I’M STEWING in a brick-built town;
My coat is quite a stylish cut,
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We were challenged by The Dingoes — they're the pride of Squatter's Gap—
To a friendly game of football on the flat by D
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THERE’S a fresh track down the paddock Through the lightwoods to the creek,
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‘NO, you can’t count me in, boys; I’m off it— I’m jack of them practical jokes;
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There’s a wind up that licks like a flame,
And the sun is a porthole of hell.
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UP a dark and fetid alley, where the offal and the slime Of a brave and blusterous city met its misery and crime,
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The first one with conviction penned:
“This conflict in seven weeks will end.”
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I heard this day, as I may no more,
The world's heart throb at my workshop door.
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Australia, my native land,
A stirring whisper in your ear—
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FROM HER HOME beyond the river in the parting of the hills, Where the wattles fleecy blossom surged and scattered in the breeze,
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HE WAS working on a station in the Western when I knew him, And he came from Conongamo, up the old surveyors’ track,
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A quaint old gabled cottage sleeps be-
tween the raving hills.
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Down to it is Plugger Bill,
Lyin' crumpled, white 'n' still.
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Marching somewhat out of order
when the band is cock-a-hoop,
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Dear Ned, I now take up my pen to write
you these few lines,
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As bullets come to us they're thin,
They're angular, or smooth and fat,
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FROM a river siding, the railway town, Or the dull new port there three days down,
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When the horse has been unharnessed and we've flushed the old machine,
And the water o'er the sluice is running evenly and clean;
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In politics there’s room for jest;
With frequent gibes are speeches met,
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SKIRTING the swamp and the tangled scrub, Tramping and turning amidst the trees,
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Back again 'n' nothin' missin' barrin'
arf a hand,
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The boarder in the bar-room rose,
A pale gaunt man who lodged with Hann,
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Once in a blue eternity they gave us
dabs of rum
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It is thirty moons since I slung me hook
From the job at the hay and corn,
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OUT of work and out of money—out of friends that means, you bet— Out of firewood, togs and tucker, out of everything but debt—
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‘I’M OFF on the wallaby!’ cries Old Ben, And his pipe is lit, and his swag is rolled;
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What is meant by active service
'Ere where sin is leakin' loose,
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In days before the trouble Jo was rated as
a slob.
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OUT OF LUCK, mate? Have a liquor. Hang it, where’s the use complaining? Take your fancy, I’m in funds now—I can stand the racket, Dan
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He came from tumbled country past the
humps of Buffalo
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