The stockyard’s broken down, and the woolshed’s tumbling in; I’ve written to the mortgagees in vain; My wool it is all damaged and it is not worth a pin, And I’ve lost that little freehold on the plain.

Last year it had been Beecham's ball, the year before Bossier's, and this year it was to take place in the woolshed of James Grant of Yabtree.