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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=374811" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Shanty</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">THERE ARE tracks through the scrub, there’s a track down the hill,<br>And a track round the bend from M‘Courteney’s mill,<br>Where they slyly emerge from the bush and converge,<br>You’ll discover the humpy—the theme of this dirge—<br>That is used for the sale of O’Sullivan’s ‘purge.’<br>And if curses and cries,<br>And a blasting of eyes,<br>And a series of blasphemies fearful arise,<br>And a lunatic din,<br>And a racket like sin,<br>You can bet all you own the O’Sullivan’s in.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It’s a bark and slab hut, with a bar and a bunk,<br>And a man propped before it disgustingly drunk,<br>And a nameless galoot in a hand-me-down suit,<br>Straddling out on the grass, grim as death, and as mute,<br>Trapping millions of rabbits that run from his boot.<br>When eleven lie round<br>In all shapes on the mound,<br>And two navvies are fighting like fiends on the ground,<br>’Tisn’t needful to say<br>It’s the sweet Sabbath day,<br>And that trade at the shanty’s uncommonly gay.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Mrs. O’. makes the drinks, and O’Sullivan’s dart<br>Is to drink all he can to keep others in heart.<br>Though he’s old in the hoof, and he reckons he’s proof<br>’Gainst infernalest liquors, in warp and in woof,<br>He’s quite frequently seen howling out on the roof.<br>For from fungus or fruits,<br>From old rags or from roots,<br>Grass, cabbages, pickles, old bedding or boots,<br>Or the leaves of the gum,<br>Or whatever may come,<br>Mrs. O’. can extract the most illigant’ rum.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They’ve no peace in the hut and no peace on the hill,<br>Mrs. O’. never sleeps and her hand’s never still;<br>And old constable Mack cannot hit on the track<br>As a man of the law. As a stranger in black<br>When he finds his way there he can’t find his way back.<br>There’s no signboard to see,<br>But those fools on the spree,<br>Or a man in his shirt shrieking prayers to a tree.<br>As for licenses—yar!<br>They don’t know what they are,<br>For they drink without license at Sullivan’s bar.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Edward+George+Dyson">Edward George Dyson</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=374811" data-title="The Shanty de Edward George Dyson" data-description="THERE ARE tracks through the scrub, there’s a track down the hill,
And a track round the bend from M‘Courteney’s mill,
Where they slyly emerge from the bush and converge,
You’ll discover the humpy—the theme of this dirge—
That is used ..."></div>
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