In the riot of our bounding hearts upon St. Patrick’s Day.
There were sports in Casey’s paddock, and the neighbours would assemble
On the flat below the homestead, where the timber fringed the creek;
With Australian skies above them, and Australian trees a-tremble
And the colours of the autumn set in hat and hair and cheek.
Mighty things were done at Casey’s; mighty bouts anticipated
Made the Sunday church-door topic for a month ahead at least;
On the cheerless Sundays after, with misguided hope deflated,
We explained away our failures as we waited for the priest.
So when morning Mass was over, it was trot and break and canter