The season is over;
The shearing is done;
The wages are paid; and
The ‘sprees’ have begun.
But never a shanty
Gets sight of my cheques;
For far down the Murray
My Annie expects
A heart that is faithful,
A head that is clear,
And sufficient provisions
To last for a year.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem