Country Pubs
We know those little country pubs,
By cross-road and by creek,
Where faithfully the landlord scrubs
His counter once a week,
And stands before his shining bar
To cater for man's thirst
With all the best; but where the meals are
He caters with the worst.
'Wottle you 'ave?' There's beer or brandy,
Rum or half-and-half or shandy.
Wine or whisky. Bottles wink
'Wottle you 'ave, boys? Name your drink' ...
But in the grimy dining room
A slattern lass of grease and gloom
Intones in accents charged with grief:
'Wottle you 'ave? There's corn-beef.'
In the bar the talk grows gay,
The landlord beams, for trade agog,
And yokels wile dull hours away
Idly yarning o'er their grog ...
But in that cave of gastric woes
Grimly the hungry traveller eats,
To end by turning up his nose
And hoping to fill up on sweets.
'Wottle you 'ave?' - The cups are cloudy.
Linen soiled. The waitress dowdy,
Comes like an avenging fate
Snatching at the greasy plate
Soggy cabbage; soapy 'spuds'
Droning flies and smell of suds.
Now she whines, like some lost soul:
'Wottle you 'ave? There's jam-roll.'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Related quotes
Look at the Time! (A Drinking Song)
Look at the time! It's half-past six!
Time for me to be getting my kicks!
I'll have some whisky,
It'll make me frisky,
And then I'll get up to my usual tricks!
Look at the time! It's half-past seven!
And I feel that I should be going to heaven!
I'll have some rum
'Cos I'm not dumb,
And then I'll be drunk by ten to eleven!
Look at the time! It's half-past eight!
I didn't know it was getting so late!
I'll have some brandy
Instead of shandy,
And then I'll be able to face my fate!
Look at the time! It's half-past nine!
(And I know that this doesn't really rhyme!)
I'll have some gin,
It's a bit of a sin,
It's time for a party and I'm feeling fine!
Look at the time! It's half-past ten!
Time to go back to bed again!
I really think
I've had enough to drink,
But I'll be back on the bottle tomorrow again!
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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The Guile of Dad M'Ginnis
When M,Ginnis struck the mining camp at Jamberoora Creek
His behaviour was appreciated highly;
For, although he was a quiet man, in manner mild and meek,
Not like ordinary swagmen with a monumental cheek,
He became the admiration of the camp along the creek
'Cause he showed a point to Kangaroobie Riley!
Both the pubs at Jamberoora had some grog that stood the test
(Not to speak of what was manufactured slyly!)
And the hostel of O'Gorman, which was called The Diggers' Rest,
Was, O'Gorman said, the finest house of any in the west;
But it was a burning question if it really was the best,
Or the "Miners" - kept by Kangaroobie Riley.
Dad M'Ginnis called at Riley's. Said he "felt a trifle queer",
And with something like a wan and weary smile, he
Said he "thought he'd try a whisky". Pushed it back and said, "I fear
I had better take a brandy." Passed that back and said: "Look here,
Take the brandy; after all, I think I'll have a pint of beer!"
And he drank the health of Kangaroobie Riley!
"Where's the money?" asked the publican; "you'll have to pay, begad!"
"Gave the brandy for the beer!" said Dad the wily,
"And I handed you the whisky when I took the brandy, lad!"
"But you paid not for the whisky!" answered Riley. "No," said Dad,
"And you don't expect a man to pay for what he never had!"
- 'Twas the logic flattened Kangaroobie Riley!
"See," said Kangaroobie Riley, "you have had me, that is clear!
But I never mind a joke," he added, dryly.
"Just you work it on O'Gorman, and I'll shout another beer."
"I'd be happy to oblige yer," said McGinnis with a leer,
"But the fact about the matter is - O'Gorman sent me here! -
So, good morning, Mr Kangaroobie Riley!"
poem by William Thomas Goodge
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Don't Drink
Don't drink, boys, don't!
There is nothing of happiness, pleasure, or cheer,
In brandy, in whiskey, in rum, ale, or beer.
If they cheer you when drunk, you are certain to pay
In headaches and crossness the following day.
Don't drink, boys, don't!
Boys, let it alone!
Turn your back on your deadliest enemy-Drink!
