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.