When we've arrived by boat or rail, and feeling pretty well,
And humped our heavy gladstones to the Great Norsouth Hotel;
And when we've had a wash and brush and changed biled rags for soft —
And ate a hearty country meal — our spirits go aloft!
(Damn the city.)
When we've walked out a mile and back along the old Bush track,
And dropped into the post-office our last damned letters back;
When we've turned in and slept half through the soft white beds all night —
To start at daylight by the coach — we're getting back all right.
(Damn the city.)
When we have crossed the nearer heights through box and stringy-bark,
And traced the newer tree-marked track above the gullies dark;
When we begin to ask how far it is to tucker yet —
Where clear streams whet our appetites — we're getting back, don't fret.
(Damn the city.)
We try to draw the driver out — a " case " as like as not —
For we don't know how much he knows, or how much we've forgot.
And we make bloomers till the seats seem narrow slippery shelves —
Until we find he's only just a liar, like ourselves.
(Damn the city.)
When we can take an interest in all and everything,
When we begin to drop the " g " in words that end in " ing " ,
When good old oaths come back again, and we can sleep at night,
And eat our fish with knives and forks — we're gettin' back all right.
(Damn the city.)
I'm staying at a lake-side home, down here at Nevermind,
The small hand " separator " is the only change I find,
And there's a girl with kind grey eyes and hair of reddish gold,
And she's read somewhere in a book that poets don't grow old.
( Damn the city! )
She's twenty-two, I'm forty-three; but, ere the week is done,
She has just only turned eighteen, and I am twenty-one!
I'm younger than the younger men, who can't be young — or won't —
She heard that poets don't grow old — and now she knows they don't.
(D AMN THE CITY !)
The dandy tourists wonder how the old town hand got in —
The straight young Bushmen wonder how that poet bloke could win.
But the grand old Bush life backed me up, when they were hard to rouse,
And I turned out at six o'clock and helped her milk the cows!
(DAME THE CITY!)
And humped our heavy gladstones to the Great Norsouth Hotel;
And when we've had a wash and brush and changed biled rags for soft —
And ate a hearty country meal — our spirits go aloft!
(Damn the city.)
When we've walked out a mile and back along the old Bush track,
And dropped into the post-office our last damned letters back;
When we've turned in and slept half through the soft white beds all night —
To start at daylight by the coach — we're getting back all right.
(Damn the city.)
When we have crossed the nearer heights through box and stringy-bark,
And traced the newer tree-marked track above the gullies dark;
When we begin to ask how far it is to tucker yet —
Where clear streams whet our appetites — we're getting back, don't fret.
(Damn the city.)
We try to draw the driver out — a " case " as like as not —
For we don't know how much he knows, or how much we've forgot.
And we make bloomers till the seats seem narrow slippery shelves —
Until we find he's only just a liar, like ourselves.
(Damn the city.)
When we can take an interest in all and everything,
When we begin to drop the " g " in words that end in " ing " ,
When good old oaths come back again, and we can sleep at night,
And eat our fish with knives and forks — we're gettin' back all right.
(Damn the city.)
I'm staying at a lake-side home, down here at Nevermind,
The small hand " separator " is the only change I find,
And there's a girl with kind grey eyes and hair of reddish gold,
And she's read somewhere in a book that poets don't grow old.
( Damn the city! )
She's twenty-two, I'm forty-three; but, ere the week is done,
She has just only turned eighteen, and I am twenty-one!
I'm younger than the younger men, who can't be young — or won't —
She heard that poets don't grow old — and now she knows they don't.
(D AMN THE CITY !)
The dandy tourists wonder how the old town hand got in —
The straight young Bushmen wonder how that poet bloke could win.
But the grand old Bush life backed me up, when they were hard to rouse,
And I turned out at six o'clock and helped her milk the cows!
(DAME THE CITY!)