In the Days When the World Was Wide | Page 9

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