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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408837" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Heart of the Swag</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh, the track through the scrub groweth ever more dreary,<br>And lower and lower his grey head doth bow;<br>For the swagman is old and the swagman is weary—<br>He’s been tramping for over a century now.<br>He tramps in a worn-out old “side spring” and “blucher,”<br>His hat is a ruin, his coat is a rag,<br>And he carries forever, far into the future,<br>The key of his life in the core of his swag. <br>There are old-fashioned portraits of girls who are grannies,<br>There are tresses of dark hair whose owner’s are grey;<br>There are faded old letters from Marys and Annies,<br>And Toms, Dicks, and Harrys, dead many a day.<br>There are broken-heart secrets and bitter-heart reasons—<br>They are sewn in a canvas or calico bag,<br>And wrapped up in oilskin through dark rainy seasons,<br>And he carries them safe in the core of his swag. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">There are letters that should have been burnt in the past time,<br>For he reads them alone, and a devil it brings;<br>There were farewells that should have been said for the last time,<br>For, forever and ever the love for her springs.<br>But he keeps them all precious, and keeps them in order,<br>And no matter to man how his footsteps may drag,<br>There’s a friend who will find, when he crosses the Border,<br>That the Heart of the Man’s in the Heart of his swag.</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=408837" data-title="The Heart of the Swag de Henry Lawson" data-description="Oh, the track through the scrub groweth ever more dreary,
And lower and lower his grey head doth bow;
For the swagman is old and the swagman is weary—
He’s been tramping for over a century now.
He tramps in a worn-out old “side spring” and..."></div>
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