Home's best (she said), and the tale
Of the hungering soil and the flail
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Now comes to an end all our dolorous drifting;
Clouds pass away and depression is lifting.
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Long faces, hangin’ lips an’ eyes without a smile,
Meegrims an’ mulligrubs, mournfulness an’ moans,
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Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
Rules with an iron rod
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We mean to say, it never has been granted
That anyone but England could decide,
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Can it be I -- this Hindenburg, deferring
To demagogues, catch phrases, lucky charms
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The bushmen call me "Cranky Fan,"
Because my strange erratic flight
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Heigh, ho! But they're talking, talking,
As the cold, hard streets we're walking
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Back to the kicthen, mein Gretchen!
Back to the scullery, frau!
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The success of the Scout movement throughout the whole world has been amply proven by the present triumphant gathering in Melbourne.
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Noo, ye ken, we'll see 'em agen,
Waggling doon the street,
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Aw, chuck the mail bags over there,
It's great to have 'em brought by air;
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Luke Gale, the larrikin lad, dwelt in Larrikin Lane,
A low street, a by-street, right at the edge of the town;
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This is the listening week of the year --
Listening-in.
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Brother, who on some near morrow
Makes a pledge conceived in sorrow
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Mrs Munn, the midwife - Mother Munn they called her --
Wallowed in the world's woes; sickness ne'er appalled her.
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SCENE: Political meeting of future.
CHAIRMAN, rising, calls for silence.
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Because some unimportant man
In politics talks loud and high,
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When muddled mentors take the stage
To gird against our erring,
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Now, Plugger Palook was a man in a thousand --
(Said Horace the Howler) not one of yer fools.
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Son of our King: When yoemen sailed
From Britain to expand her sway,
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A golden maid whose golden voice
Calls to the northern lands,
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Old Pete Parraday, he isn't very wise --
Or so the local gossips say -- They love to criticise
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In the olive groves of Italy
Men minds are all aflame;
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"Some I got with amber stems an' some with silver bands,
Bent ones an' straight ones an' all sorts o' brands.
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Is youth not less pedantic, less absurd,
Less prone to value things of little worth
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What have we missed? Now he returns no more
We are left with but our blindness to deplore,
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He came into the bird-shop where I stood --
A hulking giant, monumental, grim,
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Ah, well, the thing that lived lives on,
And who are we to say it nay?
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What do they dream about standing there
In the windows facing the street?
34 lines
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