There's a dab an' wattle shanty of the edge of Wild Dog Scrub,
Which ain't the place, exac'ly thet you'd call a fust-class pub;
But when yer flush yer welcome there -- no matter who you are,
Where Mister Paddy Casey deals the booze across the bar;
For 'e loves you like a brother, when you 'ave a bob to wet,
But when yer awn yer uppers you must 'ump the swag an' get.
Oh, Casey! Mr. Casey! Yer a hot un, yer a daisy.
Yer as pisinous an' rotten as yer beer.
You've took us down an' rooked us;
You 'ave blessed nearly cooked us;
But we'll square it with you some day,
Casey dear.
We grafted 'ard fer six long months an' made a little pile,
Enough to keep us livin' nice an' sober fer a while;
We finished up the shearin' an' we pocketed our pay,
An' reckoned that we'd save it fer to meet a rainy day.
Then, callin' in at Casey's, "just to 'ave a drink or two,"
We made a bloomin' week of it, an' now our pile is blew.
Oh, Casey! Mr. Casey! Yer principles is hazy.
Our notions of yer honesty ain't clear;
But you've sharked our blessed cheques,
An' you've made us shakin' wrecks,
You're a scoundrel, an' you know it,
Casey dear.
We 'anded in our pay, an' sed, "to tell us when 'twas done."
We run thro' seven quid afore we thought we'd busted one,
An' now 'e 'as the cheek to up an' tell us to our face
We'd better shift ourselves, "fer we're a nuisance on the place."
We've begged 'im fer a pick-me-up, but, lor, it ain't no use.
We'll 'ump the drum -- stone broke -- to 'ome, an' shun the bloomin' booze.
But, Casey; darlin' Casey! Watch yer soul, you daisy.
You ain't upon the narrow way, it's clear;
An' we'll love to 'ear you yell,
When you feel a thirst in 'ell,
For it's there we're bound to meet you,
Casey dear.
First published in The Evening Journal, 12 August 1899
Author reference sites: C.J. Dennis, Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library
See also.