An assassin disguised; nor for one moment think,
As some rashly say, that
true
women admire
The man who can boast that he's playing with fire.
Boys, let it alone!
No, boys, don't drink!
If the habit's begun, stop now! stop to-day!
Ere the spirit of thirst leads you on and away
Into vice, shame, and drunkenness. This is the goal,
Where the spirit of thirst leads the slave of the bowl.
No, boys,
don't
drink!
Boys, touch not, nor taste!
Don't think you can stop at the social 'First Glass.'
Too many have boasted that power, alas!
And found they were slaves to this seeming good friend,
And have grown into drunkards and knaves, in the end.
Boys, touch not, nor taste!
Don't drink, boys,
Don't
!
If the loafers and idlers scoff, never heed:
True men and true women will wish you 'God-speed.'
There is nothing of purity, pleasure, or cheer
To be gotten from whiskey, wine, brandy, or beer.
Don't drink, boys,
Don't
!
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Man And Bottle
Just an empty brandy bottle by the door
An empty bottle standing on the floor
Last week 'twas worth a carpenter's day's pay
But now it isn't worth taking away.
Last week 'twas full of brandy to the top
But in it now there's not a single drop
Just like a candy box without the candy
What value a brandy bottle without brandy?
The man who drank the brandy he is dead
Like all dead men a pine box is his bed
He rests in peace where all dead people lay
Six foot under graveyard earth and clay.
He drank the brandy and then drove his car
But alas the poor man did not travel far
His car left the road and crashed against a tree
And with his life he paid for gluttony.
Next time you're in a bar and have to drive a car, do think
Hard liquor is a thing you ought not drink
Spare a thought for the poor man who drank the brandy
And ask the publican for a beer shandy.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A Ballad Of Refreshment
The lady stood at the station bar,
(Three currants in a bun)
And oh she was proud, as ladies are.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
For a weekly wage she was standing there,
(Three currants in a bun)
With a prominent bust and light gold hair.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
The express came in at half-past two,
(Three currants in a bun)
And there lighted a man in the navy blue.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
A stout sea-captain he was, I ween.
(Three currants in a bun)
Much travel had made him very keen.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
A sober man and steady was he.
(Three currants in a bun)
He called not for brandy, but called for tea.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
'Now something to eat, for the train is late.'
(Three currants in a bun)
She brought him a bun on a greasy plate.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
He left the bun, and he left the tea,
(Three currants in a bun)
She charged him a shilling and let him be,
And the train went on at a quarter to three.
(And the bun is old and weary.)
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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At The Golden Pig
Where once with lads I scoffed my beer
The landlord's lass I've wed.
Now I am lord and master here;--
Thank God! the old man's dead.
I stand behind a blooming bar
With belly like a tub,
And pals say, seeing my cigar:
'Bill's wed a pub.'
I wonder now if I did well,
My freedom for to lose;
Knowing my wife is fly as hell
I mind my 'Ps' and 'Qs'.
Oh what a fuss she made because
I tweaked the barmaid's bub:
Alas! a sorry day it was
I wed a pub.
Fat landlord of the Golden Pig,
They call me 'mister' now;
And many a mug of beer I swig,
Yet don't get gay, somehow.
So farmer fellows, lean and clean
Who sweat to earn your grub,
Although you haven't got a bean:
Don't wed a pub.
poem by Robert William Service
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Let's Lynch The Landlord
The landlord's here to visit
They're blasting disco down below
Sez, "I'm doubling the rent
Cuz the buildings condemned
You're gonna help me buy City Hall"
But we can, you know we can
We can, you know we can
Let's lynch the landlord man
I tell them turn on the water
I tell them turn on the heat
Tells me "All you ever do is complain"
Then they search the place when I'm not here
But we can, you know we can
Let's lynch the landlord
Let's lynch the landlord
Let's lynch the landlord man
There's rats chewin' up the kitchen
Roaches up to my knees
Turn the oven on, it smells like Dachau
Til' the rain pours through the ceiling
But we can, you know we can
Let's lynch the landlord man
song performed by by Faith No More
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Ballad Of The Landlord
Landlord, landlord,
My roof has sprung a leak.
