| With pannikins all rusty,
|
| And billy burnt and black,
|
| And clothes all torn and dusty,
|
| That scarcely hide his back;
|
| With sun-cracked saddle-leather,
|
| And knotted greenhide rein,
|
| And face burnt brown with weather,
|
| Our Andy’s home again!
|
| His unkempt hair is faded
|
| With sleeping in the wet,
|
| He’s looking old and jaded;
|
| But he is hearty yet.
|
| With eyes sunk in their sockets
|
| But merry as of yore;
|
| With big cheques in his pockets,
|
| Our Andy’s home once more.
|
| Old Uncle’s bright and cheerful;
|
| He wears a smiling face;
|
| And Aunty’s never tearful
|
| Now Andy’s round the place.
|
| Old Blucher barks for gladness;
|
| He broke his rusty chain,
|
| And leapt in joyous madness
|
| When Andy came again.
|
| His toil is nearly over;
|
| He’ll soon enjoy his gains.
|
| No more he’ll be a drover,
|
| And cross the lonely plains.
|
| The She oaks bend and quiver
|
| Far from the hot nor’west,
|
| At home by some cool river
|
| He means to build our nest.
|
| With pannikins all rusty,
|
| And billy burnt and black,
|
| And clothes all torn and dusty,
|
| That scarcely hide his back;
|
| With sun-cracked saddle-leather,
|
| From where the skies hang lazy,
|
| On many a northern plain,
|
| From regions dim and hazy
|
| Hey our Andy’s home again! |