Back to where the lingering dew of morn bedecked the barley-grass,
When I watched the wild careering of the neighbours through the clearing
Down that sweet bush track to Casey’s, o’er the paddock down to Casey’s;
Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.
For, as soon as Mass was over, round the church they swarmed like bees,
Filled their pipes and duly lit them, brushed the dust from off their knees;
Then they’d “ready-up” for Casey’s—self-invited down to Casey’s—
Harness horses for the women with a bushman’s careless ease.
With a neat spring to the saddle, soon would start the wild skedaddle,
Passing gigs and traps and buggies packed as tight as they could squeeze;