THAT CHAMPAGNE ORDER ( by anonymous) From THE WORKER, 29 December 1900, p 6 (the NSW government ordered 18,000 bottles of champagne to celebrate Federation).
As we would go let us begin – Let watching nations see us hum.
Is Holland emptied quite of gin? And has Jamaica got no rum? And all along the castled Rhine Are there no cellars full of wine? There is still time to wire for more – Why fix a limit?
At a time Surpassing all the times before We ought to aim at the sublime, And start the coach of Federation By one superb intoxication. Unscrew the taps and let it flow, Free as the Commonwealth we hail, Till even Sons of Temperance bow To scoop the nectar from a pail, And drink success to Premier Lyne In whisky, brandy, rum and wine.
"OWED" TO THE COMMONWEALTH by "Owen Deed"
From TRUTH, 6 January 1901 (on the occasion of the Lord Mayor's banquet to celebrate Federation in Sydney)
You have seen the celebrations, and the bill is like to be Just a foretaste of the sort of thing to come. It won't be all beer and skittles SWTOR Powerleveling, Federation, you will see, Though it may provide a rosy job for some! There'll be lots more legislators, lots more judges, lots more jobs, For the hangers-on of each Administration.
And they give a gorge-ous banquet To the men of grasping greed; And their lady friends all hop along To view… And the "lydies" watch them gorging, Cramming, ramming down the chuck buy SWTOR gold, And a-swiping till they're full to Suffocation; But there ain't no use in grumbling, for Australia's in luck, And it takes a lot of Booze to found A Nation!
THE MEN WHO MADE AUSTRALIA by Henry Lawson (on the occasion of the Royal Visit to Australia, 1901)
There'll be royal times in Sydney for the Cuff and Collar Push, There'll be lots of dreary drivel and clap-trap From the men who own Australia, but who never knew the Bush, And who could not point their runs out on the map.
Oh, the daily Press will grovel as it never did before, There'll be many flags of welcome in the air, And the Civil Service poet., he shall write odes by the score – But the men who made the land will not be there.
Call across the blazing sand wastes of the Never-Never Land! There are some who will not answer yet awhile, Some whose bones rot in the mulga or lie bleaching on the sand, Died of thirst to win the land another mile.
Thrown from horses, ripped by cattle, lost on deserts; and the weak SWTOR gold, Mad through loneliness or drink (no matter which) buy SWTOR power leveling, Drowned in floods or dead of fever by the sluggish slimy creek – These are the men who died to make the Wool-Kings rich.
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