THE SPIDER BY THE GWYDER
By the sluggish river Gwyder lived a wicked red-back spider
And he was just as vicious as could be
And the place that he was camped in, was a rusty Jones’s jam tin,
In the paddock by the showgrounds at Moree.
Near him lay a shearer snoozing, he’d been on the beer and boozing,
All the night before and all the day,
And the kooking of the kookers and the noisy showground spruikers,
Failed to raise him from the trance in which he lay.
When a crafty looking spieler with a dainty looking sheila,
Came along collecting wood to make a fire,
Said the spieler, “There’s a boozer, and he’s going to be a loser,
If he isn’t, you can christen me liar.
Wriggle round a keep nit honey, while I pan the mug for money,
And we’ll have some little luxuries for tea.”
But she answered, “Don’t be silly, you go back and boil the billy,
You can safely leave the mug to little me.”
She circled ever nearer, till she reached the dopey shearer,
With his pockets bulging, fast asleep and snug,
But she didn’t see the spider that was lurking there beside her,
For her mind was on the money and the mug.
Now the spider wanted dinner, he was daily growing thinner,
He’d been fasting, was as hollow as an urn,
She eyed the bulging pocket, he just darted like a rocket,
And bit the sheila on the stern.
Like a flash she raced off squealing, and her clothes began unpeeling,
While to hear her yell would make you feel folorn,
On the bite one hand was pressing, while the other was undressing,
And she reached the camp the same as she was born.
The shearer pale and haggard woke, and back to town he staggered,
He caught the train and gave the booze a rest,
But he’ll never know a spider that was camping at the Gwyder,
Had saved him sixty-seven of the best.
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