THE TEAMSTER’S SONG.
I crack my silken thong,
As I drive my team along,
And sing this new-made song
Along the Burra Road.
I find it does not pay
To travel all the way,
For six half “Bob” a-day,
On the Burra Road.
So, I’ll pack up all my traps,
And tumble off perhaps,
With lots of other chaps,
From the Burra Road.
For they do us, at the weighing,
And bully us, while staying,
By stacking and delaying,
When we are at the Port.
If we venture to complain,
They’ll do just so again—
So, we must all refrain
From drawing Burra ores.
We’ll turn our bullocks out,
Or take another route,
Or put them up the spout—
Ere we draw another load.
They shall not sauce and prate,
But give us a just weight,
Or they shall have no freight
Of Burra Burra ores.
The boasters shall be whiners.
Who said they’d pay the “shiners,”
“Independent of the miners,”
Or of the bullock-drivers.
Now, we’ll see what you can do.
Shall the many, to the few,
Stoop to the snobby crew
Of the Burra Board?