Och! the gorgeous condition

Of this year’s Exhibition;

Och! the pyramids! How can they thus stack aloft goods?

The things omni-linery,

The fashions and finery,

And the eatables, drinkables, hardware and soft goods!


There were drawings and pictures,

And all sorts of mixtures,

In various fixtures

Which call for no strictures;

There were treats for all passers,

Neat antimacassars,

And coseys,

And posies

And full-blooming roses;

I can’t strike the note, oh!

To give you a photo,

Of the scene there in toto.


There were horses and mares,

In singles and pairs;

There were bulls, cows and calves,

Nothing there done by halves;

There were sheep – rams and ewes –

There were goats we abuse;


There were pigs – sows and hogs;

There were all sorts of dogs;

There was poultry of all sorts,

Pure and cross, large and small sorts;

And, alongside the strong birds,

There were pigeons and songbirds,

The latter lot varies

From larks to canaries;

There were all sorts of things

That progress upon wings.

There was wool in the grease,

And merino’s best fleece;

There was wine of all hues,

Which our own men produce;

’Twas of sugar not chary;

While, from farm and from dairy,

Of goods was no lack, oh;

From wheat to tobacco,

From lucerne, to, utter,

To yams and to butter.


There were flow’rs, reg’lar glutton holes,

There were cut blooms and buttonholes,

And floral devices,

And all that entices.


There were paintings and etchings,

Water-colours and sketchings;

Music, printing, and furniture;

And e’rywhere, durn it! you’re

Confronted with something

That speaks, though a dumb thing.


Through the glint and the greenery,

Loomed much cunning machinery,

And buggies and coaches

Lined many approaches.


See of food a grand store,

Beer and whisky galore;

How, the nostrils, does break on

The rare smell of the bacon;


The entrance gate unlocks,

And, from adjacent pens,

The crowing of the cocks,

The cackling of the hens;

Are heard in blended jogs,

With howlings from the dogs,

To linger here, would be a sin,

We’ve paid our bobs, let’s pass right in.


Queensland Figaro, 22 August 1885