But it's not been worth the standing on, bedad, this many a day.
And now the Horse takes the raping in hand, and pulls the huge machines
That go clicking and snicking across the fields of wheat, oats, barley, and beans;
Ye've got machines for sowing, and thrashing, and raping, between and betwixt,
And, troth, it's my private opinion ye'll have a machine for eating it next!
But we'll throw the sickle aside, Molly, and go and try our luck
On the banks of the far Australian strames, where the otter is billed like a duck:
For there's mate, and drink, and clothes, Molly, and riches and rank to be won.
At the Anti—what d'ye call the place, on t'other side of the sun?
And there'll be no land-agents, nor middlemen, nor Jews,