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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408772" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Ballad of the Rousabout</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">A Rouseabout of rouseabouts, from any land—or none—<br>I bear a nick-name of the bush, and I’m—a woman’s son;<br>I came from where I camp’d last night, and, at the day-dawn glow,<br>I rub the darkness from my eyes, roll up my swag, and go. <br>Some take the track for bitter pride, some for no pride at all—<br>(But—to us all the world is wide when driven to the wall)<br>Some take the track for gain in life, some take the track for loss—<br>And some of us take up the swag as Christ took up the Cross. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Some take the track for faith in men—some take the track for doubt—<br>Some flee a squalid home to work their own salvation out.<br>Some dared not see a mother’s tears nor meet a father’s face—<br>Born of good Christian families some leap, head-long, from Grace. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh we are men who fought and rose, or fell from many grades;<br>Some born to lie, and some to pray, we’re men of many trades;<br>We’re men whose fathers were and are of high and low degree—<br>The sea was open to us and we sailed across the sea. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And—were our quarrels wrong or just?—has no place in my song—<br>We seared our souls in puzzling as to what was right or wrong;<br>We judge not and we are not judged—’tis our philosophy—<br>There’s something wrong with every ship that sails upon the sea. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">From shearing shed to shearing shed we tramp to make a cheque—<br>Jack Cornstalk and the ne’er-do-weel—the tar-boy and the wreck.<br>We learn the worth of man to man—and this we learn too well—<br>The shanty and the shearing shed are warmer spots in hell! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I’ve humped my swag to Bawley Plain, and further out and on;<br>I’ve boiled my billy by the Gulf, and boiled it by the Swan—<br>I’ve thirsted in dry lignum swamps, and thirsted on the sand,<br>And eked the fire with camel dung in Never-Never Land. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I know the track from Spencer’s Gulf and north of Cooper’s Creek—<br>Where falls the half-caste to the strong, ‘black velvet’ to the weak—<br>(From gold-top Flossie in the Strand to half-caste and the gin—<br>If they had brains, poor animals! we’d teach them how to sin.) </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I’ve tramped, and camped, and ‘shore’ and drunk with many mates Out Back—<br>And every one to me is Jack because the first was Jack—<br>A ‘lifer’ sneaked from jail at home—the ‘straightest’ mate I met—<br>A ‘ratty’ Russian Nihilist—a British Baronet! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I know the tucker tracks that feed—or leave one in the lurch—<br>The ‘Burgoo’ (Presbyterian) track—the ‘Murphy’ (Roman Church)—<br>But more the man, and not the track, so much as it appears,<br>For ‘battling’ is a trade to learn, and I’ve served seven years. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">We’re haunted by the past at times—and this is very bad,<br>And so we drink till horrors come, lest, sober, we go mad—<br>So much is lost Out Back, so much of hell is realised—<br>A man might skin himself alive and no one be surprised. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">A rouseabout of rouseabouts, above—beneath regard,<br>I know how soft is this old world, and I have learnt, how hard—<br>A rouseabout of rouseabouts—I know what men can feel,<br>I’ve seen the tears from hard eyes slip as drops from polished steel. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I learned what college had to teach, and in the school of men<br>By camp-fires I have learned, or, say, unlearned it all again;<br>But this I’ve learned, that truth is strong, and if a man go straight<br>He’ll live to see his enemy struck down by time and fate! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">We hold him true who’s true to one however false he be<br>(There’s something wrong with every ship that lies beside the quay);<br>We lend and borrow, laugh and joke, and when the past is drowned,<br>We sit upon our swags and smoke and watch the world go round.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Lawson">Henry Lawson</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408772" data-title="The Ballad of the Rousabout de Henry Lawson" data-description="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. 
Som..."></div>
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