The blessed town of Booligal.

`But down in Hay the shearers come
And fill themselves with fighting-rum,
And chase blue devils up the wall,
And fight the snaggers every day,
Until there is the deuce to pay --
There's none of that in Booligal.

`Of course, there isn't much to see --
The billiard-table used to be
The great attraction for us all,
Until some careless, drunken curs
Got sleeping on it in their spurs,
And ruined it, in Booligal.

`Just now there is a howling drought
That pretty near has starved us out --
It never seems to rain at all;
But, if there SHOULD come any rain,
You couldn't cross the black-soil plain --
You'd have to stop in Booligal.'

. . . . .

`WE'D HAVE TO STOP!' With bated breath
We prayed that both in life and death
Our fate in other lines might fall:
`Oh, send us to our just reward
In Hay or Hell, but, gracious Lord,