I wish I hadn't sold my sheep.
   Now wool's gone up
I sit here, sipping -- as I weep --
   A bitter cup.
In '31, when none sought wool,
   I bought them cheap;
And now I feel I was a fool
   To sell my sheep.

I used to watch them graze about
   On my estate.
I'd made the fences safe and stout
   And barred the gate.
And often, when the skies were blue
   And kind the sun,
I used to count them two by two
   And one by one.

I'd count them over; then I'd take
   To dreaming there
Of what vast fortunes men might make
   If, by some rare
Good chance, wool should go up. Alas!
   Oh, smiling skies!
Oh, patient sheep and gleaming grass!
   Wool wouldn't rise.

A neighbour, counting them one day,
   Asked would I sell.
I haggled in my poor, weak way
   Then said, "Aw, well,
   I might." Wool still, was very cheap.
So, nothing loth --
   Alas my profitable sheep! --
I sold them -- both.

"Den"
Herald, 21 September 1933 and The Courier-Mail, 7 October 1933, p18