Bill coached him up in the fighting yarn, and taught him the tale by rote,
And they shammed to fight, and they got your grass
and divided your five-pound note.
'Twas a clean take-in, and you'll find it wise --
'twill save you a lot of pelf --
When next you're hiring a fighting man, just fight him a round yourself.'
. . . . .
And the teamsters out on the Castlereagh, when they meet with a week of rain,
And the waggon sinks to its axle-tree, deep down in the black soil plain,
When the bullocks wade in a sea of mud, and strain at the load of wool,
And the cattle-dogs at the bullocks' heels are biting to make them pull,
When the off-side driver flays the team, and curses them while he flogs,
And the air is thick with the language used,
and the clamour of men and dogs --
The teamsters say, as they pause to rest and moisten each hairy throat,
They wish they could swear like Stingy Smith
when he read that neighbour's note.
Hard Luck
I left the course, and by my side
There walked a ruined tout --
A hungry creature evil-eyed,
Who poured this story out.
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