THE OVERSEER'S LAMENT.

Lyttelton Times, Volume III, Issue 106, 15 January 1853, Page 11

THE OVERSEER'S LAMENT.

Adapted from Hood's " Song of the Skirt," to the circumstances of an Overseer in the employment of W.I. T. Clarke. With breeches thread-bare and worn, With b blistered and red, An overseer sat, in a stringy bark hut, Smoking his favorite 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! And ride—ride—ride! Till;the stars shine thro' the roof! It's oh,: to be a super Along with some western swell, Where, man has never a stiver to save, But sometimes gets a spell. ■'*Ride! ride! ride! Till my. breeches are tattered and torn; And ride! ride! ride! T,U my b- is weary and worn! Plain, and gully, and range, Bange, and gully, and plain, Till over the saddle I fall asleep, To waken and sleep again. " Oh ! Squatters, with beautiful runs ! Oh ! Squatters, with fattening plains! Not feed alone are you wearing out, But you're sowing rheumatic pains! Twitch ! twitch! twitch! I feel it in all my bones, Sowing at ouce, with a double stitch, Colonial experience and groans.

" But why do I talk of rheumatics? That phantom of aching bone, I hardly fear his terrible shape, It seems so like my own- — It seems so like my own, Because of the spills 1 reap,* „^ Oh ! that runs should be so dear, And overseers so cheap ! " Ride—ride—ride! 'T VI My labour never flags; And what are its wages ? Forty a-year, And these two wretched nags. This mutton chop—.and this damper queer—: A stretcher —a possum rug— And so wretched all that the traveller near, But seldom shows his ' mug!' " Count! count! count! v The thousands of every flock, Count—count—count! Till I've counted my master's stock ; Ewes and wethers, and lambs, Lambs and wethers, and ewes, Till the eyes are dazzled, the hurdles smashed, And my shins are all in a bruise. " Snip—snip—snip ! When the shearing seasons come, And snip—snip—snip, But the devil a keg- of rum; Curse, and squabble, and row, Row, and squabble, and curse, Till my eyes are blackened, my ' claret' drawn, As well as my private purse. " Oh ! but to breathe the breath Of the Royal Hotel in town ; A Manilla in my mouth, Whilst I knock my earnings down ; Oh"! but for one short month To spree as I used to spree, Before I knew the super's berth, In the days when I was free ! „" " Oh, but for one short week! A respite however brief! No blessed leisure for love or lush, But only time for grief! A little drinking would ease my mind, . But, in its secret lurk, The grog must stop, for every drop Would hinder station work!" With breeches thread-bave and worn, With b blistered and red, An overseer sat, in a stringy bark hut, Smoking bis favorite weed—. Pufl! puff! puff! Oh, when shall I rise from this state? And still with a tone like a heart-broken lark, Would that his wail could reach Long Clarke! He sang; the song of his fate. •Clarke's horses are notorious buckjnmpers.