In the Days When the World Was Wide | Page 8

a distant
steamer, to the west a coastin' craft, An' we see the beauty for'ard,
better than if we were aft;

Spite of op'ra-glasses, aft;
But, ah well, they're brothers aft --

Nature seems to draw us closer -- bring us nearer fore-'n'-aft.
What's the use of bein' bitter? What's the use of gettin' mad? What's the
use of bein' narrer just because yer luck is bad? What's the blessed use
of frettin' like a child that wants the moon? There is broken hearts an'
trouble in the gilded first saloon! We are used to bein' shabby -- we
have got no overdraft --
We can laugh at troubles for'ard that they
couldn't laugh at aft;
Spite o' pride an' tone abaft
(Keepin' up appearance, aft)
There's
anxiety an' worry in the breezy cabins aft.
But the curse o' class distinctions from our shoulders shall be hurled,
An' the influence of woman revolutionize the world;
There'll be
higher education for the toilin' starvin' clown, An' the rich an' educated
shall be educated down;
An' we all will meet amidships on this stout
old earthly craft, An' there won't be any friction 'twixt the classes
fore-'n'-aft.
We'll be brothers, fore-'n'-aft!
Yes, an' sisters, fore-'n'-aft!
When the
people work together, and there ain't no fore-'n'-aft.
The Drover's Sweetheart
An hour before the sun goes down
Behind the ragged boughs,
I go
across the little run
And bring the dusty cows;
And once I used to
sit and rest
Beneath the fading dome,
For there was one that I loved
best
Who'd bring the cattle home.
Our yard is fixed with double bails,
Round one the grass is green,

The bush is growing through the rails,
The spike is rusted in;
And
'twas from there his freckled face
Would turn and smile at me --

He'd milk a dozen in the race
While I was milking three.
I milk eleven cows myself
Where once I milked but four;
I set the

dishes on the shelf
And close the dairy door;
And when the glaring
sunlight fails
And the fire shines through the cracks,
I climb the
broken stockyard rails
And watch the bridle-tracks.
He kissed me twice and once again
And rode across the hill,
The
pint-pots and the hobble-chain
I hear them jingling still;
He'll come
at night or not at all --
He left in dust and heat,
And when the soft,
cool shadows fall
Is the best time to meet.
And he is coming back again,
He wrote to let me know,
The floods
were in the Darling then --
It seems so long ago;
He'd come through
miles of slush and mud,
And it was weary work,
The creeks were
bankers, and the flood
Was forty miles round Bourke.
He said the floods had formed a block,
The plains could not be
crossed,
And there was foot-rot in the flock
And hundreds had been
lost;
The sheep were falling thick and fast
A hundred miles from
town,
And when he reached the line at last
He trucked the remnant
down.
And so he'll have to stand the cost;
His luck was always bad,

Instead of making more, he lost
The money that he had;
And how
he'll manage, heaven knows
(My eyes are getting dim),
He says --
he says -- he don't -- suppose
I'll want -- to -- marry -- him.
As if I wouldn't take his hand
Without a golden glove --
Oh! Jack,
you men won't understand
How much a girl can love.
I long to see
his face once more --
Jack's dog! thank God, it's Jack! --
(I never
thought I'd faint before)

He's coming -- up -- the track.
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