A month ago the world grew grey fer me;
A month ago the light went out fer Rose.
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Where have the old accorjins gone?
I was askin' the coves at the Show;
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Cooee! Well, Dig, I s'pose you've 'eard that row
Up in ole Blighty some ten year ago.
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"'Ere! 'Ave a 'eart!" 'e sez. "Why, love a duck!
A 'uman bein' ain't a choppin' block!
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At the risk of seeming silly,
I would ask you, "Where is Billy?"
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Lang syne I penned a mickle rhyme
That muckle grief brocht to my soul;
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The thing’s all wrong (I sez to ‘im)
Now look, there’s this ‘ere Monday, Jim,
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Tho' we seem to reach the turning
And the Government is yearning
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When Willie gets a penny piece
Straight to the lollie-shop he flies,
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Do you know 'Erb? Now, there's a dinkum sport.
If football's on your mind, why, 'Erb's the sort
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Well (said the small, meek man) we look for change
In this sad world, for these are stirring days;
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He was tall and tough and stringy, with the shoulders of an axeman,
Broad and loose, with greenhide muscles, and a hand shaped to th
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"Young sir," 'E sez . . . Like that . . . It made me feel
Romantic like, as if me dream was reel.
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Since Stanley felt the icy blast
Jack leads the Opposition.
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They were forthright days when Jim was born,
When they called a spade a spade.
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Have you heard the magniloquent, eloquent Jim?
The yogi of Yarra, whose silvery tongue,
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I think a great deal too much fuss
Has been aroused 'mid all of us
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Hoping you will not deem it rude,
I'd like to call an interlude
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In every little country place, all up and down the land,
From ageing cradles of the race to Never-Never Land --
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Should it occasion much surprise
That criminals should deal in blame,
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Ai've just obteened a pension for mai Paw.
And you should hev seen the people that were theah.
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"Why stone the crows!" 'e sez. "I like 'er style,
But alwiz, some'ow, women 'ave appeared
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Men knew and loved my calling in old days --
Days ere a bitter wisdom taught me fear.
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I'm a fussy little fellow
In my kilt of glowing yellow;
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Now, Ma-til-der! Ain't cher dressed yet? I declare, the girl ain't up!
Last as ushul. Move yerself, you sleepy'-ead!
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Not guilty, yer Honor . . . An’ givin’ me reasons,
I’d like for to plead this ‘ere change in the seasons,
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Now this is the ballad of Jeremy Jones,
And likewise of Bobadil Brown,
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Now Mr. Jeremiah Bane
He owned a warehouse in The Lane,
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Sweet, think how much the better it would be
If you thro' life should thus preserve your beauty.
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"He's blind," we say. Then turn aside
Upon our way, again to view
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