Wrap me up in me stockwhip and blanket,
And bury me deep down below,
Where this piffle and sham won-t disgust me,
In the land where the coolibahs grow;
For I-ve stayed with some well-to-do people,
And I-ve dined with some middle-class folk;
And I-ve sorrowed by clock-tower and steeple
Till my heart for the Commonwealth-s broke.
They have flown in another direction,
Who used to clack-clack by the hour
Of -this awful Freetrade and Protection,�
Of our dear darling member -in power,�
And the Higher Religion for Dossers,
And the Need of an Object for Drunks-
Now they-re all of them Red or Blue Crossers,
With their tails sticking out of their trunks.

There are citified Martins in dozens-
The Darling Point Martins the pick-
Who used to be horrified cousins
Of a Martin we knew as -Mad Mick.�
He is hanging out somewhere where French is;
But they heard he-d enlisted-somehow,
And -twould paralyse Mick in the trenches
To know how he-s glorified now.

You remember the George Henry Crosses?
They-ve packed up twelve trunks in despair.
He-s the boss of the back-station bosses,
And Ernie-s the son and the heir.
He has never put hands on a wether,
Nor heard a pithed store-bullock grunt;
So they-re taking the mailboat to England
To see Ernie safe to the Front.

And each of the war-going parsons
Costs many a heart-breaking tear-
Like that caddish young cub of old Carson-s,
All found and four hundred a year.
He feels not a word that he preaches,
But he will not be criticised there,
Where, out where the flying shell screeches,
Poor Tommy must fight, sweat and swear.

-Our relatives, too� (hang the Censor!)
Each girl has a tear on her cheek.
Cousin Roger has gone as dispenser
(Expenses and three pounds a week.
More risky than list-ning to sermons,
As some of our fellows will find,
Is a fierce fortnight-s fight with the Germans
In front-and with Roger behind.)

And the Girls, they are writing like blazes,
And Auntie is moaning like hell;
And I wish I was under the daisies-
Or the bluegum would do just as well.
So I want to be wropped in me blanket,
And buried down-deep down-below;
Where this cant and this cackle won-t reach me-
In the land where the coolibahs grow.