Aw, chuck the mail bags over there,
It's great to have 'em brought by air;
But, now they're here, just sling 'em round,
Out anywhere, upon the ground.
I'll pick 'em up an' make full speed
Soon as me 'orse 'as 'as a feed.
Delays don't count in this fair clime;
This is the land o' Lotsertime.

I 'ear 'ow Europe's gone fair mad
On speed. But I'm like my ole dad.
The things a man don't do today
He does termorrer, anyway.
So wot's the odds! This speed's all tripe.
Wait on until I light me pipe.
A spell for yarnin' ain't no crime;
This is the land o' Lotsertime.

The Melbourne cockies, they don't care.
There's always 'eaps o' time to spare.
They ain't air-minded like yous blokes
From Europe, or them Yankee folks.
Why should we be, when all is said?
When coves dies they're a long time dead.
Why worry while the crops is prime?
This is the land o' Lotsertime.

So, sling the mail bags over 'ere.
I'll fill me pipe again an' clear.
I hold one record, 't any rate;
I always gets there, soon or late.
The mail gets thro', dry stage or wet;
An' fire or flood ain't beat me yet.
Our troubles 'ow speed records climb
In this 'ere land o' Lotsertime.