The Thrashing Floor.

Prosperity; WorkThwack, thwack, bounds the flail now on ev’ry thrashing floor,
Bespeaking sweet comfort, and plenty got in store;
The harvest completed, and produce well secured,
The bushman can smile o’er privations endured.
FamilyHis wife, light of heart, now with gladness can sing,
And his young ones, with mirth, makes his cottage to ring,
All joyful in the hope, that of bread they’ll have no lack,
As loud, his floor resounds, with merry thwack! thwack! thwack!

Thwack, thwack, bounds the flail, may the bushman still be blest
With a bountiful return for his labours without rest;
Change; LandThe forest grounds converting to fertile fields of grain,
Though blacken’d stumps, the ghosts of bygone times, may remain.
Work; Joy; LibertyHis toils give him pleasure when nought else can please,
His heart, of independence is proud, still scorning ease,
So actively he wields his flail, and making tell each stroke,
As loud, his floor resounds, with merry thwack! thwack! thwack!

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Thwack, thwack, bounds the flail, while the grains about do fly,
And the straws around him float as his swingle wheels on high,
Then descending quick it tells, while his labour gives him joy,
And his bosom beats harmonious with his pleasing employ.
Aye, pleasing sure it is, at having comforts now in view,
And his first fruits inviting him his fortunes to pursue;
Light spirited he plies his toil, in trashing out his stack,
Which makes his floors resound with merry thwack, thwack, thwack.