While The Billy BoilsSearchOn the Sunday morning mustered,Yarning at our ease;Buggies, traps and jinkers clusteredUnderneath the trees,Horses tethered to the fences;Thus we hold our conferencesWaiting till the priest commences—Pitchin’ at the Church.
Sheltering in the summer’s shiningWhere the shadows fall;When the winter’s sun is pining,Lined along the wall;Yarning, reckoning, ruminating,“Yeos” and lambs and wool debating,Squatting, smoking, idly waiting—Pitchin’ at the Church.
Young bloods gathered from the othersTell their dreamings o’er;Beaded-bonneted old mothersGrouped around the door:Dainty bush girls, trim and fairy,All that’s neat and sweet and airy—Nell, and Kate, and Laughing Mary—Pitchin’ at the Church.
Up comes someone briskly driving,“Cutting matters fine”:All his “fam’ly lot” arrivingWander in a lineOff in some precise direction,Till they find their proper section,Greet it with an interjection—Pitchin’ at the Church.
“Mornun’, Jack.” “Good mornun’, Martin.”“Keepin’ pretty dry!”“When d’you think you’ll finish cartin’?”“Prices ain’t too high?”Round about the yarnin’ strayin’—Dances, sickness—frocks surveyin’—Wheat is “growed,” the “hens is layin’ ”—Pitchin’ at the Church.