Morgan the drover explained, <br />As he drank from his battered quart-pot, <br />Many a slut I have trained; <br />This is the best of the lot. <br />Crossing these stringybark hills, <br />Hungry and rocky and steep <br />This is the country that kills <br />Weakly and sore-footed sheep. <br /> <br />Those that are healthy and strong <br />Battle away in the lead, <br />Carting the others along, <br />Eating the whole of the feed. <br /> <br />That's where this little red slut <br />Shows you what's bred in the bone; <br />Works it all out in her nut, <br />Handles it all on her own. <br /> <br />Backwards and forwards she'll track, <br />Gauging the line at a glance, <br />Keeping the stronger ones back, <br />Giving the tailers a chance. <br /> <br />Weary and hungry and lame, <br />Sticking all day to her job, <br />Thin as a rabbit, but game, <br />Working in front of the mob. <br /> <br />Tradesmen, I call 'em, the dogs, <br />Those that'll work in a yard; <br />Bark till they're hoarser than frogs, <br />Makin' 'em savage and hard. <br /> <br />Others will soldier and shirk <br />While there's a rabbit to hunt: <br />This is an artist at work; <br />Watch her -- out there -- in the front.<br /><br />Andrew Barton Paterson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/morgan-s-dog/