Don't you 'member I told you about it
Way last week?
Landlord, landlord,
These steps is broken down.
When you come up yourself
It's a wonder you don't fall down.
Ten Bucks you say I owe you?
Ten Bucks you say is due?
Well, that's Ten Bucks more'n I'l pay you
Till you fix this house up new.
What? You gonna get eviction orders?
You gonna cut off my heat?
You gonna take my furniture and
Throw it in the street?
Um-huh! You talking high and mighty.
Talk on-till you get through.
You ain't gonna be able to say a word
If I land my fist on you.
Police! Police!
Come and get this man!
He's trying to ruin the government
And overturn the land!
Copper's whistle!
Patrol bell!
Arrest.
Precinct Station.
Iron cell.
Headlines in press:
Man Threatens landlord
Tenant Held Bail
Judge GIives Negro 90 Days In County Jail!
poem by Langston Hughes
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Some Men
Lyrics & music: daryl hall
Some men call half way around the world if theyve got a phone game to play
Then again some men call their mom every day
Old boys drink bad beer and throw the cans out in the street
Playboys sit and sip red wine, some drink malt whiskey neat
So if you can, you talk about some men
If you can, you can talk about some men
Baby if you can, you can talk about some men
If you can, you can talk about some men
Colonels collect animal heads and hang their guns up on the wall
Corn balls watch television then pull a gun out in the hall
Crew-cut rainbows hang on streets hoping theyll find a friend
Odd balls running fast enough hope that they wont find their end
So if you can, you can talk about some men
Baby if you can, you can talk about some men
Sleep all night work all day
Work all night sleep all day
Drink all night sick all day
Sick all night drink all day
Dream all night if you can
We aint soldiers so dont generalize
No categories because it takes all kinds
You can sleep all night you can work all day
You can trip all night peak all day
If you can, you can talk about some men
song performed by by Hall & Oates
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Secret Whisky Cure
’Tis no tale of heroism, ’tis no tale of storm and strife,
But of ordinary boozing, and of dull domestic life—
Of the everlasting friction that most husbands must endure—
Tale of nagging and of drinking—and a secret whisky cure.
Name of Jones—perhaps you know him—small house-agent here in town—
(Friend of Smith, you know him also—likewise Robinson and Brown),
Just a hopeless little husband, whose deep sorrows were obscure,
And a bitter nagging Missis—and death seemed the only cure.
’Twas a common sordid marriage, and there’s little new to tell—
Save the pub to him was Heaven and his own home was a hell:
With the office in between them—purgatory to be sure—
And, as far as Jones could make out—well, there wasn’t any cure.
’Twas drink and nag—or nag and drink—whichever you prefer—
Till at last she couldn’t stand him any more than he could her.
Friends and relatives assisted, telling her (with motives pure)
That a legal separation was the only earthly cure.
So she went and saw a lawyer, who, in accents soft and low,
Asked her firstly if her husband had a bank account or no;
But he hadn’t and she hadn’t, they in fact were very poor,
So he bowed her out suggesting she should try some liquor cure.
She saw a drink cure advertised in the Sydney Bulletin—
Cure for brandy, cure for whisky, cure for rum and beer and gin,
And it could be given secret, it was tasteless, swift and sure—
So she purchased half a gallon of that Secret Whisky Cure.
And she put some in his coffee, smiling sweetly all the while,
And he started for the office rather puzzled by the smile—
Smile or frown he’d have a whisky, and you’ll say he was a boor—
But perhaps his wife had given him an overdose of Cure.
And he met a friend he hadn’t seen for seven years or more—
It was just upon the threshold of a private bar-room door—
And they coalised and entered straight away, you may be sure—
But of course they hadn’t reckoned with a Secret Whisky Cure.
Jones, he drank, turned pale, and, gasping, hurried out the back way quick,
Where, to his old chum’s amazement, he was violently sick;
Then they interviewed the landlord, but he swore the drink was pure—
It was only the beginning of the Secret Whisky Cure.
For Jones couldn’t stand the smell of even special whisky blends,
And shunned bar-rooms to the sorrow of his trusty drinking friends:
And they wondered, too, what evil genius had chanced to lure
Him from paths of booze and friendship—never dreaming of a Cure.
