“The Like of Me, to come to New Sow Wales
To go a-tagging arter Vethers’ Tails
And valk in Herbage as delights the Flock,
But stinks of Sweet Herbs vorser nor the Dock!

“To go to set this solitary Job
To Von whose Vork vos alvay in a Mob! 
It’s out of all our Lines, for sure I am
Jack Shepherd even never kep a Lamb!

“I arn’t ashamed to say I sit and veep
To think of Seven Year of keepin Sheep,
The spooniest Beast in Nater, all to Sticks,
And not a Votch to take for all their Ticks!

“If I’d fore-seed how Transports vould turn out
To only Baa! and Botanize about,
I’d quite as leaf have had the t’other Pull,
And come to Cotton, as to all this Vool!

“Von only happy moment I have had
Since here I come to be a Farmer’s Cad,
And then I cotch’d a vild Beast in a Snooze,
And pick’d her pouch of three young Kangaroos!

“Vot chance haye I to go to Race or Mill? 
Or show a sneaking Kindness for a Till;
And as for Vashings, on a hedge to dry,
I’d put the Natives’ Linen in my Eye!

“If this whole Lot of Mutton I could scrag,
And find a Fence to turn it into Swag,
I’d give it all in London Streets to stand,
And if I had my pick, I’d say the Strand!

“But ven I goes, as maybe vonce I shall,
To my old Crib to meet with Jack, and Sal,
I’ve been so gallows honest in this Place,
I shan’t not like to show my sheepish Face.

“It’s wery hard for nothing but a Box
Of Irish Blackguard to be keepin’ Flocks,
’Mong naked Blacks, sich Savages to hus,
They’ve nayther got a Pocket nor a Pus.

“But folks may tell their Troubles till they’re sick
To dumb brute Beasts,—­and so I’ll cut my Stick! 
And vot’s the Use a Feller’s Eyes to pipe
Vere von can’t borrow any Gemman’s Vipe?”

LIEUTENANT LUFF.

All you that are too fond of wine,
  Or any other stuff,
Take warning by the dismal fate
  Of one Lieutenant Luff. 
A sober man he might have been,
  Except in one regard,
He did not like soft water,
  So he took to drinking hard!

Said he, “Let others fancy slops,
  And talk in praise of Tea,
But I am no Bohemian,
  So do not like Bohea. 
If wine’s a poison, so is Tea,
  Though in another shape: 
What matter whether one is kill’d
  By canister or grape!”

According to this kind of taste
  Did he indulge his drouth,
And being fond of Port, he made
  A port-hole of his mouth! 
A single pint he might have sipp’d
  And not been out of sorts,
In geologic phrase—­the rock
  He split upon was quarts!

To “hold the mirror up to vice”
  With him was hard, alas! 
The worse for wine he often was,
  But not “before a glass.” 
No kind and prudent friend had he
  To bid him drink no more,—­
The only chequers in his course
  Where at a tavern door!