You lazy boy, you're here at last, You must be wooden-legged; Now, are you sure the gate is fast And all the sliprails pegged And all the milkers at the yard, The calves all in the pen? We don't want Poley's calf to suck His mother dry again.
And did you mend the broken rail And make it firm and neat? I s'pose you want that brindle steer All night among the wheat. And if he finds the lucerne patch, He'll stuff his belly full; He'll eat till he gets 'blown' on that And busts like Ryan's bull.
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