Classic Poem

Where have the old accorjins gone?
I was askin' the coves at the Show;
Matt from the Mallee an' Dandenong Don,
An' a score of the fellers I know
Ole fellers, like me - an' they're missin' 'em sore;
For this wireless, it never makes up
For the merry ole music we knowed of yore
When Brindle was a pup
As they puts it
An' Bravo collared the Cup.

Where are the old accorjins now
Like me father used to play?
Times when we rested from harrers an' ploughs
An' we made rare holiday.
Or Accorjin Alf, poor half-wit coot,
To the bush dance used to come
An' beat the time with his hobnail boot,
Like the top of an big bass drum
'Ladies' Chain!'
Keep time to the top o' the drum.

Pipe in the sou'-west side of his mouth,
Hat on the back of his head,
Alf 'ud be there, come flood, come drouth,
For the dance in the shearin' shed.
Leaky bellers an' keys all broke,
Reeds near wearin' away;
But they put the ginger into a bloke,
Them toons as he used to play.
Hum a couple.
Reel toons of an older day.

'Hie to the Weddin'' an' 'Belle Mahone,'
'Wait Till the Clouds Roll by' ...
An' me an' yer ma crep' out alone,
Out under the starlit sky
Aw, jazz an' the wireless, things like these
Is a wonder to men, alright.
But gimme that ole accorjin's wheeze,
An' the bush, and a starlit night.
Kin yeh hear it?
A mopoke's call in the night.