Beneath the trees in which the birds a-welcome me with song,
And with their songs they make me feel as happy and carefree
As they are, for like them, I have no cares to trouble me. High up above them all there comes the lyre bird's silver'd lay,
Which fills my soul with ecstacy and helps me on my way;
With this, the freshness of the morn, the sun arising high,
There's no time for a chap like me to grumble, curse or sigh. And on the trees, in which the songsters make their lives, serene.
I note the leaves, how fresh they are, since first the dawn they've seen ;
And even they seem carefree, for I hear them whispering, "Man,
You look at life like us, old chap, you're just a tramp, you can." So this I do as slowly I pass down her winding trail,
And where there's joys and thoughts to find I never seem to fail ;
For what's the use of standing still and letting life get sad,
A-missing all the wondrous things you know there can be had. When night-time steals across the sky, the daylight at an end,
I have no home to go to, so I know I'll have, to spend
My night amidst the trees, and flowers, and on the grass so deep
I lie down, offer thanks to God my friend--and fall asleep. Notes From the NSW Newspaper The Scone Advocate 2 Aug 1929 p. 5. The Great Depression spawned Hobo songs, however finding Australian examples was not a simple matter until the digitisation of newspapers allowed researchers to dredge up a decent collection of them as on this website ... happy hunting