The Farmer

I'm a plain country farmer, that follows the plough,
I know more of turmits and carrots
Than questions political, really I trow
Those members just jabber like parrots,
Who gather in Wellington year after year,
To waste time, I m not an alarmer,
But really such nonsense to me doth appear
Soft twaddle unfit for a farmer.

Come sit round the table,
My boys, while you're able,
Let no man appear as a stranger;
And show me the ass,
That refuses his glass,
And I'll order him hay in the manger!

Misther Fisher bad scarcely finished the last line av his song whin the Kurnil jumped to his feet an' bellowed forth the followin':—