82. An Old Master We were cartin' lathes and palin's from the slopes of Mount St. Leonard,
With our axles near the road-bed and the mud as stiff as glue;
And our bullocks weren't precisely what you'd call conditioned nicely,
83. Ballad Of Lieges Son of our King: When yoemen sailed
From Britain to expand her sway,
The coward from High venture quailed,
84. The Spotted Heifers Mr Jeremiah Jeffers
Owned a pair of spotted heifers
These he sold for two pounds ten
85. My Scenario Oh, I've got a lovely story that I've thought out all myself.
It will make a gorgeous picture, I am sure.
(Mind, it isn't for the money, for I am not keen on pelf,
86. Mid-winter Monody There's a bleak, black world without,
And the rain falls fast;
And the wind, with a whine and a shout,
87. We Mean To Say We mean to say, it never has been granted
That anyone but England could decide,
In the crease or at the wicket,
88. Bright Where Feathertop frowns thro' the winter scud,
Where Buffalo broods on high,
Dwells she, a lass of royal blood,
89. Goophic Phantasm Tho' I own I have no adequate proofs
Of this queer tale of the quaint old Goophs
The Goophs who dwelt in the land of Guph
90. Bird Song - Crow Crow
I detest the Carrion Crow!
(He's a raven, don't you know?)
91. Cherchez La Femme The Chinese are an old, old race,
In mystic lore exceeding wise.
Accustomed thro' the year to trace
92. Playtime Brothers!
(I address myself to that chosen few - which includes you,
My dear reader - who
93. The Swanks Of Gosh Come mourn with me for the land of Gosh,
Oh, weep with me for the luckless Glugs
Of the land of Gosh, where the sad seas wash
94. The Call Of Stoush Wot price ole Ginger Mick? 'E's done a break -
Gone to the flamin' war to stoush the foe.
Wus it fer glory, or a woman's sake?
95. As Old George Said Said old George Jones: 'All in a hundred years.
'Tis little time enough, and well may make
This youthful country proud among its peers
96. Introduction: Rose Of Spadgers I've crawled; I've eaten dirt; I've lied a treat;
I've dodged the cops an' led a double life;
I've readied up wild tales to tell me wife,
Your pen needs but a ruffle
To be Pavlova whirling.
It surely is a scalawag
A-scamping down the page.
A pretty little May-wind
The morning buds uncurling.
And then the white sweet Russian,
The dancer of the age.
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