Republican Pioneers

We're marching along, we're gath'ring strong'
We place on our right reliance,
We fling in the air, for all who care,
Our first loud notes of defiance!
We fling in the air,
For all who care,
Our first loud notes of defiance!


Laugh long and loud, you toady crowd,
At the men you call benighted,
In spite of your sneers, we are pioneers
Of "Australian States United"!
In spite of your sneers, We are pioneers
Of "Australian States United"!


Not long we'll stand as an outlaw band,
And be in our country lonely,
For soon to the sky shall ring our cry,
Our cry of "Australia only"!
For soon to the sky
Shall mount our cry,
Our cry of "Australia only"!


And we'll sleep sound in Australian ground,
'Neath the blue-cross flag star lighted,
When it freely waves o'er the grass-grown graves
Of the pioneers united!
When it floats and veers
O'er the pioneers
Of "Australian States United"!

Reedy River

Ten miles down Reedy River
A pool of water lies,
And all the year it mirrors
The changes in the skies,
And in that pool's broad bosom
Is room for all the stars;
Its bed of sand has drifted
O'er countless rocky bars.


Around the lower edges
There waves a bed of reeds,
Where water rats are hidden
And where the wild duck breeds;
And grassy slopes rise gently
To ridges long and low,
Where groves of wattle flourish
And native bluebells grow.


Beneath the granite ridges
The eye may just discern
Where Rocky Creek emerges
From deep green banks of fern;
And standing tall between them,
The grassy she-oaks cool
The hard, blue-tinted waters
Before they reach the pool.


Ten miles down Reedy River
One Sunday afternoon,
I rode with Mary Campbell
To that broad, bright lagoon;
We left our horses grazing
Till shadows climbed the peak,
And strolled beneath the she-oaks
On the banks of Rocky Creek.


Then home along the river
That night we rode a race,
And the moonlight lent a glory
To Mary Campbell's face;
And I pleaded for our future
All through that moonlight ride,
Until our weary horses
Drew closer side by side.


Ten miles from Ryan's Crossing
And five miles below the peak,
I built a little homestead
On the banks of Rocky Creek;
I cleared the land and fenced it
And ploughed the rich, red loam,
And my first crop was golden



When I brought my Mary home.


Now still down Reedy River
The grassy she-oaks sigh,
And the water-holes still mirror
The pictures in the sky;
And over all for ever
Go sun and moon and stars,
While the golden sand is drifting
Across the rocky bars


But of the hut I builded
There are no traces now.
And many rains have levelled
The furrows of the plough;
And my bright days are olden,
For the twisted branches wave
And the wattle blossoms golden
On the hill by Mary's grave.

Queen Hilda of Virland

PART I
Queen Hilda rode along the lines,
And she was young and fair;
And forward on her shoulders fell
The heavy braids of hair:
No gold was ever dug from earth
Like that burnished there –
No sky so blue as were her eyes
Had man seen anywhere.


'Twas so her gay court poets sang,
And we believed it true.
But men must fight for golden hair
And die for eyes of blue!
Cheer after cheer, the long half mile
(It has been ever thus),
And evermore her winsome smile
She turned and turned on us.


The Spring-burst over wood and sea,
The day was warm and bright –
Young Clarence stood on my left hand,
Old Withen on the right.
With fifteen thousand men, or more,
With plumes and banners gay,
To sail that day to foreign war,
And our ships swarmed on the bay.


Old Withen muttered in his beard I listened with a sigh –
"Good Faith! for such a chit as that
Strong men must kill and die.
She'll back to her embroideree,
And fools that bow and smirk,
And we must sail across the sea
And go to other work.


"And wherefore? Wherefore," Withen said,
"Is this red quarrel sought?
Because of clacking painted hags
And foreign fops at Court!
Because 'tis said a drunken king,
In lands we've never seen,
Said something foolish in his cups
Of our young silly queen!


"Good faith! in her old great-aunt's time
'Twere different, I vow:
If old Dame Ruth were here, she'd get
Some sharp advising now!"
(At this a grim smile went about
For men could say in sooth
That none who'd seen her face could doubt



The fair fame of Dame Ruth.)


If Clarence heard, he said no word;
His soul was fresh and clean;
The glory in his boyish eyes
Was shining for his Queen!
And as she passed, he gazed as one
An angel might regard.
(Old Withen looked as if he'd like
To take and smack her hard.)


