Pitchin' at the Church

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.