'For'ard'

 It is stuffy in the steerage where the second-classers sleep,
 For there's near a hundred for'ard, and they're stowed away like sheep, —
 They are trav'lers for the most part in a straight 'n' honest path;
 But their linen's rather scanty, an' there isn't any bath —
 Stowed away like ewes and wethers that is shore 'n' marked 'n' draft.
 But the shearers of the shearers always seem to travel aft;
     In the cushioned cabins, aft,
     With saloons 'n' smoke-rooms, aft —
 There is sheets 'n' best of tucker for the first-salooners, aft.

 Our beef is just like scrapin's from the inside of a hide,
 And the spuds were pulled too early, for they're mostly green inside;
 But from somewhere back amidships there's a smell o' cookin' waft,
 An' I'd give my earthly prospects for a real good tuck-out aft —
     Ham an' eggs 'n' coffee, aft,
     Say, cold fowl for luncheon, aft,
 Juicy grills an' toast 'n' cutlets — tucker a-lor-frongsy, aft.

 They feed our women sep'rate, an' they make a blessed fuss,
 Just as if they couldn't trust 'em for to eat along with us!
 Just because our hands are horny an' our hearts are rough with graft —
 But the gentlemen and ladies always DINE together, aft —
     With their ferns an' mirrors, aft,
     With their flow'rs an' napkins, aft —
 'I'll assist you to an orange' — 'Kindly pass the sugar', aft.

 We are shabby, rough, 'n' dirty, an' our feelin's out of tune,
 An' it's hard on fellers for'ard that was used to go saloon;
 There's a broken swell among us — he is barracked, he is chaffed,
 An' I wish at times, poor devil, for his own sake he was aft;
     For they'd understand him, aft,
     (He will miss the bath-rooms aft),
 Spite of all there's no denyin' that there's finer feelin's aft.

 Last night we watched the moonlight as it spread across the sea —
 'It is hard to make a livin',' said the broken swell to me.
 'There is ups an' downs,' I answered, an' a bitter laugh he laughed —
 There were brighter days an' better when he always travelled aft —
     With his rug an' gladstone, aft,
     With his cap an' spyglass, aft —
 A careless, rovin', gay young spark as always travelled aft.

 There's a notice by the gangway, an' it seems to come amiss,
 For it says that second-classers 'ain't allowed abaft o' this';
 An' there ought to be a notice for the fellows from abaft —
 But the smell an' dirt's a warnin' to the first-salooners, aft;
     With their tooth and nail-brush, aft,
     With their cuffs 'n' collars, aft —
 Their cigars an' books an' papers, an' their cap-peaks fore-'n'-aft.

 I want to breathe the mornin' breeze that blows against the boat,
 For there's a swellin' in my heart — a tightness in my throat —
 We are for'ard when there's trouble!  We are for'ard when there's graft!
 But the men who never battle always seem to travel aft;
     With their dressin'-cases, aft,
     With their swell pyjamas, aft —
 Yes! the idle and the careless, they have ease an' comfort, aft.

 I feel so low an' wretched, as I mooch about the deck,
 That I'm ripe for jumpin' over — an' I wish there was a wreck!
 We are driven to New Zealand to be shot out over there —
 Scarce a shillin' in our pockets, nor a decent rag to wear,
 With the everlastin' worry lest we don't get into graft —
 There is little left to land for if you cannot travel aft;
     No anxiety abaft,
     They have stuff to land with, aft —
 Oh, there's little left to land for if you cannot travel aft;

 But it's grand at sea this mornin', an' Creation almost speaks,
 Sailin' past the Bay of Islands with its pinnacles an' peaks,
 With the sunny haze all round us an' the white-caps on the blue,
 An' the orphan rocks an' breakers — Oh, it's glorious sailin' through!
 To the south 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 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.

 The gates are out of order now,
  In storms the 'riders' rattle;
 For far across the border now
  Our Andy's gone with cattle.

 Poor Aunty's looking thin and white;
  And Uncle's cross with worry;
 And poor old Blucher howls all night
  Since Andy left Macquarie.

 Oh, may the showers in torrents fall,
  And all the tanks run over;
 And may the grass grow green and tall
  In pathways of the drover;

 And may good angels send the rain
  On desert stretches sandy;
 And when the summer comes again
  God grant 'twill bring us Andy.

