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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=409021" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Years After the War In Australia</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Big rough boys from the runs out back were first where the balls flew free,<br>And yelled in the slang of the Outside Track: ‘By God, it’s a Christmas spree!’<br>‘It’s not too rusty’—and ‘Wool away!’—‘stand clear of the blazing shoots!’—<br>‘Sheep O! Sheep O!’—‘We’ll cut out to-day’—‘Look out for the boss’s boots!’<br>‘What price the tally in camp to-night!’—‘What price the boys Out Back!’<br>‘Go it, you tigers, for Right or Might and the pride of the Outside Track!’<br>‘Needle and thread!’—‘I have broke my comb!’—‘Now ride, you flour-bags, ride!’<br>‘Fight for your mates and the folk at home!’—‘Here’s for the Lachlan side!’<br>Those men of the West would sneer and scoff at the gates of hell ajar,<br>And oft the sight of a head cut off was hailed by a yell for ‘Tar!’ </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I heard the push in the Red Redoubt, irate at a luckless shot:<br>‘Look out for the blooming shell, look out!’—‘Gor’ bli’me, but that’s red-hot!’<br>‘It’s Bill the Slogger—poor bloke—he’s done. A chunk of the shell was his;<br>‘I wish the beggar that fired that gun could get within reach of Liz.’<br>‘Those foreign gunners will give us rats, but I wish it was Bill they missed.’<br>‘I’d like to get at their bleeding hats with a rock in my (something) fist.’ <br>‘Hold up, Billy; I’ll stick to you; they’ve hit you under the belt;<br>‘If we get the waddle I’ll swag you through, if the blazing mountains melt;<br>‘You remember the night when the traps got me for stoushing a bleeding Chow,<br>‘And you went for ’em proper and laid out three, and I won’t forget it now.’<br>And, groaning and swearing, the pug replied: ‘I’m done . . . they’ve knocked me out!<br>‘I’d fight them all for a pound a-side, from the boss to the rouseabout.<br>‘My nut is cracked and my legs is broke, and it gives me worse than hell;<br>‘I trained for a scrap with a twelve-stone bloke, and not with a bursting shell.<br>‘You needn’t mag, for I knowed, old chum, I knowed, old pal, you’d stick;<br>‘But you can’t hold out till the reg’lars come, and you’d best be nowhere quick.<br>‘They’ve got a force and a gun ashore, both of our wings is broke;<br>‘They’ll storm the ridge in a minute more, and the best you can do is smoke.’ </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And Jim exclaimed: ‘You can smoke, you chaps, but me—Gor’ bli’me, no!<br>‘The push that ran from the George-street traps won’t run from a foreign foe.<br>‘I’ll stick to the gun while she makes them sick, and I’ll stick to what’s left of Bill.’<br>And they hiss through their blackened teeth: ‘We’ll stick! by the blazing flame, we will!’<br>And long years after the war was past, they told in the town and bush<br>How the ridge of death to the bloody last was held by a Sydney push;<br>How they fought to the end in a sheet of flame, how they fought with their rifle-stocks,<br>And earned, in a nobler sense, the name of their ancient weapons—‘rocks.’ </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>In the western camps it was ever our boast, when ’twas bad for the kangaroo:<br>If the enemy’s forces take the coast, they must take the mountains, too;<br>‘They may force their way by the western line or round by a northern track,<br>But they won’t run short of a decent spree with the men who are left out back!’<br>When we burst the enemy’s ironclads and won by a run of luck,<br>We whooped as loudly as Nelson’s lads when a French three-decker struck—<br>And when the enemy’s troops prevailed the truth was never heard—<br>We lied like heroes who never failed explaining how that occurred. <br>You bushmen sneer in the old bush way at the new-chum jackeroo,<br>But ‘cuffs-’n’-collers’ were out that day, and they stuck to their posts like glue;<br>I never believed that a dude could fight till a Johnny led us then;<br>We buried his bits in the rear that night for the honour of George-street men.<br>And Jim the Ringer—he fought, he did. The regiment nicknamed Jim,<br>‘Old Heads a Caser’ and ‘Heads a Quid,’ but it never was ‘tails’ with him.<br>The way that he rode was a racing rhyme, and the way that he finished grand;<br>He backed the enemy every time, and died in a hand-to-hand! </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>I’ll never forget when the ringer and I were first in the Bush Brigade,<br>With Warrego Bill, from the Live-till-you-Die, in the last grand charge we made.<br>And Billy died—he was full of sand—he said, as I raised his head:<br>‘I’m full of love for my native land, but a lot too full of lead.<br>‘Tell ’em,’ said Billy, ‘and tell old dad, to look after the cattle pup;’<br>But his eyes grew bright, though his voice was sad, and he said, as I held him up:<br>‘I have been happy on western farms. And once, when I first went wrong,<br>‘Around my neck were the trembling arms of the girl I’d loved so long.<br>‘Far out on the southern seas I’ve sailed, and ridden where brumbies roam,<br>‘And oft, when all on the station failed, I’ve driven the outlaw home.<br>‘I’ve spent a cheque in a day and night, and I’ve made a cheque as quick;<br>‘I struck a nugget when times were tight, and the stores had stopped our tick.<br>‘I’ve led the field on the old bay mare, and I hear the cheering still,<br>‘When mother and sister and she were there, and the old man yelled for Bill;<br>‘But, save for her, could I live my while again in the old bush way,<br>‘I’d give it all for the last half-mile in the race we rode to-day!’<br>And he passed away as the stars came out—he died as old heroes die—<br>I heard the sound of the distant rout, and the Southern Cross was high.</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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And yelled in the slang of the Outside Track: ‘By God, it’s a Christmas spree!’
‘It’s not too rusty’—and ‘Wool away!’—‘stand clear of the blazing..."></div>
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