Saltbush Bill, J. P.

The Pannikin Poet

  There's nothing here sublime,
  But just a roving rhyme,
  Run off to pass the time,
   With nought titanic in
  The theme that it supports,
  And, though it treats of quarts,
  It's bare of golden thoughts—
   It's just a pannikin.

  I think it's rather hard
  That each Australian bard—
  Each wan, poetic card—
   With thoughts galvanic in
  His fiery soul alight,
  In wild aerial flight,
  Will sit him down and write
   About a pannikin.

  He makes some new-chum fare
  From out his English lair
  To hunt the native bear,
   That curious mannikin;
  And then when times get bad
  That wandering English lad
  Writes out a message sad
   Upon his pannikin:

  “Oh, mother, think of me
  Beneath the wattle tree”
   (For you may bet that he
   Will drag the wattle in)
  “Oh, mother, here I think
  That I shall have to sink,
  There ain't a single drink
   The water-bottle in.”

  The dingo homeward hies,
  The sooty crows uprise
  And caw their fierce surprise
   A tone Satanic in;
  And bearded bushmen tread
  Around the sleeper's head—
  “See here—the bloke is dead!
   Now where's his pannikin?”

  They read his words and weep,
  And lay him down to sleep
  Where wattle-branches sweep,
   A style mechanic in;
  And, reader, that's the way
  The poets of to-day
  Spin out their little lay
   About a pannikin.