And all the milkers at the yard,
  The calves all in the pen?
We don’t want Poley’s calf to suck
  His mother dry again.
And did you mend the broken rail
  And make it firm and neat?
I s’pose you want that brindle steer
  All night among the wheat.
And if he finds the lucerne patch,
  He’ll stuff his belly full;
He’ll eat till he gets ‘blown’ on that
  And busts like Ryan’s bull.

Old Spot is lost? You’ll drive me mad,
  You will, upon my soul!
She might be in the boggy swamps
  Or down a digger’s hole.
You needn’t talk, you never looked
  You’d find her if you’d choose,
Instead of poking ’possum logs
  And hunting kangaroos.

How came your boots as wet as muck?
  You tried to drown the ants!
Why don’t you take your bluchers off,
  Good Lord, he’s tore his pants!
Your father’s coming home to-night;
  You’ll catch it hot, you’ll see.
Now go and wash your filthy face
  And come and get your tea.