I HAVEN’T THE GUTS TO GO.

I want to be out where the battlers are, Away from the tyrant pen, Where the bell-bird sits on the morning star To waken the mulga men; I want to stand on the crazy brace, Or hammer away below, While Luck waits by with a shining face So long as the “leader” pans a trace— But I haven’t the guts to go! I want to be fixed in the same old camp, And sit by the sandal fire— I can see it now in the flickering lamp: It looks like a funeral pyre. I want to be with the gods of graft, The stars of an out-back sky, Or follow on with a bushman’s craft, With my bag and bundle before and aft— But I haven’t the guts to try! Oh, I know a place where the gold went down, The spot where the “country” broke: And the shaft is there near the ridge’s crown, By the foot of an old bull-oak. I know the metal is waiting still For a lusty heart to buy, For a trusty arm, and a tireless will, Till the slug rolls out from the public mill— But I haven’t the guts to try! There’s a shanty, too, and a lodestone there— A girl of the out-back type— The midnight sleeps in her vagrant hair And her lips are cherry-ripe: The battlers vie at the kipsy bar, And many a mulga beau; And I want to be where the battlers are, And bask in the light of my out-back star— But I haven’t the guts to go! There’s a fell disease in the touch of ink— The shriek of a coastal train— There’s a subtle curse in the draught we drink That softens the bushman’s brain: We weary fast of the gauds and guile, Though strong are the bonds they weave, And the glamour that circles the Golden Mile— But we haven’t the guts to leave! I want to up with my swag and hence, Away from the tyrant pen, Where the bell-bird calls from the morning’s fence To waken the mulga men! I want to stand on a crazy brace, Or hammer away below, While Luck looks on with a beaming face, So long as the “leader” pans a trace— But I haven’t the guts to go!