We only smiled at anything
That good old Withen said,
For he, half blind, through smoke and flame
Had borne her grandsire dead;
And he, in Virland's danger time,
Where both her brothers died,
Had ridden to red victory
By her brave father's side.


Queen Hilda rode along the lines
'Mid thundering cheers the while,
And each man sought – and seemed to get –
Her proud and happy smile.
Queen Hilda little dreamed – Ah, me! –
On what dark miry plain,
And what blood-blinded eyes would see
Her girlish smile again!


Queen Hilda rode on through the crowd,
We heard the distant roar;
We heard the clack of gear and plank,
The sailors on the shore.
Queen Hilda sought her "bower" to rest,
(For her day's work was done),
We kissed our wives – or others' wives –
And sailed ere set of sun.


(Some sail because they're married men,
And some because they're free –
To come or not come back agen,
And such of old were we.
Some sail for fame and some for loot
And some for love – or lust –
And some to fish and some to shoot
And some because they must.


(Some sail who know not why they roam
When they are come aboard,
And some for wives and loves at home,
And some for those abroad.
Some sail because the path is plain,



And some because they choose,
And some with nothing left to gain
And nothing left to lose.


(And we have sailed from Virland, we,
For a woman's right or wrong,
And we are One, and One, and Three,
And Fifteen Thousand strong.
For Right or Wrong and Virland's fame –
You dared us and we come
To write in blood a woman's name
And take a letter home.)


PART II
King Death came riding down the lines
And broken lines were they,
With scarce a soldier who could tell
Where friend or foeman lay:
The storm cloud looming over all,
Save where the west was red,
And on the field, of friend and foe,
Ten thousand men lay dead.


Boy Clarence lay in slush and blood
With his face deathly white;
Old Withen lay by his left side
And I knelt at his right.
And Clarence ever whispered,
Though with dying eyes serene:
"I loved her for her girlhood,.
Will someone tell the Queen?"


And this old Withen's message,
When his time shortly came:
"I loved her for her father's sake
But I fought for Virland's fame:
Go, take you this, a message
From me," Old Withen said,
"Who knelt beside her father,
And his when they were dead:


"I who in sport or council,
I who as boy and man,
Would aye speak plainly to them
Were it Court, or battle's van –
(Nay! fear not, she will listen
And my words be understood,
And she will heed my message,
For I know her father's blood.)


"If shame there was – (I judge not
As I'd not be judged above:



The Royal blood of Virland
Was ever hot to love,
Or fight.) – the slander's wiped out,
As witness here the slain:
But, if shame there was, then tell her
Let it not be again."


At home once more in Virland
The glorious Spring-burst shines:
Queen Hilda rides right proudly
Down our victorious lines.
The gaps were filled with striplings,
And Hilda wears a rose:
And what the wrong or right of it
Queen Hilda only knows.


But, be it state or nation
Or castle, town, or shed,
Or be she wife or monarch
Or widowed or unwed –
Now this is for your comfort,
And it has ever been:
That, wrong or right, a man must fight
For his country and his queen.

Possum A Lay of New Chumland

SO YER trav’lin’ for yer pleasure while yer writin’ for the press?
An’ yer huntin’ arter “copy”?—well, I’ve heer’d o’ that. I guess
You are gorn ter write a story that is gorn ter be yer best,
’Bout the “blunders an’ advenchers ov a new chum in the west?”
An’ you would be very thankful an’ acknowledge any hint?
Well, I karn’t say as I hankers fur ter see my name in print;
But I know a little story an’ I’ll tell it out ov hand
If yer’ll put it down in writin’ that the swells kin understand—
(It’s a story ov a new chum, and—a story ov the land.)


He had lately kum from Ingland—you cud tell it by ’s cap—
Fur “kerlonial exper’ence” (an’ he got it, too, poor chap).
’Twas in town he met the squatter, an’ he asked, as if in fun,
“If the boss ’ud want a flunkey or a coachy on the run?”
Well, it riz the boss’s dander, an’ he jumps clean orf ’is ’oss—
“Now, me fresh, sweet-scented beauty, watyer giv’nus?” sez the boss;
“I hev met yer kidney often, an’ yer mighty fresh an’ free,
But yer needn’t think yer gorn ter come a-lardin’ over me!”


But the new chum sed that ’onest he was lookin’ for a job,
An’ in spite of his appearance he had blued ’is bottom bob.
An’ as beggars karn’t be choosers same as people wot are rich,
Said he’d go as stoo’rd or gard’ner, but he warn’t partickler which.
Well, the joker seemed in earnest, so the boss began ter cool,
An’ he only blanked the new chum for a thund’rin’ jumpt-up fool.
Then he sed, “Well, there’s the fencin’, if yer’ll tramp it up from Perth,
The boys ’ll find yer su’thin p’r’aps, an’ giv’ yer wat yer worth.”


Ov course the squatter never thort ter see ’im any more,
But he wa’n’t the kind ov new chum that the squatter tuk ’im for;
No, he wa’n’t the kind er cockeroach that on’y kums ter shirk,
That wants ter git the sugar, but is fri’tened ov the work;
For he sold ’is watch ’n’ jool’ry, ’n’ lardi-dardy suits,
Stuck a swag upon his shoulder, ’n’ ’is feet in blucher boots;
An’ I dunno how he did it, he was anythin’ but strong,
But he ’umped his bluey ninety mile an’ kum to Bunglelong.


He earnt ’is pound and tucker borin’ holes an’ runnin’ wire,
An’ he’d work from dawn to sunset, an’ he never seemed to tire;
But he must have suffered orful from the tucker an’ the heat,
An’ the everlastin’ trampin’ made ’im tender in the feet,
An’ he must hev thort ov England w’en the everlastin’ flies
Ware a-worrit, worrit, worrit, an’ a-knawin’ at ’is eyes;
An’ he used to swear like thunder w’en the yaller sergeant ants
Took a mornin’ stroll, promiscus, on the inside ov ’is pants.


He uster make ’is damper six or seven inches thick—
It was doughey on the inside an’ the shell was like a brick,
An’ while the damper made ’im dream ov days ov long ago,



The little boodie rats ’ud kum an’ nibble out the dough.
He biled ’is taters soggy, an’ ’is junk was biled to rags
(The little boodie rats ’ud kum an’ chew ’s tucker bags),
But he took ’is troubles cheerful, an’ he fixed ’em like a pome,
An’ writ ’em in his darey to amuse the folks at home.


At first he flashed a coller an’ was keerful with ’is hat,
An’ he’d black ’is boots ov Sundays, but he soon grew out of that;
An’ he lernt ter bake ’is damper, an’ he leant to bile ’is junk
An’ sleep without a-getting up all night ter shake ’is bunk.
He soon got out ov takin’ “shorter cuts” across the flats,
An’ he learnt to fling ole bottles to the sorror of the rats,
An’ learnt to sling kerlonial and like the bushman’s way,
An’ it did us good to see ’im smoke ’is “nigger” in a clay.


He would sing an’ play ’is fiddle when we gathered round the blaze,
Till ole Frenchy got excited while he’d play the Mascylays;
An’ Bill ’ud take ’is hat off while he’d spout the Light Brigade,
An’ Scotchy got oneasy when the “Bony ’Ills” was played.
So we got ter like the new chum for we’d met with many wuss,
An’ we made it easy for ’im an’ he seemed to take to us:
The toilin’ an’ the trampin’ was a-cookin’ ’im we found,
So we made ’im cook an’ stoo’rd just ter keep the chap around.


Well, the months went bakin’ broilin’ on until Christmas nex’,
When we tramped it down to Perth to spend our ’ollyday (and cheques);
But Possum sed he’d save ’is tin an’ stay and mind the camp,
So we left ’im in possession an’ we started on our tramp;
(We useter call ’im Possum, but for short we called ’im Poss,
For ’is eyes was black an’ twinklin’ and a little chap he was),
We never would have left ’im if we’d know’d (but that’s the ru,
Comin’ back we found ’im dyin’ in ’is gunyah in the scrub.


We fixed ’im up an’ nursed ’im; but we seen without a doubt
That consumption was the matter, an’ the chap was peggin’ out;
But the lion heart inside ’im was as strong an’ stout as six,
An’ while he’d smile an’ thank us he would joke about ’is fix;
An’ he said ’twas very jolly to be dry-nursed in a tent,
An’ he reckoned that the Christmas was the best he’d ever spent;
He would talk of ’ome and Inglan’ when ’is head began ter swim,
But he never blamed the country that had been so ’ard on him.


He would say, “I like the country; if a feller’s blind er halt,
Or if he’s got konsumption, why it ain’t the country’s fault.
The tea that’s boil’d in billies is far sweeter stuff, I know,
Than the cursed drink w’at blasted all my chances long ago.
I would hev cum out sooner if it was my destiny,
An’ I daresay that the country would have made a man ov me.
But w’at’s the good ov energy, an’ wat’s the good er ‘push’
W’en a feller’s sick an’ dyin’ in a gunyah in the bush.”


But he tole me all about it as I sat beside ’is bunk—



How he’d spent ’is tin in Melbourne an’ was allers gettin’ drunk;
How he thort he’d take it easy while he had a little gold,
And, before he turned the new leaf, how he scribbled on the old;
An’ among a lot ov nonsense w’en ’is mind began to drift,
He told me that the new leaf was a heavy leaf to lift.
But w’ats the good er writin’ this, it’s nothin’ very new,
The land will see enough ov it an’ suffer for it, too.
An’ he said w’en he was dying, (when his lung was spit away)
An’ we all was standin’ round ’im in the gunyah where he lay,
An’ he said, “I’ve watched the sunset—when the wind began to ‘woosh’,
Like a layer ov coals a-glowin’—on the dark bed ov the bush;
An’ I felt my fingers slippin’—slippin’—slowly—from the ropes,
Wen the West was cold—like ashes—like the ashes of my hopes;
An’—I—— Sit beside me—Peter—let me ’old—a—bushman’s hand,
For I’m—gorn to—’ump—my bluey—through the gates ov—Newchumland.”

Peter Anderson And Co.

He had offices in Sydney, not so many years ago,
And his shingle bore the legend `Peter Anderson and Co.',
But his real name was Careless, as the fellows understood --
And his relatives decided that he wasn't any good.
'Twas their gentle tongues that blasted any `character' he had --
He was fond of beer and leisure -- and the Co. was just as bad.
It was limited in number to a unit, was the Co. -'
Twas a bosom chum of Peter and his Christian name was Joe.


'Tis a class of men belonging to these soul-forsaken years:
Third-rate canvassers, collectors, journalists and auctioneers.
They are never very shabby, they are never very spruce --
Going cheerfully and carelessly and smoothly to the deuce.
Some are wanderers by profession, `turning up' and gone as soon,
Travelling second-class, or steerage (when it's cheap they go saloon);
Free from `ists' and `isms', troubled little by belief or doubt --
Lazy, purposeless, and useless -- knocking round and hanging out.
They will take what they can get, and they will give what they can give,
God alone knows how they manage -- God alone knows how they live!
They are nearly always hard-up, but are cheerful all the while --
Men whose energy and trousers wear out sooner than their smile!
They, no doubt, like us, are haunted by the boresome `if' or `might',
But their ghosts are ghosts of daylight -- they are men who live at night!


Peter met you with the comic smile of one who knows you well,
And is mighty glad to see you, and has got a joke to tell;
He could laugh when all was gloomy, he could grin when all was blue,
Sing a comic song and act it, and appreciate it, too.
Only cynical in cases where his own self was the jest,
And the humour of his good yarns made atonement for the rest.
Seldom serious -- doing business just as 'twere a friendly game --
Cards or billiards -- nothing graver. And the Co. was much the same.


They tried everything and nothing 'twixt the shovel and the press,
And were more or less successful in their ventures -- mostly less.
Once they ran a country paper till the plant was seized for debt,
And the local sinners chuckle over dingy copies yet.


They'd been through it all and knew it in the land of Bills and Jims --
Using Peter's own expression, they had been in `various swims'.
Now and then they'd take an office, as they called it, -- make a dash
Into business life as `agents' -- something not requiring cash.
(You can always furnish cheaply, when your cash or credit fails,
With a packing-case, a hammer, and a pound of two-inch nails --
And, maybe, a drop of varnish and sienna, too, for tints,
And a scrap or two of oilcloth, and a yard or two of chintz).
They would pull themselves together, pay a week's rent in advance,
But it never lasted longer than a month by any chance.


The office was their haven, for they lived there when hard-up --
A `daily' for a table cloth -- a jam tin for a cup;



And if the landlord's bailiff happened round in times like these
And seized the office-fittings -- well, there wasn't much to seize --
They would leave him in possession. But at other times they shot
The moon, and took an office where the landlord knew them not.
And when morning brought the bailiff there'd be nothing to be seen
Save a piece of bevelled cedar where the tenant's plate had been;
There would be no sign of Peter -- there would be no sign of Joe
Till another portal boasted `Peter Anderson and Co.'

And when times were locomotive, billiard-rooms and private bars --
Spicy parties at the cafe -- long cab-drives beneath the stars;
Private picnics down the Harbour -- shady campings-out, you know --
No one would have dreamed 'twas Peter -


no one would have thought 'twas Joe!
Free-and-easies in their `diggings', when the funds began to fail,
Bosom chums, cigars, tobacco, and a case of English ale --
Gloriously drunk and happy, till they heard the roosters crow --
And the landlady and neighbours made complaints about the Co.
But that life! it might be likened to a reckless drinking-song,
For it can't go on for ever, and it never lasted long.

. . . . .

Debt-collecting ruined Peter -- people talked him round too oft,
For his heart was soft as butter (and the Co.'s was just as soft);
He would cheer the haggard missus, and he'd tell her not to fret,
And he'd ask the worried debtor round with him to have a wet;
He would ask him round the corner, and it seemed to him and her,
After each of Peter's visits, things were brighter than they were.
But, of course, it wasn't business -- only Peter's careless way;
And perhaps it pays in heaven, but on earth it doesn't pay.
They got harder up than ever, and, to make it worse, the Co.
Went more often round the corner than was good for him to go.


`I might live,' he said to Peter, `but I haven't got the nerve --
I am going, Peter, going -- going, going -- no reserve.
Eat and drink and love they tell us, for to-morrow we may die,
Buy experience -- and we bought it -- we're experienced, you and I.'
Then, with a weary movement of his hand across his brow:
`The death of such philosophy's the death I'm dying now.
Pull yourself together, Peter; 'tis the dying wish of Joe
That the business world shall honour Peter Anderson and Co.


`When you feel your life is sinking in a dull and useless course,
And begin to find in drinking keener pleasure and remorse --
When you feel the love of leisure on your careless heart take holt,
Break away from friends and pleasure, though it give your heart a jolt.
Shun the poison breath of cities -- billiard-rooms and private bars,
Go where you can breathe God's air and see the grandeur of the stars!
Find again and follow up the old ambitions that you had --
See if you can raise a drink, old man, I'm feelin' mighty bad --
Hot and sweetened, nip o' butter -- squeeze o' lemon, Pete,' he sighed.



And, while Peter went to fetch it, Joseph went to sleep -- and died
With a smile -- anticipation, maybe, of the peace to come,
Or a joke to try on Peter -- or, perhaps, it was the rum.


. . . . .

Peter staggered, gripped the table, swerved as some old drunkard swerves --
At a gulp he drank the toddy, just to brace his shattered nerves.
It was awful, if you like. But then he hadn't time to think --
All is nothing! Nothing matters! Fill your glasses -- dead man's drink.


. . . . .

Yet, to show his heart was not of human decency bereft,
Peter paid the undertaker. He got drunk on what was left;
Then he shed some tears, half-maudlin, on the grave where lay the Co.,
And he drifted to a township where the city failures go.
Where, though haunted by the man he was, the wreck he yet might be,
Or the man he might have been, or by each spectre of the three,
And the dying words of Joseph, ringing through his own despair,
Peter `pulled himself together' and he started business there.


But his life was very lonely, and his heart was very sad,
And no help to reformation was the company he had --
Men who might have been, who had been, but who were not in the swim -'
Twas a town of wrecks and failures -- they appreciated him.
They would ask him who the Co. was -- that queer company he kept --
And he'd always answer vaguely -- he would say his partner slept;
That he had a `sleeping partner' -- jesting while his spirit broke --
And they grinned above their glasses, for they took it as a joke.
He would shout while he had money, he would joke while he had breath --
No one seemed to care or notice how he drank himself to death;
Till at last there came a morning when his smile was seen no more --
He was gone from out the office, and his shingle from the door,
And a boundary-rider jogging out across the neighb'ring run
Was attracted by a something that was blazing in the sun;
And he found that it was Peter, lying peacefully at rest,
With a bottle close beside him and the shingle on his breast.
Well, they analysed the liquor, and it would appear that he
Qualified his drink with something good for setting spirits free.
Though 'twas plainly self-destruction -- `'twas his own affair,' they said;
And the jury viewed him sadly, and they found -- that he was dead.

Past Carin'

Now up and down the siding brown
The great black crows are flyin',

And down below the spur, I know,
Another `milker's' dyin';

The crops have withered from the ground,
The tank's clay bed is glarin',

But from my heart no tear nor sound,
For I have gone past carin' -Past
worryin' or carin',
Past feelin' aught or carin';
But from my heart no tear nor sound,
For I have gone past carin'.

Through Death and Trouble, turn about,
Through hopeless desolation,

Through flood and fever, fire and drought,
And slavery and starvation;

Through childbirth, sickness, hurt, and blight,
And nervousness an' scarin',

Through bein' left alone at night,
I've got to be past carin'.
Past botherin' or carin',
Past feelin' and past carin';
Through city cheats and neighbours' spite,
I've come to be past carin'.

Our first child took, in days like these,
A cruel week in dyin',

All day upon her father's knees,
Or on my poor breast lyin';

The tears we shed -- the prayers we said
Were awful, wild -- despairin'!

I've pulled three through, and buried two
Since then -- and I'm past carin'.
I've grown to be past carin',
Past worryin' and wearin';
I've pulled three through and buried two
Since then, and I'm past carin'.

'Twas ten years first, then came the worst,
All for a dusty clearin',

I thought, I thought my heart would burst
When first my man went shearin';

He's drovin' in the great North-west,
I don't know how he's farin';

For I, the one that loved him best,
Have grown to be past carin'.
I've grown to be past carin'
Past lookin' for or carin';
The girl that waited long ago,
Has lived to be past carin'.


My eyes are dry, I cannot cry,
I've got no heart for breakin',

But where it was in days gone by,
A dull and empty achin'.

My last boy ran away from me,
I know my temper's wearin',

But now I only wish to be
Beyond all signs of carin'.
Past wearyin' or carin',
Past feelin' and despairin';
And now I only wish to be
Beyond all signs of carin'.

Outside


I want to be lighting my pipe on deck,
With my baggage safe below—
I want to be free of the crowded quay,
While the steamer’s swinging slow.
I want to be free of treachery,
And of sordid joys and griefs—
To be out of sight of the faces white,
And the waving of handkerchiefs.
I want to be making my ship-board friends,
I want to be free of the past—
I want to be laughing with kindred souls,
While the Heads are opening fast.
I want to be sailing far to-day,
On the tracks where the rovers go,
To feel the heave of the deck, and draw
The breath that the rovers know.

Outback


The old year went, and the new returned, in the withering weeks of drought,
The cheque was spent that the shearer earned,
and the sheds were all cut out;
The publican's words were short and few,
and the publican's looks were black --
And the time had come, as the shearer knew, to carry his swag Out Back.

For time means tucker, and tramp you must,

where the scrubs and plains are wide,
With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide;
All day long in the dust and heat -- when summer is on the track -With
stinted stomachs and blistered feet,

they carry their swags Out Back.

He tramped away from the shanty there, when the days were long and hot,
With never a soul to know or care if he died on the track or not.
The poor of the city have friends in woe, no matter how much they lack,
But only God and the swagmen know how a poor man fares Out Back.


He begged his way on the parched Paroo and the Warrego tracks once more,
And lived like a dog, as the swagmen do, till the Western stations shore;
But men were many, and sheds were full, for work in the town was slack --
The traveller never got hands in wool,


though he tramped for a year Out Back.


In stifling noons when his back was wrung


by its load, and the air seemed dead,
And the water warmed in the bag that hung to his aching arm like lead,
Or in times of flood, when plains were seas,


and the scrubs were cold and black,
He ploughed in mud to his trembling knees, and paid for his sins Out Back.


He blamed himself in the year `Too Late' -


in the heaviest hours of life -'
Twas little he dreamed that a shearing-mate had care of his home and wife;
There are times when wrongs from your kindred come,


and treacherous tongues attack --
When a man is better away from home, and dead to the world, Out Back.


And dirty and careless and old he wore, as his lamp of hope grew dim;
He tramped for years till the swag he bore seemed part of himself to him.
As a bullock drags in the sandy ruts, he followed the dreary track,
With never a thought but to reach the huts when the sun went down Out Back.


It chanced one day, when the north wind blew


in his face like a furnace-breath,
He left the track for a tank he knew -- 'twas a short-cut to his death;
For the bed of the tank was hard and dry, and crossed with many a crack,
And, oh! it's a terrible thing to die of thirst in the scrub Out Back.


A drover came, but the fringe of law was eastward many a mile;
He never reported the thing he saw, for it was not worth his while.



