The Fitzroy Blacksmith

 Under the spreading deficit, 
The Fitzroy Smithy stands; 
The smith, a spendthrift man is he, 
With too much on his hands; 
But the muscles of his brawny jaw 
Are strong as iron bands.
 
Pay out, pay put, from morn till night, 
You can hear the sovereigns go; 
Or you'll hear him singing "Old Folks at Home", 
In a deep bass voice and slow, 
Like a bullfrog down in the village well 
When the evening sun is low.
 

The Australian going "home" for loans 
Looks in at the open door; 
He loves to see the imported plant, 
And to hear the furnace roar, 
And to watch the private firms smash up 
Like chaff on the threshing-floor.
 

Toiling, rejoicing, borrowing, 
Onward through life he goes; 
Each morning sees some scheme begun 
That never sees its close.
 
Something unpaid for, someone done, 
Has earned a night's repose.

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