The Swagman And His Mate

From north to south throughout the year     The shearing seasons run,     The Queensland stations start to shear     When Maoriland has done;     But labours cheap and runs are wide,     And some the track must tread     From New Years Day till Christmastide     And never get a shed!     North, west, and south, south, west and north,     They lead and follow Fate,     The stoutest hearts that venture forth,     The swagman and his mate.     A restless, homeless class they are     Who tramp in Borderland.     They take their rest neath moon and star,     Their bed the desert sand,     On sunset tracks they ride and tramp,     Till speech has almost died,     And still they drift from camp to camp     In silence side by side.     They think and dream, as all men do;     Perchance their dreams are great,     Each others thoughts are sacred to     The swagman and his mate.     With scrubs beneath the stifling skies     Unstirred by heavens breath;     Beyond the Darling Timber lies     The land of living death!     A land that wrong-born poets brave     Till dulled minds cease to grope,     A land where all things perish, save     The memories of Hope.     When daylights fingers point out back     (And seem to hesitate)     The far faint dust cloud marks their track     The swagman and his mate.     And one who followed through the scrub     And out across the plain,     And only in a bitter mood     Would seek those tracks again,     Can only write what he has seen,     Can only give his hand,     And greet those mates in words that mean     I know, I understand.     I hope theyll find the squatter white,     The cook and shearers straight,     When they have reached the shed to-night,     The swagman and his mate.