The old year went, and the new ret… The cheque was spent that the shea… and the sheds were all cut out; The publican’s words were short an… and the publican’s looks were blac…

“Queensland,” he heads his letters… The date, and the month, and the y… He often sends me a cheerful scraw… With an undertone of ancient grief… The first seems familiar, but migh…

They stood by the door of the Inn… May Carney looked up in the bushr… ‘Oh! why did you come?—it was mad… You know that the troopers are out… A laugh and a shake of his obstina…

I mind the river from Mount Frome To Ballanshantie’s Bridge, The Mudgee Hills, and Buckaroo, Lowe’s Peak, and Granite Ridge. The “tailers” in the creek beneath…

The old Jimmy Woodser comes into… Unwelcomed, unnoticed, unknown, Too old and too odd to be drunk wi… So he glides to the end where the… And they say that he tipples alone…

It knows it all, it knows it all, The world of groans and laughter, It sneers of pride before a fall, But the bitter pride comes after: So leave me and I’ll seek you not…

Lo! the Boar’s tail is salted, an… And his right eye is extinguished… He is flying round the fences wher… And he’s very much excited for a q… For his ships have had a scrap and…

There’s such a lot of work to do,… I’m scribbling this against a book… It strikes me that I’ll scribble… And write my last lines so perchan… There’s lots of things to come and…

A black-sheep, from England, who… Riding where the stockmen ride— He sat by the hut when the day’s w… Lone huts where the black sheep bi… “I’m tired of my life!” to his lon…

A long farewell to Genoa That rises to the skies, Where the barren coast of Italy Like our own coastline lies. A sad farewell to Genoa,

When you get tight in foreign land… You never need go slinking, No female neighbours lift their ha… And say “The brute!—he’s drinking… No mischief-maker runs with smiles

I hate the pen, the foolscap fair, The poet’s corner, and the page, For Grief and Death are written t… In every land and every age. The poets sing and play their part…

Ye children of the Land of Gold, I sing a song to you, And if the jokes are somewhat old, The main idea is new. So be it sung, by hut and tent,

It is New Year’s Day and I rise… The Bards have commenced to fill… They’re patting their binjies with… That a binjied bard is a bard inde… Old chaps,

O I dreamt I shore in a shearing… For every one of the rouseabouts w… Dressed up like a page in a pantom… They had flaxen hair they had coal… There was short plump girls there…