Jack Dunn of Nevertire

 It chanced upon the very day we'd got the shearing done,
 A buggy brought a stranger to the West-o'-Sunday Run;
 He had a round and jolly face, and he was sleek and stout,
 He drove right up between the huts and called the super out.
 We chaps were smoking after tea, and heard the swell enquire
 For one as travelled by the name of 'Dunn of Nevertire'.
     Jack Dunn of Nevertire,
     Poor Dunn of Nevertire;
 There wasn't one of us but knew Jack Dunn of Nevertire.

 'Jack Dunn of Nevertire,' he said; 'I was a mate of his;
 And now it's twenty years since I set eyes upon his phiz.
 There is no whiter man than Jack — no straighter south the line,
 There is no hand in all the land I'd sooner grip in mine;
 To help a mate in trouble Jack would go through flood and fire.
 Great Scott! and don't you know the name of Dunn of Nevertire?
     Big Dunn of Nevertire,
     Long Jack from Nevertire;
 He stuck to me through thick and thin, Jack Dunn of Nevertire.

 'I did a wild and foolish thing while Jack and I were mates,
 And I disgraced my guv'nor's name, an' wished to try the States.
 My lamps were turned to Yankee Land, for I'd some people there,
 And I was right when someone sent the money for my fare;
 I thought 'twas Dad until I took the trouble to enquire,
 And found that he who sent the stuff was Dunn of Nevertire,
     Jack Dunn of Nevertire,
     Soft Dunn of Nevertire;
 He'd won some money on a race — Jack Dunn of Nevertire.

 'Now I've returned, by Liverpool, a swell of Yankee brand,
 To reckon, guess, and kalkilate, 'n' wake my native land;
 There is no better land, I swear, in all the wide world round —
 I smelt the bush a month before we touched King George's Sound!
 And now I've come to settle down, the top of my desire
 Is just to meet a mate o' mine called 'Dunn of Nevertire'.
     Was raised at Nevertire —
     The town of Nevertire;
 He humped his bluey by the name of 'Dunn of Nevertire'.

 'I've heard he's poor, and if he is, a proud old fool is he;
 But, spite of that, I'll find a way to fix the old gum-tree.
 I've bought a station in the North — the best that could be had;
 I want a man to pick the stock — I want a super bad;
 I want no bully-brute to boss — no crawling, sneaking liar —
 My station super's name shall be 'Jack Dunn of Nevertire'!
     Straight Dunn of Nevertire,
     Old Dunn of Nevertire;
 I guess he's known up Queensland way — Jack Dunn of Nevertire.'

 The super said, while to his face a strange expression came:
 'I THINK I've seen the man you want, I THINK I know the name;
 Had he a jolly kind of face, a free and careless way,
 Gray eyes that always seem'd to smile, and hair just turning gray —
 Clean-shaved, except a light moustache, long-limbed, an' tough as wire?'
 'THAT'S HIM!  THAT'S DUNN!' the stranger roared, 'Jack Dunn of Nevertire!
     John Dunn of Nevertire,
     Jack D. from Nevertire,
 They said I'd find him here, the cuss! — Jack Dunn of Nevertire.

 'I'd know his walk,' the stranger cried, 'though sobered, I'll allow.'
 'I doubt it much,' the boss replied, 'he don't walk that way now.'
 'Perhaps he don't!' the stranger said, 'for years were hard on Jack;
 But, if he were a mile away, I swear I'd know his back.'
 'I doubt it much,' the super said, and sadly puffed his briar,
 'I guess he wears a pair of wings — Jack Dunn of Nevertire;
     Jack Dunn of Nevertire,
     Brave Dunn of Nevertire,
 He caught a fever nursing me, Jack Dunn of Nevertire.'

 We took the stranger round to where a gum-tree stood alone,
 And in the grass beside the trunk he saw a granite stone;
 The names of Dunn and Nevertire were plainly written there —
 'I'm all broke up,' the stranger said, in sorrow and despair,
 'I guess he has a wider run, the man that I require;
 He's got a river-frontage now, Jack Dunn of Nevertire;
     Straight Dunn of Nevertire,
     White Jack from Nevertire,
 I guess Saint Peter knew the name of 'Dunn of Nevertire'.'