He had noticed, too, with terror that a something turned his feet,
When a pub was near, and swung him to the other side the street,
Till he thought the devils had him, and his person they’d immure
In a lunatic asylum where there wasn’t any Cure.
He consulted several doctors who were puzzled by the case—
As they mostly are, but never tell the patient to his face—
Some advised him ‘Try the Mountains for this malady obscure:’
But there wasn’t one could diagnose a Secret Whisky Cure.
And his wife, when he was sober?—Well, she nagged him all the more!
And he couldn’t drown his sorrow in the pewter as of yore:
So he shot himself at Manly and was sat upon by Woore,
And found rest amongst the spirits from the Secret Whisky Cure.
And the moral?—well, ’tis funny—or ’tis woman’s way with men—
She’s remarried to a publican who whacks her now and then,
And they get on fairly happy, he’s a brute and he’s a boor,
But she’s never tried her second with a Secret Whisky Cure.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Cripple Creek
1: well I married a wife in the month of june,
Married her up by the light of the moon.
We live down on cripple creek.
Weve been there about a week.
Chorus: Im a-goin down to cripple creek, Im goin on a run.
Goin down to cripple creek to have some fun.
Goin down to cripple creek, Im goin on a run.
Goin down to cripple creek to have some fun.
2: now cripple creek girls about half-grown,
Jump on a man like a dog on a bone.
Roll my pants up to my knees,
Cross on cripple creek a-when I please.
Chorus: Im a-goin down to cripple creek, Im goin on a run,
Goin down to cripple creek to have some fun.
Goin down to cripple creek, Im goin on a run.
Goin down to cripple creek to have some fun.
3: well Im goin to cripple creek, Im goin on a run.
Im a-goin to cripple creek to have some fun.
Chorus: Im a-goin to cripple creek, Im goin on a run,
Goin to cripple creek to have some fun.
song performed by by Monkees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Invocation
Ha, ha, gods and kings; fill high, one and all;
Drink, drink! shout and drink! mad respond to
the call!
Fill fast, and fill full; 'gainst the goblet ne'er
sin;
Quaff there, at high tide, to the uttermost
rim:--
Flood-tide, and soul-tide to the brim!
Who with wine in him fears? who thinks of his
cares?
Who sighs to be wise, when wine in him flares?
Water sinks down below, in currents full slow;
But wine mounts on high with its genial glow:--
Welling up, till the brain overflow!
As the spheres, with a roll, some fiery of soul,
Others golden, with music, revolve round the
pole;
So let our cups, radiant with many hued wines,
Round and round in groups circle, our Zodiac's
Signs:--
Round reeling, and ringing their chimes!
Then drink, gods and kings; wine merriment
brings;
It bounds through the veins; there, jubilant
sings.
Let it ebb, then, and flow; wine never grows
dim;
Drain down that bright tide at the foam beaded
rim:--
Fill up, every cup, to the brim!
poem by Herman Melville
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What Inn is this
115
What Inn is this
Where for the night
Peculiar Traveller comes?
Who is the Landlord?
Where the maids?
Behold, what curious rooms!
No ruddy fires on the hearth—
No brimming Tankards flow—
Necromancer! Landlord!
Who are these below?
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Three Hours
Three hours from sundown
Jeremy flies
Hoping to keep
The sun from his eyes
East from the city
And down to the cave
In search of a master
In search of a slave.
Three hours from london
Jacomos free
Taking his woes
Down to the sea
In search of a lifetime
To tell when hes home
In search of a story
Thats never been known.
Three hours from speaking
Everyones flown
Not wanting to be
Seen on their own
Three hours is needed
To leave from them all
Three hours to wonder
And three hours to fall.
Three hours from sundown
Jeremy flies
Hoping to keep
The sun from his eyes
East from the city
And down to the cave
In search of a master
In search of a slave.
song performed by by Nick Drake
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Old Town Types No27 - Sergeant Mat McGillicuddy
King of all the old town, gaoler, censor, too,
Bane of heavy sinners doing things they shouldn't do,
Terror of the cattle-duffers in the northern scrubs,
Keeping watch on criminals, cautioning the pubs
On those brief hours, in old days, when laws forbade their beer,
Looming forth on court-days, a Nemesis severe
Of a martinet and master in the art of keeping peace
Was Matthew Mark McGillicuddy, Sergeant of Police.
