Part 6

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.

The Free-Selector's Daughter

I met her on the Lachlan Side -- A darling girl I thought her, And ere I left I swore I'd win The free-selector's daughter.

I milked her father's cows a month, I brought the wood and water, I mended all the broken fence, Before I won the daughter.

I listened to her father's yarns, I did just what I 'oughter', And what you'll have to do to win A free-selector's daughter.

I broke my pipe and burnt my twist, And washed my mouth with water; I had a shave before I kissed The free-selector's daughter.

Then, rising in the frosty morn, I brought the cows for Mary, And when I'd milked a bucketful I took it to the dairy.

I poured the milk into the dish While Mary held the strainer, I summoned heart to speak my wish, And, oh! her blush grew plainer.

I told her I must leave the place, I said that I would miss her; At first she turned away her face, And then she let me kiss her.

I put the bucket on the ground, And in my arms I caught her: I'd give the world to hold again That free-selector's daughter!

'Sez You'

When the heavy sand is yielding backward from your blistered feet, And across the distant timber you can SEE the flowing heat; When your head is hot and aching, and the shadeless plain is wide, And it's fifteen miles to water in the scrub the other side -- Don't give up, don't be down-hearted, to a man's strong heart be true! Take the air in through your nostrils, set your lips and see it through -- For it can't go on for ever, and -- 'I'll have my day!' says you.

When you're camping in the mulga, and the rain is falling slow, While you nurse your rheumatism 'neath a patch of calico; Short of tucker or tobacco, short of sugar or of tea, And the scrubs are dark and dismal, and the plains are like a sea; Don't give up and be down-hearted -- to the soul of man be true! Grin! if you've a mate to grin for, grin and jest and don't look blue; For it can't go on for ever, and -- 'I'll rise some day,' says you.

When you've tramped the Sydney pavements till you've counted all the flags, And your flapping boot-soles trip you, and your clothes are mostly rags, When you're called a city loafer, shunned, abused, moved on, despised -- Fifty hungry beggars after every job that's advertised -- Don't be beaten! Hold your head up! To your wretched self be true; Set your pride to fight your hunger! Be a MAN in all you do! For it cannot last for ever -- 'I will rise again!' says you.

When you're dossing out in winter, in the darkness and the rain, Crouching, cramped, and cold and hungry 'neath a seat in The Domain, And a cloaked policeman stirs you with that mighty foot of his -- 'Phwat d'ye mane? Phwat's this? Who are ye? Come, move on -- git out av this!' Don't get mad; 'twere only foolish; there is nought that you can do, Save to mark his beat and time him -- find another hole or two; But it can't go on for ever -- 'I'll have money yet!' says you.

. . . . .

Bother not about the morrow, for sufficient to the day Is the evil (rather more so). Put your trust in God and pray! Study well the ant, thou sluggard. Blessed are the meek and low. Ponder calmly on the lilies -- how they idle, how they grow. A man's a man! Obey your masters! Do not blame the proud and fat, For the poor are always with them, and they cannot alter that. Lay your treasures up in Heaven -- cling to life and see it through! For it cannot last for ever -- 'I shall die some day,' says you.

Andy's Gone With Cattle

Our Andy's gone to battle now 'Gainst Drought, the red marauder; Our Andy's gone with cattle now Across the Queensland border.

He's left us in dejection now; Our hearts with him are roving. It's dull on this selection now, Since Andy went a-droving.

Who now shall wear the cheerful face In times when things are slackest? And who shall whistle round the place When Fortune frowns her blackest?

Oh, who shall cheek the squatter now When he comes round us snarling? His tongue is growing hotter now Since Andy cross'd the Darling.