Classic Poem

No church-bell rings them from the Track,
No pulpit lights their blindness —
'Tis hardship, drought and homelessness
That teach those Bushmen kindness:
The mateship born of barren lands,
Of toil and thirst and danger —
The camp-fare for the stranger set,
The first place to the stranger.

They do the best they can to-day —
Take no thought of the morrow;
Their way is not the old-world way —
They live to lend and borrow.
When shearing's done and cheques gone wrong,
They call it " time to slither " —
They saddle up and say " So-long! "
And ride — the Lord knows whither.

And though he may be brown or black,
Or wrong man there or right man,
The mate that's honest to his mates
They call that man a " white man " !
They tramp in mateship side by side —
The Protestant and " Roman " —
They call no biped lord or " sir " ,
And touch their hats to no man!

They carry in their swags, perhaps,
A portrait and a letter —
And, maybe, deep down in their hearts,
The hope of " something better " .
Where lonely miles are long to ride,
And all days seem recurrent,
There's lots of time to think of men
They might have been — but weren't.

They turn their faces to the west
And leave the world behind them —
(Their drought-dried graves are seldom green
Where even mates can find them).
They know too little of the world
To rise to wealth or greatness:
But in this book of mine I pay
My tribute to their straightness.