The country's goin' fast to ruin!This edication's our undoin',We're comin' to a pretty pass,Our boys who scarce have been to grass,Have all gone off, bound to the teachers,Or city clerks, or peddlin' preachers;Our darters too, are quite Sultanas,All strummin' on them cuss'd pianos,And try to trip us up with rulesThey've learn'd away at Grammar Schools,And look upon the likes o' me--Who nurs'd them criters on my knee--As far beneath them,--Gee Buck Gee!
And then they're all Book Farmers too!And they would teach me what to do;Manurin', ploughin', drainin', seedin',All farmin's to be done by readin'!O Lord! O Lord! it makes me mad,When every striplin' o' a lad,And every edicated ass,Who scarce knows growin' wheat from grass,Must teach the like o' me to farm,Wi' Latin names as long's my arm;Them criters teach the like o' me?Who farm'd ere they could reach my knee,Aint it presumption?--Gee Buck Gee!
I tell ye what! them and their books,Are getting to be perfect pukes;And sure enough this edicationWill be the ruin o' the nation;We'll not ha' men, it's my opinion,Fit to defend our New Dominion;Not one o' them can swing an axe,But they will bore you with the facts;I'd send the criters off to work,But that, by any means they'll shirk!Grandad to some o' them I be,O, that's what riles and vexes me!Ain't it a caution?--Gee Buck Gee!
