The Song Of The Swag (1883)
(A terrible distance after Tom Hood.)
With feet that were weary and sore,
With " drum" as big as a bed.
A awagman strode on his hot dusty road
To the station miles ahead.
Tramp--tramp--tramp--
With feet that wearily flag,
And still in a voice like a crow with the cramp
He sang this "Song of the Swag."
Walk--walk--walk--
With a blistered and aching foot.
Walk--walk--walk
Till my toes show through my boot,
It's Oh ! to get a job,
With a Chinaman or a Turk,
For I should stand a chance for a cheque
Could I get a few weeks' work !
O, men with billets sure !
Who need carry no sheath-knives !
It is not leather we're wearing out,
But all our blessed lives !
A little washing would ease my load,
But in their dirty bed
My clothes must stay, for I each day
Must travel for my bread !
Walk--walk--walk--
My legs I wearily drag,
And what are my wage ?--A cup of flour,
And this infernal swag !
O, but for one'short week
The sweetness of rest to feel,
Instead of the trudge on the dusty track,
And the walk to win a meal !
With feet that were weary and sore,
With " drum" as big as a bed,
A swagman strode on his dusty road
To the station miles ahead.
Tramp--tramp--tramp--
With feet that wearily flag.
And still in a voice like a crow with the cramp,
As he plodded through weather dry and damp,
He sang this "Song of the Swag."
Notes
From the South Australian Newspaper the Adelaide Observer Sat 10 Nov 1883 p. 25.