“I’m coming, Ma.  I’ve been so far-around by Duggan’s Corner. 
I had to stay awhile to say ‘Good day’ to Mr Horner. 
I feel so fagged; I’ve tramped and dragged through mud and over logs, Ma—­
I could not go short-cuts, you know, because of bulls and dogs, Ma. 
The creek, Ma?  Why, it’s very high!  You don’t call that a gutter? 
Bill Horner chews tobacco, Ma . . . .  I’d like some bread and butter.”

THE BAND

Hey, there!  Listen awhile!  Listen awhile, and come. 
Down in the street there are marching feet, and I hear the beat of a drum. 
Bim!  Boom!!  Out of the room!  Pick up your hat and fly! 
Isn’t it grand?  The band!  The band!  The band is marching by!

Oh, the clarinet is the finest yet, and the uniforms are gay. 
     Tah, rah!  We don’t go home—­
     Oom, pah!  We won’t go home—­
Oh, we shan’t go home, and we can’t go home when the band begins to play.

Oh, see them swinging along, swinging along the street! 
Left, right! buttons so bright, jackets and caps so neat. 
Ho, the Fire Brigade, or a dress parade of the Soldier-men is grand;
But everyone, for regular fun, wants a Big-Brass-Band.

The slide-trombone is a joy alone, and the drummer!  He’s a treat! 
     So, Rackety-rumph!  We don’t go home—­
     Boom, Bumph!  We won’t go home—­
Oh, we shan’t go home, and we can’t go home while the band is in the street. 
     Tooral-ooral, Oom-pah! 
                                 The band is in the street!

BESSIE AND THE BUNYIP

Bessie met a bunyip down along the track,
In his hand a billy and a swag upon his back. 
And you will hardly believe it, but when Bessie shouted,"Shoo!”
He turned a double somersault and went quite blue.

GOOD ENOUGH

I do not think there ever was,
   Or ever will, or ever could be,
A little girl or little boy
   As good as she or as he should be.

But still, I think, you will agree,
   Though perfect very, very few are,
They’re not so bad when “pretty good”—­
   That’s just about as good as you are.

THE PORTER

I’d like to be a porter, and always on the run,
Calling out, “Stand aside!” and asking leave of none. 
Shoving trucks on people’s toes, and having splendid fun,
Slamming all the carriage doors and locking every one—­
And, when they asked to be let in, I’d say, “It can’t be done.” 
   But I wouldn’t be a porter if . . . 
      The luggage weighed a ton. 
         Would you?

GROWING UP

Little Tommy Tadpole began to weep and wail,
For little Tommy Tadpole had lost his little tail;
   And his mother didn’t know him as he wept upon a log,
   For he wasn’t Tommy Tadpole, but Mr. Thomas Frog.