Christmas, in the Riverina,
Where it's either wet or dry;
And the good old concertina
Squawked its last in days gone by.
Where pianos, sounding nearer,
Make you wish that you were dead,
And a greenhand and a shearer
Tramped from Sam McCaughey's shed.

They had both been in the cities
And the Bushman dropped his mask:
" Are you married, mate — if it is
A fair thing to ask? "
" I was married — yes, I'm married! "
The other made reply,
As he eased the swag he carried.
Said the Bushman, " So was I. "

" Enny kids? " the Bushman queried,
Off-hand like, as Bushmen do;
In a tone a trifle wearied
The City Man said, " Two. "
" Boy and girl? " the Bushman added;
And the answer was a sigh.
Half a mile their " hoofs " they " padded " —
Said the Bushman, " So had I. "

" Grown up now! " remarked the other;
And their faces both were sad;
Ah! the boy sticks to the mother
And the girl sticks to her Dad!
(But, when each grows up and marries
You will mostly find, no doubt,
That the manner of it varies
To the other way about.)

" Mother-in-law? " the Bushman hinted;
But the city man said, " No! "
And he gave her praise unstinted
In a dozen words or so.
" Own relations? Have I hit it? "
Said the City, " Say no more! "
Then he hissed, with forehead knitted,
" Visitors — and Hag-Next-Door. "

(Might have had a farm or villa,
With big families about,
And with grown-up sons to fill a
Gap in Freedom's Line, no doubt.
Tramping through the Riverina,
Mostly weary and heart-sore;
Should a Hell he shared between the
Visitors and Hags-Next-Door?)

Said the Bushman, " Separated? "
And the man of cities, forced
To repeat the word he hated,
Said contemptuously, " Divorced! "
" Done with now? " the plain Bush ventured.
Said the city, " Never he! "
And the Bushman, still uncensured,
Said to comfort, " Same with me! "

" What's your name? " the Bushman pondered,
Said the city man, " Jack Drew. "
Said the Bushman, " I have wandered
Under several — " Smith" will do. "
And they reached the shanty, thinking,
Where they quenched a three-weeks' thirst;
And where Smith said, after drinking,
" I was your wife's blooming first! "

And for years the plainsmen reckoned,
In the shack, or on the track,
That Bill Smith and his wife's second
Were the truest mates Out Back,
Till they sought their native city
And were parted by a word
Said in malice by the witty
Second wife of their wife's third.