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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408952" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Vagabond</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">White handkerchiefs wave from the short black pier <br> As we glide to the grand old sea -- <br>But the song of my heart is for none to hear <br> If one of them waves for me. <br>A roving, roaming life is mine, <br> Ever by field or flood -- <br>For not far back in my father's line <br> Was a dash of the Gipsy blood. <br> <br>Flax and tussock and fern, <br> Gum and mulga and sand, <br>Reef and palm -- but my fancies turn <br> Ever away from land; <br>Strange wild cities in ancient state, <br> Range and river and tree, <br>Snow and ice. But my star of fate <br> Is ever across the sea. <br> <br>A god-like ride on a thundering sea, <br> When all but the stars are blind -- <br>A desperate race from Eternity <br> With a gale-and-a-half behind. <br>A jovial spree in the cabin at night, <br> A song on the rolling deck, <br>A lark ashore with the ships in sight, <br> Till -- a wreck goes down with a wreck. <br> <br>A smoke and a yarn on the deck by day, <br> When life is a waking dream, <br>And care and trouble so far away <br> That out of your life they seem. <br>A roving spirit in sympathy, <br> Who has travelled the whole world o'er -- <br>My heart forgets, in a week at sea, <br> The trouble of years on shore. <br> <br>A rolling stone! -- 'tis a saw for slaves -- <br> Philosophy false as old -- <br>Wear out or break 'neath the feet of knaves, <br> Or rot in your bed of mould! <br>But I'D rather trust to the darkest skies <br> And the wildest seas that roar, <br>Or die, where the stars of Nations rise, <br> In the stormy clouds of war. <br> <br>Cleave to your country, home, and friends, <br> Die in a sordid strife -- <br>You can count your friends on your finger ends <br> In the critical hours of life. <br>Sacrifice all for the family's sake, <br> Bow to their selfish rule! <br>Slave till your big soft heart they break -- <br> The heart of the family fool. <br> <br>Domestic quarrels, and family spite, <br> And your Native Land may be <br>Controlled by custom, but, come what might, <br> The rest of the world for me. <br>I'd sail with money, or sail without! -- <br> If your love be forced from home, <br>And you dare enough, and your heart be stout, <br> The world is your own to roam. <br> <br>I've never a love that can sting my pride, <br> Nor a friend to prove untrue; <br>For I leave my love ere the turning tide, <br> And my friends are all too new. <br>The curse of the Powers on a peace like ours, <br> With its greed and its treachery -- <br>A stranger's hand, and a stranger land, <br> And the rest of the world for me! <br> <br>But why be bitter? The world is cold <br> To one with a frozen heart; <br>New friends are often so like the old, <br> They seem of the past a part -- <br>As a better part of the past appears, <br> When enemies, parted long, <br>Are come together in kinder years, <br> With their better nature strong. <br> <br>I had a friend, ere my first ship sailed, <br> A friend that I never deserved -- <br>For the selfish strain in my blood prevailed <br> As soon as my turn was served. <br>And the memory haunts my heart with shame -- <br> Or, rather, the pride that's there; <br>In different guises, but soul the same, <br> I meet him everywhere. <br> <br>I had a chum. When the times were tight <br> We starved in Australian scrubs; <br>We froze together in parks at night, <br> And laughed together in pubs. <br>And I often hear a laugh like his <br> From a sense of humour keen, <br>And catch a glimpse in a passing phiz <br> Of his broad, good-humoured grin. <br> <br>And I had a love -- 'twas a love to prize -- <br> But I never went back again . . . <br>I have seen the light of her kind brown eyes <br> In many a face since then. <br> <br> . . . . . <br> <br>The sailors say 'twill be rough to-night, <br> As they fasten the hatches down, <br>The south is black, and the bar is white, <br> And the drifting smoke is brown. <br>The gold has gone from the western haze, <br> The sea-birds circle and swarm -- <br>But we shall have plenty of sunny days, <br> And little enough of storm. <br> <br>The hill is hiding the short black pier, <br> As the last white signal's seen; <br>The points run in, and the houses veer, <br> And the great bluff stands between. <br>So darkness swallows each far white speck <br> On many a wharf and quay. <br>The night comes down on a restless deck, -- <br> Grim cliffs -- and -- The Open Sea!</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=408952" data-title="The Vagabond de Henry Lawson" data-description="White handkerchiefs wave from the short black pier 
 As we glide to the grand old sea -- 
But the song of my heart is for none to hear 
 If one of them waves for me. 
A roving, roaming life is mine, 
 Ever by field or flood -- 
For not far back in..."></div>
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