With pannikins all rusty,
And billy burnt and black,
And clothes all torn and dusty,
That scarcely hide his back;
With sun-cracked saddle-leather,
And knotted greenhide rein,
And face burnt brown with weather,
Our Andy-s home again!
His unkempt hair is faded
With sleeping in the wet,
He-s looking old and jaded;
But he is hearty yet.
With eyes sunk in their sockets-
But merry as of yore;
With big cheques in his pockets,
Our Andy-s home once more!

Old Uncle-s bright and cheerful;
He wears a smiling face;
And Aunty-s never tearful
Now Andy-s round the place.
Old Blucher barks for gladness;
He broke his rusty chain,
And leapt in joyous madness
When Andy came again.

With tales of flood and famine,
On distant northern tracks,
And shady yarns--baal gammon!-
Of dealings with the blacks,
From where the skies hang lazy
On many a northern plain,
From regions dim and hazy
Our Andy-s home again!

His toil is nearly over;
He-ll soon enjoy his gains.
Not long he-ll be a drover,
And cross the lonely plains.
We-ll happy be for ever
When he-ll no longer roam,
But by some deep, cool river
Will make us all a home.