“Wisha, that big house of Carey’s with its power of fal-de-daries.” “Faith, he’s in the bank to build it, so I hear the people say.” “It will break him now to clear it; and it’s grieved I am to hear it; Wisha, I wouldn’t be in Carey’s boots to-day!”
They came here in the early days, And settled down as neighbours; With tilted carts and bullock-drays They shared our griefs and labours. We tramped it to the old bush school, In fine or rainy weather; And there upon the dunce’s stool We took our knocks together. But now they stood for “class” among Our little congregation; And, as they passed us by, they flung Mere scraps of toleration. And sometimes down to Mass they’d bring Fine strangers holidaying, Who laughed and gushed at everything Within their orbit straying. By soft white hands and modish gowns They sought the world to measure, And seemed to think our reach-me-downs Were staged to give them pleasure. And, faith, it set the tongues a-wag And entertained the flippants To see the fifteen-guinea bag That held the little “thrippence,” While in the church they plied the fan And practised like vagaries; So in the Old Mass Shandrydan We gave it to the Careys:
“Wisha, did you see the Careys? They’re the high-falutin fairies.” “Tell me, who were them play-actors there that had so much to say?” “Och, the antics and the wrigglin’, and the goin’s-on and gigglin’— Wisha, did you see the Careys there to-day!”
They sometimes drove a spanking pair, Which brought them speed and honour; They sometimes drove a pacing-mare With straps and pads upon her; They covered us with clouds of dust, As thick as we could wear it; And we could plod, as needs we must, And keep the faith and bear it. When skies were blue and days were bright, And leaf and bud were sprouting, They came to Mass in splendour dight, To make a Sunday’s outing; But when the morn was blank with storm And winter blasts complaining, The Careys kept devotion warm Beside their fire remaining. So, while the chilling torrents ran And soaked our best figaries, Within the Old Mass Shandrydan We pummelled at the Careys:
“Wisha, where were all the Careys? Sure the rain might melt the fairies!” “Faith, and if it was the races then, they wouldn’t stop away.” “That’d be another story; there they’d be in all their glory— Wisha, what could keep them all from Mass to-day!”