THE BALLAD OF THE ROUSEABOUT

A rouseabout of rouseabouts, from any land — or none —

I bear a nick-name of the bush, and I’ m — a woman’ s son;

I came from where I camp’ d last night, and, at the day-dawn glow,

I rub the darkness from my eyes, roll up my swag, and go.

Some take the track for bitter pride, some for no pride at all —

( But — to us all the world is wide when driven to the wall )

Some take the track for gain in life, some take the track for loss —

And some of us take up the swag as Christ took up the Cross.

Some take the track for faith in men — some take the track for doubt —

Some flee a squalid home to work their own salvation out.

Some dared not see a mother’ s tears nor meet a father’ s face —

Born of good Christian families some leap, head-long, from Grace.

Oh we are men who fought and rose, or fell from many grades;

Some born to lie, and some to pray, we’ re men of many trades;

We’ re men whose fathers were and are of high and low degree —

The sea was open to us and we sailed across the sea.

And — were our quarrels wrong or just?— has no place in my song —

We seared our souls in puzzling as to what was right or wrong;

We judge not and we are not judged —’ tis our philosophy —

There’ s something wrong with every ship that sails upon the sea.

From shearing shed to shearing shed we tramp to make a cheque —

Jack Cornstalk and the ne’ er-do-weel — the tar-boy and the wreck.

We learn the worth of man to man — and this we learn too well —

The shanty and the shearing shed are warmer spots in hell!

I’ ve humped my swag to Bawley Plain, and further out and on;

I’ ve boiled my billy by the Gulf, and boiled it by the Swan —

I’ ve thirsted in dry lignum swamps, and thirsted on the sand,

And eked the fire with camel dung in Never-Never Land.

I know the track from Spencer’ s Gulf and north of Cooper’ s Creek —

Where falls the half-caste to the strong,‘ black velvet’ to the weak —

( From gold-top Flossie in the Strand to half-caste and the gin —

If they had brains, poor animals! we’ d teach them how to sin. )

I’ ve tramped, and camped, and‘ shore’ and drunk with many mates Out Back —

And every one to me is Jack because the first was Jack —

A‘ lifer’ sneaked from jail at home — the‘ straightest’ mate I met —

A‘ ratty’ Russian Nihilist — a British Baronet!

I know the tucker tracks that feed — or leave one in the lurch —

The‘ Burgoo’ ( Presbyterian ) track — the‘ Murphy’ ( Roman Church ) —

But more the man, and not the track, so much as it appears,

For‘ battling’ is a trade to learn, and I’ ve served seven years.

We’ re haunted by the past at times — and this is very bad,

And so we drink till horrors come, lest, sober, we go mad —

So much is lost Out Back, so much of hell is realised —

A man might skin himself alive and no one be surprised.

A rouseabout of rouseabouts, above — beneath regard,

I know how soft is this old world, and I have learnt how hard —

A rouseabout of rouseabouts — I know what men can feel,

I’ ve seen the tears from hard eyes slip as drops from polished steel.

I learned what college had to teach, and in the school of men

By camp-fires I have learned, or, say, unlearned it all again;

But this I’ ve learned, that truth is strong, and if a man go straight

He’ ll live to see his enemy struck down by time and fate!

We hold him true who’ s true to one however false he be

( There’ s something wrong with every ship that lies beside the quay );

We lend and borrow, laugh and joke, and when the past is drowned,

We sit upon our swags and smoke and watch the world go round.