The tanks are full and the grass is high in the mulga off the track,
Where the bleaching bones of a white man lie
by his mouldering swag Out Back.

For time means tucker, and tramp they must,

where the plains and scrubs are wide,
With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide;
All day long in the flies and heat the men of the outside track
With stinted stomachs and blistered feet

must carry their swags Out Back.

Out Back

The old year went, and the new returned, in the withering weeks of drought,
The cheque was spent that the shearer earned,
and the sheds were all cut out;
The publican's words were short and few,
and the publican's looks were black --
And the time had come, as the shearer knew, to carry his swag Out Back.

For time means tucker, and tramp you must,

where the scrubs and plains are wide,
With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide;
All day long in the dust and heat -- when summer is on the track -With
stinted stomachs and blistered feet,

they carry their swags Out Back.

He tramped away from the shanty there, when the days were long and hot,
With never a soul to know or care if he died on the track or not.
The poor of the city have friends in woe, no matter how much they lack,
But only God and the swagmen know how a poor man fares Out Back.


He begged his way on the parched Paroo and the Warrego tracks once more,
And lived like a dog, as the swagmen do, till the Western stations shore;
But men were many, and sheds were full, for work in the town was slack --
The traveller never got hands in wool,


though he tramped for a year Out Back.

In stifling noons when his back was wrung

by its load, and the air seemed dead,
And the water warmed in the bag that hung to his aching arm like lead,
Or in times of flood, when plains were seas,

and the scrubs were cold and black,
He ploughed in mud to his trembling knees, and paid for his sins Out Back.

He blamed himself in the year `Too Late' -


in the heaviest hours of life -'
Twas little he dreamed that a shearing-mate had care of his home and wife;
There are times when wrongs from your kindred come,

and treacherous tongues attack --
When a man is better away from home, and dead to the world, Out Back.

And dirty and careless and old he wore, as his lamp of hope grew dim;
He tramped for years till the swag he bore seemed part of himself to him.
As a bullock drags in the sandy ruts, he followed the dreary track,
With never a thought but to reach the huts when the sun went down Out Back.


It chanced one day, when the north wind blew


in his face like a furnace-breath,
He left the track for a tank he knew -- 'twas a short-cut to his death;
For the bed of the tank was hard and dry, and crossed with many a crack,
And, oh! it's a terrible thing to die of thirst in the scrub Out Back.

A drover came, but the fringe of law was eastward many a mile;


He never reported the thing he saw, for it was not worth his while.
The tanks are full and the grass is high in the mulga off the track,
Where the bleaching bones of a white man lie

by his mouldering swag Out Back.

For time means tucker, and tramp they must,

where the plains and scrubs are wide,
With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide;
All day long in the flies and heat the men of the outside track
With stinted stomachs and blistered feet

must carry their swags Out Back.

Otherside


Somewhere in the mystic future, on the road to Paradise,
There’s a very pleasant country that I’ve dreamed of once or twice,
It has inland towns, and cities by the ocean’s rocky shelves,
But the people of the country differ somewhat from ourselves;
It is many leagues beyond us, and they call it Otherside.
And there is among its people more Humanity than Pride.


Now, a social system never was complete, without a flaw,
And among the Othersiders there is love and gold and war.
But if one is fairly beaten he can turn upon the track,
For in such a case there isn’t any shame in going back;
And a broken-hearted mortal never thinks of suicide,
For he finds amongst his brothers more Humanity than Pride.


And the lords of that creation never scoff at simple things,
Never scorn the lad who’s tethered to his mother’s apron-strings.
He will speak of “home” and “mother” without shame when he’s inclined,
Yet the blow he strikes in battle mostly leaves a mark behind.
They are brave against invasion; they can die in Otherside,
Though there is among the people more Humanity than Pride.


Poets sing in simple language that a child might understand,
Yet their songs are sung for ages by the elders of the land;
And the people know that Freedom never shall be wanting guards,
For the foremost in the vanguard waves the banner of the Bards.
O the poets march together, and at home in peace abide,
For there is amongst the people more Humanity than Pride.


And when I am very weary, ’neath a load of “worldly care”,
There are times when I’ve a longing just to hump my bluey there;
But alone I could not reach it, for the track is barred to one—
I must take the nations with me—all mankind must go, or none—
And we’d trample one another on the way to Otherside,
For I find among my brothers less Humanity than Pride.