How the gleaming metal jingled, how the polished leather shone
When Sergeant Mat. McGillicuddy put his war-paint on:
Skin-tight corded riding breeches, spur and soldier-strap,
Cartridge case, revolver, and a smart, peaked cap,
A black 'imperial' that wagged beneath his stiff moustache
Authority personified - he cut a heavy dash
With his boots and buttons shining and his coat without a crease
Matthew Mark McGillicuddy, Sergeant of Police.
On race-days and show-days, when strangers sought the town,
The Sergeant was a stern man, and terrible his frown.
But he had scant use on off-days for his little goal of tin,
Save when, to keep the town's repute, he ran some roysterer in;
To come the 'morning after' with a foaming pot of beer:
''Tis agin the regulations; but I want no corpses here.
You perishing with heat an' thirst to but a spot of grease.
An' me firewood there needs splittin',' said the Sergeant of Police.
Then they made him an inspector in the city one sad day;
But he had a glorious 'send off' before he went away
One night of wild carousal that gave scandal for a week,
But the man sent to replace him was a truckler and a sneak,
A plague to petty sinners, a peeping Tom in pubs;
But a jest among the cattle-duffers in the northern scrubs.
So we missed the human touch that lurked beneath the bluster
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Smokin In The Boys Room
(talk)
Did you ever seem to have one of those days
When everyone seemed to be on your case
From your teacher all the waydown to your best girlfriend
Well, that used to happen to me all the time
But I found a way to get out of it
Sittin in the classroom thinkin its a drag
Listening to the teacher rap--just aint my bag
When two bells ring you know its my cue
Gonna meet the boys on floor number 2
Smokin in the boys room
Smokin in the boys room
Teacher dont you fill me up with your rules
Everybody knows that smokin aint allowed in school
Checkin out the halls makin sure the coast is clear
Lookin in the stalls--nah, there aint nobody here
My buddies sixx, mick & tom
To get caught would surely be the death of us all
Smokin in the boys room
Smokin in the boys room
Teacher dont you fill me up with your rules
Everybody knows that smokin aint allowed in school
Put me to work in the school bookstore
Check-out counter, and I got bored
Teacher was lookin for me all around
Two hours later you know where I was found
Smokin in the boys room
Smokin in the boys room
Teacher dont you fill me up with your rules
Everybody knows that smokin aint allowed in school
Smokin in the boys room
Smokin in the boys room
Smokin in the boys room
Smokin in the boys room
Teacher dont you fill me up with your rules
Everybody knows that smokin aint allowed in school
One more time
Smokin in the boys room
Smokin in the boys room
Teacher I aint foolin around with your rules
Everybody knows that smokin aint allowed in school
song performed by by Motley Crue
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The three tailors
I shall tell you in rhyme how, once on a time,
Three tailors tramped up to the inn Ingleheim,
On the Rhine, lovely Rhine;
They were broke, but the worst of it all, they were curst
With that malady common to tailors--a thirst
For wine, lots of wine.
"Sweet host," quoth the three, "we're hard up as can be,
Yet skilled in the practice of cunning are we,
On the Rhine, genial Rhine;
And we pledge you we will impart you that skill
Right quickly and fully, providing you'll fill
Us with wine, cooling wine."
But that host shook his head, and he warily said:
"Though cunning be good, we take money instead,
On the Rhine, thrifty Rhine;
If ye fancy ye may without pelf have your way
You'll find that there's both host and the devil to pay
For your wine, costly wine."
Then the first knavish wight took his needle so bright
And threaded its eye with a wee ray of light
From the Rhine, sunny Rhine;
And, in such a deft way, patched a mirror that day
That where it was mended no expert could say--
Done so fine 't was for wine.
The second thereat spied a poor little gnat
Go toiling along on his nose broad and flat
Towards the Rhine, pleasant Rhine;
"Aha, tiny friend, I should hate to offend,
But your stockings need darning"--which same did he mend,
All for wine, soothing wine.
