The Honorable Ardleigh Wyse Was Every Fisherman'S Despair; He Caught His Fish On Floating Flies, In Fact He Caught Them In The Air, And Wet-Fly Men, Good Sports, Perhaps, He Called "Those Chuck-And-Chance-It Chaps". And Then The Fates That Sometimes Play A Joke On Such As Me And You Deported Him Up Queensland Way To Act As A Station Jackaroo. The Boundary Rider Said, Said He, "You Fish Dry Fly? Well, So Do We. "These Barramundi Are The Blokes To Give You All The Sport You Need: For When The Big Lagoons And Soaks Are Dried Right Down To Mud And Weed They Don't Sit There And Raise A Roar, They Pack Their Traps And Come Ashore. "And All These Rods And Reels You Lump Along The Creek From Day To Day Would Only Give A Man The Hump Who Does His Fishing Queensland Way. For When The Barramundi'S Thick We Knock 'Em Over With A Stick. "The Black Boys On The Darwin Side Will Fill A Creek With Bitter Leaves And When The Fish Are Stupefied The Gins Will Gather 'Em In Sheaves. Now Tell Me, Could A Feller Wish A Finer Way Of Catchin' Fish?" The Stokehold Of The Steamship Foam Contains Our Hero, Very Sick, A-Working Of His Passage Home And Brandishing A Blue Gum Stick. "Behold," Says He, "The Latest Fly; It's Called The Great Australian Dry."