With breeches thread-bare and worn.
With jumper running to seed,
An overseer sat in a stringy-bark hut,
Smoking his favourite weed.
Puff! Puff! Puff!
“Oh! When shall I rise from this state?”
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,
He sang the song of his fate.
“Ride! Ride! Ride!
While the cock is crowing aloof!