There was trouble at the station, for the word had got around,
That the Kitchen maid was pregnant and the culprit must be found.
Was it Harrison or Clancy, or perhaps the Chinese cook,
Whose defence I give verbatim: “Me do nothing, me just look!”
Early betting was on Harrison, although his hair was white,
For the country folk will tell you, that a grizzled dog can bite.
And Clancy of the Overflow, came in for mention too,
As the speculation mounted, and the accusations flew.
Till the Boss’s wife grew angry, and at last was moved to state,
There’s a resolution coming, I’d advise you all to wait.
When the maid’s child is delivered - and the day is surely nigh,
Then the issue will be settled, and we’ll see just who he’s by!
We will study frame and visage, and we’ll know without a doubt,
Whether station sire or stranger, for the truth will surely out.
We are practiced in such matters, whether human, dog, or horse,
So just cease these allegations and let nature take its course.
And take its course, it surely did, the maid confined to bed,
Produced a healthy baby boy, just as the Missus said,
And close perusal of the lad, the strangest thing revealed,
His sire was never in the call - the roughie of the field!
The steel-blue eyes, the sandy hair, the legs already bent,
The rattle flourished like a whip, the clearest message sent.
And Clancy of the overflow, these features pointed out,
Till all agreed the culprit was, that bloody roustabout!
He came from mountain country, up by Kosciusko’s side,
A skinny sawn-off little sod, one clearly born to ride.
In fact, he rode before he walked, he knew no other trade,
And so it was, this Snowy lad, had saddled up the maid!
And round the camp-fire every night, the ringers wondered why,
This Snowy River specimen, had caught the maiden’s eye,
And jubilation and regret, in equal measure weighed,
With those who’d tried and failed to win, the little Kitchen maid.
(Sorry, can't get the paragraphing to work)
