Morgan's Dog

A poem by Andrew Barton Paterson

Morgan the drover explained,
As he drank from his battered quart-pot,
Many a slut I have trained;
This is the best of the lot.

Crossing these stringybark hills,
Hungry and rocky and steep
This is the country that kills
Weakly and sore-footed sheep.

Those that are healthy and strong
Battle away in the lead,
Carting the others along,
Eating the whole of the feed.

That's where this little red slut
Shows you what's bred in the bone;
Works it all out in her nut,
Handles it all on her own.

Backwards and forwards she'll track,
Gauging the line at a glance,
Keeping the stronger ones back,
Giving the tailers a chance.

Weary and hungry and lame,
Sticking all day to her job,
Thin as a rabbit, but game,
Working in front of the mob.

Tradesmen, I call 'em, the dogs,
Those that'll work in a yard;
Bark till they're hoarser than frogs,
Makin' 'em savage and hard.

Others will soldier and shirk
While there's a rabbit to hunt:
This is an artist at work;
Watch her, out there, in the front.

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