And next there occurred what you'll deem quite absurd--
His needle a space in the wall thrust the third,
By the Rhine, wondrous Rhine;
And then all so spry, he leapt through the eye
Of that thin cambric needle--nay, think you I'd lie
About wine--not for wine.
The landlord allowed (with a smile) he was proud
To do the fair thing by that talented crowd
On the Rhine, generous Rhine.
So a thimble filled he as full as could be--
"Drink long and drink hearty, my jolly friends three,
Of my wine, filling wine."
poem by Eugene Field
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Half The World
Words by neil peart, music by geddy lee and alex lifeson
Half the world hates
What half the world does every day
Half the world waits
While half gets on with it anyway
Half the world lives
Half the world makes
Half the world gives
While the other half takes
Half the world is
Half the world was
Half the world thinks
While the other half does
Half the world talks
With half a mind on what they say
Half the world walks
With half a mind to run away
Half the world lies
Half the world learns
Half the world flies
As half the world turns
Half the world cries
Half the world laughs
Half the world tries
To be the other half
Half of us divided like a torn-up photograph half of us are
Trying to reach the other half
Half the world cares
While half the world is wasting the day
Half the world shares
While half the world is stealing away
song performed by by Rush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dear Landlord
Dear landlord,
Please dont put a price on my soul.
My burden is heavy,
My dreams are beyond control.
When that steamboat whistle blows,
Im gonna give you all I got to give,
And I do hope you receive it well,
Dependin on the way you feel that you live.
Dear landlord,
Please heed these words that I speak.
I know youve suffered much,
But in this you are not so unique.
All of us, at times, we might work too hard
To have it too fast and too much,
And anyone can fill his life up
With things he can see but he just cannot touch.
Dear landlord,
Please dont dismiss my case.
Im not about to argue,
Im not about to move to no other place.
Now, each of us has his own special gift
And you know this was meant to be true,
And if you dont underestimate me,
I wont underestimate you.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Bushman's Song
I’M travellin’ down the Castlereagh, and I’m a station hand,
I’m handy with the ropin’ pole, I’m handy with the brand,
And I can ride a rowdy colt, or swing the axe all day,
But there’s no demand for a station-hand along the Castlereagh. +
So it’s shift, boys, shift, for there isn’t the slightest doubt
That we’ve got to make a shift to the stations further out,
With the pack-horse runnin’ after, for he follows like a dog,
We must strike across the country at the old jig-jog.
This old black horse I’m riding—if you’ll notice what’s his brand,
He wears the crooked R, you see—none better in the land.
He takes a lot of beatin’, and the other day we tried,
For a bit of a joke, with a racing bloke, for twenty pounds a side.
It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn’t the slightest doubt
That I had to make him shift, for the money was nearly out;
But he cantered home a winner, with the other one at the flog—
He’s a red-hot sort to pick up with his old jig-jog.
I asked a cove for shearin’ once along the Marthaguy:
“We shear non-union here,” says he. “I call it scab,” says I.
I looked along the shearin’ floor before I turned to go—
There were eight or ten dashed Chinamen a-shearin’ in a row.
It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn’t the slightest doubt
It was time to make a shift with the leprosy about.
So I saddled up my horses, and I whistled to my dog,
And I left his scabby station at the old jig-jog.
I went to Illawarra, where my brother’s got a farm,
He has to ask his landlord’s leave before he lifts his arm;
The landlord owns the country side—man, woman, dog, and cat,
They haven’t the cheek to dare to speak without they touch their hat.
It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn’t the slightest doubt
Their little landlord god and I would soon have fallen out;
Was I to touch my hat to him?—was I his bloomin’ dog?
So I makes for up the country at the old jig-jog.
But it’s time that I was movin’, I’ve a mighty way to go
Till I drink artesian water from a thousand feet below;
Till I meet the overlanders with the cattle comin’ down,
And I’ll work a while till I make a pile, then have a spree in town.
So, it’s shift, boys, shift, for there isn’t the slightest doubt
We’ve got to make a shift to the stations further out;
The pack-horse runs behind us, for he follows like a dog,
And we cross a lot of country at the old jig-jog.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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