RIDING SONG

Flippity-flop!  Flippity-flop! 
Here comes the butcher to bring us a chop
   Cantering, cantering down the wide street
   On his little bay mare with the funny white feet;
Cantering, cantering out to the farm,
Stripes on his apron and basket on arm. 
   Run to the window and tell him to stop—­
   Flippity-flop!  Flippity-flop!

THE FUNNY HATTER

Harry was a funny man, Harry was a hatter;
He ate his lunch at breakfast time and said it didn’t matter. 
He made a pot of melon jam and put it on a shelf,
For he was fond of sugar things and living by himself. 
He built a fire of bracken and a blue-gum log,
And he sat all night beside it with his big—­black—­dog.

THE POSTMAN

I’d like to be a postman, and walk along the street,
Calling out, “Good Morning, Sir,” to gentlemen I meet,
Ringing every door-bell all along my beat,
In my cap and uniform so very nice and neat. 
Perhaps I’d have a parasol in case of rain or heat;
   But I wouldn’t be a postman if . . . 
      The walking hurt my feet. 
         Would you?

THE TRAVELLER

As I rode in to Burrumbeet,
I met a man with funny feet;
And, when I paused to ask him why
His feet were strange, he rolled his eye
And said the rain would spoil the wheat;
So I rode on to Burrumbeet.

As I rode in to Beetaloo,
I met a man whose nose was blue;
And when I asked him how he got
A nose like that, he answered, “What
Do bullocks mean when they say ’Moo’?”
So I rode on to Beetaloo.

As I rode in to Ballarat,
I met a man who wore no hat;
And, when I said he might take cold,
He cried, “The hills are quite as old
As yonder plains, but not so flat.” 
So I rode on to Ballarat.

As I rode in to Gundagai,
I met a man and passed him by
Without a nod, without a word. 
He turned, and said he’d never heard
Or seen a man so wise as I.
But I rode on to Gundagai.

As I rode homeward, full of doubt,
I met a stranger riding out: 
A foolish man he seemed to me;
But, “Nay, I am yourself,” said he,
“Just as you were when you rode out.” 
So I rode homeward, free of doubt.

OUR STREET

In our street, the main street
   Running thro’ the town,
You see a lot of busy folk
   Going up and down: 

Bag men and basket men,
   Men with loads of hay,
Buying things and selling things
   And carting things away.

The butcher is a funny man,
   He calls me Dandy Dick;
The baker is a cross man,
   I think he’s often sick;

The fruiterer’s a nice man,
   He gives me apples, too;
The grocer says, “Good morning, boy,
   What can I do for you?”