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Arouseaboutof 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 camped last night, and, at the day-dawn glow,

I’ll 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.

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

Because we drink till horrors come, lest, sober, we go mad.

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-well—the Tar-boy and the Wreck.

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

The “Burgoo” (Presbyterian) track—the “Murphy” (Roman Church).

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’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 gaol at home—(the straightest mate I met)—

A ratty Russian Nihilist—a British Baronet!

A rouseabout of rouseabouts, above—beneath regard,

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

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.

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.