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Edward Dyson - The Fact of the Matter
Work rating: Low

I`m wonderin` why those fellers who go buildin` chipper ditties,
`Bout the rosy times out drovin`, an` the dust an` death of cities,
Don`t sling the bloomin` office, strike some drover for a billet,
And soak up all the glory that comes handy while they fill it.

P`r`aps it`s fun to travel cattle or to picnic with merinos,
But the drover don`t catch on, sir, not much high-class rapture he knows.
As for sleepin` on the plains there in the shadder of the spear-grass,
That`s liked best by the Juggins with a spring-bed an` a pier-glass.

An` the camp-fire, an` the freedom, and the blanky constellations,
The `possum-rug an` billy, an` the togs an` stale ole rations —
It`s strange they`re only raved about by coves that dress up pretty,
An` sport a wife, an` live on slap-up tucker in the city.

I`ve tickled beef in my time clear from Clarke to Riverina,
An` shifted sheep all round the shop, but blow me if I`ve seen a
Single blanky hand who didn`t buck at pleasures of this kidney,
And wouldn`t trade his blisses for a flutter down in Sydney.

Night-watches are delightful when the stars are really splendid
To the chap who`s fresh upon the job, but, you bet, his rapture`s ended
When the rain comes down in sluice-heads, or the cuttin` hailstones pelter,
An` the sheep drift off before the wind, an` the horses strike for shelter.

Don`t take me for a howler, but I find it come annoyin`
To hear these fellers rave about the pleasures we`re enjoyin`,
When p`r`aps we`ve nothin` better than some fluky water handy,
An` they`re right on all the lickers — rum, an` plenty beer an` brandy.

The town is dusty, may be, but it isn`t worth the curses
`Side the dust a feller swallers an` the blinded thirst he nurses
When he`s on the hard macadam, where the jumbucks cannot browse, an`
The wind is in his whiskers, an` he follers twenty thousan`.

This drovin` on the plain, too, it`s all O.K. when the weather
Isn`t hot enough to curl the soles right off your upper leather,
Or so cold that when the mornin` wind comes hissin` through the grasses
You can feel it cut your eyelids like a whip-lash as it passes.

Then there`s bull-ants in the blankets, an` a lame horse, an` muskeeters,
An` a D.T. boss like Halligan, or one like Humpy Peters,
Who is mean about the tucker, an` can curse from start to sundown,
An` can fight like fifty devils, an` whose growler`s never run down.

Yes, I wonder why the fellers what go building chipper ditties
`Bout the rosy times out drovin` an` the dust an` death of cities,
Don`t sling the bloomin` office, strike ole Peters for a billet,
An` soak up all the glory that comes handy while they fill it.
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