When I beheld a rouseabout
Who lay upon his back
Beside a little house about
A furlong from the track.

I had a lot to talk about,
And said to him “Good day.” 
But he got up to walk about,
And so I went away—­

A CHANGE OF AIR

Now, a man in Oodnadatta
He grew fat, and he grew fatter,
   Though he hardly had a thing to eat for dinner;
While a man in Booboorowie
Often sat and wondered how he
   Could prevent himself from growing any thinner.

So the man from Oodnadatta
   He came down to Booboorowie,
Where he rapidly grew flatter;
   And the folk will tell you how he
Urged the man from Booboorowie
   To go up to Oodnadatta—­
Where he lived awhile, and now he
   Is considerably fatter.

POLLY DIBBS

Mrs Dibbs—­Polly Dibbs,
   Standing at a tub,
Washing other people’s clothes—­
   Rub-Rub-Rub. 
Poor, old, skinny arms
   White with soapy foam—­
At night she takes her shabby hat
   And goes off home.

Mrs Dibbs—­Polly Dibbs—­
   Is not very rich. 
She goes abroad all day to scrub,
   And home at night to stitch. 
She wears her shabby hat awry,
   Perched on a silly comb;
And people laugh at Polly Dibbs
   As she goes home.

Mrs Dibbs—­Mother Dibbs—­
   Growing very old,
Says, “it’s a hard world!”
   And sniffs and drats the cold. 
She says it is a cruel world,
   A weary world to roam. 
But God will smile on Polly Dibbs
   When she goes Home.

* * *

I suspect the Kookaburra,
For his methods are not thorough
In his highly praised campaign against the snakes. 
And the small birds, one and all,
Curse him for a cannibal—­
Though he certainly is cheerful when he wakes.

* * *

LULLABY

You are much too big to dandle,
And I will not leave the candle. 
   Go to sleep. 
You are growing naughty, rather,
And I’ll have to speak to father. 
   Go to sleep! 
If you’re good I shall not tell, then. 
Oh, a story?  Very well, then. 
   Once upon a time, a king, named Crawley Creep,
Had a very lovely daughter . . . . 
You don’t want a drink of water! 
   Go to sleep!  There!  There!  Go to sleep.

* * *

I wonder why I wear a tie.  It is not warm to wear;
But if I left it off someone would say it was not there.

I wonder, if I took a whiff of father’s pipe for fun,
Would I be big and strong like him, or just his small, sick son?

I wonder when our old white hen will know her squawk betrays her. 
I think she lets us find her eggs just so that we shall praise her.

* * *

THE PUBLISHER