previous
next



  ― 126 ―

The Irony of Fate

Paddy Rooke was the boss o' the shearin' shed,
'E was sinewy, straight and tall;
While I was employed as the shearers' cook,
And was skinny and plain and small.
It wasn't my fault that the meat was tough,
An' the tar got inter the stoo;
Yet 'e kicked me the length o' the shearin' shed,
An' 'e walloped me black and blue.
An' I brooded on my wrong,
An' I cursed both loud an' strong,
An' I felt that Life was nothing but a sham;
An' I wished that I was 'e,
Or that Paddy Rooke was me,
An' I railed at Fate, wot made me wot I am.

Tilly Brady, she lived at the 'Arf-way 'Ouse,
An' a plum of a gal was she;
An' I seen 'er tip Paddy a hartful wink
As she sugared and milked 'is tea.



  ― 127 ―
Then 'e jined the “Horstralian Mounted 'Orse,”
With a uniform like a toff,
An' 'e went to the wars to fight the Boers,
And she went to see 'im off.
An' I watched 'er pipe 'er eye
As they kissed an' said, “Good-bye,”
An' I felt that all the world was only sham.
An' I wished that I was 'e,
Or that Paddy Rooke was me,
An' I moaned the Fate wot made me wot I am.

But Paddy got 'it with a cannon-ball,
And it scrunched up 'is bloomin' bones;
An' they laid 'im out on the starry veldt,
An' they covered 'im up with stones,
While I got spliced to the Brady gal;
But she turned out a blinded sell,
For she's always a-wishin' that I was 'e,
Till I wishes 'em both in - well -
In a place both 'ot an' deep;
For I sit an' groan an' weep,
And I still think all the world's a rotten sham;
An' I wishes I was 'e,
An' that Paddy Rooke was me,
An' I cuss my Fate, wot made me wot I am.

previous
next