John O'Brien

Pitchin' at the Church

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On the Sunday morning mustered,
Yarning at our ease;
Buggies, traps and jinkers clustered
Underneath the trees,
Horses tethered to the fences;
Thus we hold our conferences
Waiting till the priest commences-
Pitchin' at the Church.

Sheltering in the summer's shining
Where the shadows fall;
When the winter's sun is pining,
Lined along the wall;
Yarning, reckoning, ruminating,
"Yeos" and lambs and wool debating,
Squatting, smoking, idly waiting-
Pitchin' at the Church.

Young bloods gathered from the others
Tell their dreamings o'er;
Beaded-bonneted old mothers
Grouped around the door;
Dainty bush girls, trim and fairy,
All that's neat and sweet and airy-
Nell, and Kate, and Laughing Mary'-
Pitchin' at the Church.

Up comes someone briskly driving,
"Cutting matters fine :"
All his "fam'ly lot" arriving
Wander in a line
Off in some precise direction,
Till they find their proper section,
Greet it with an interjection-
Pitchin' at the Church.

"Mornun', Jack." "Good mornun', Martin."
"Keepin' pretty dry!"
"When d'you think you'll finish cartin'?"
"Prices ain't too high ?"
Round about the yarnin' strayin'-
Dances, sickness-frocks surveyin'-
Wheat is "growed," the "hens is layin'"-
Pitchin' at the Church.

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John O'Brien