It’s a bark and slab hut, with a bar and a bunk,
And a man propped before it disgustingly drunk,
And a nameless galoot in a hand-me-down suit,
Straddling out on the grass, grim as death, and as mute,
Trapping millions of rabbits that run from his boot.
             When eleven lie round
             In all shapes on the mound,
    And two navvies are fighting like fiends on the ground,
             ’Tisn’t needful to say
             It’s the sweet Sabbath day,
    And that trade at the shanty’s uncommonly gay.

Mrs. O’. makes the drinks, and O’Sullivan’s dart
Is to drink all he can to keep others in heart.
Though he’s old in the hoof, and he reckons he’s proof
’Gainst infernalest liquors, in warp and in woof,
He’s quite frequently seen howling out on the roof.
             For from fungus or fruits,
             From old rags or from roots,
    Grass, cabbages, pickles, old bedding or boots,
             Or the leaves of the gum,
             Or whatever may come,
    Mrs. O’. can extract the most illigant’ rum.

They’ve no peace in the hut and no peace on the hill,
Mrs. O’. never sleeps and her hand’s never still;
And old constable Mack cannot hit on the track
As a man of the law. As a stranger in black
When he finds his way there he can’t find his way back.
             There’s no signboard to see,
             But those fools on the spree,
    Or a man in his shirt shrieking prayers to a tree.
             As for licenses—yar!
             They don’t know what they are,
    For they drink without license at Sullivan’s bar.