When you first put up the pack ;
And the world is full of gladness
As you start alone the track.
Fondest hopes are in the whispers
On the breezes of the morn,
And you feel 'twas for romances
Of the bushland you were born. All around the wild birds singing
As you lightly step along ;
You are striding out in rhythm
To the tune of mellow song.
Little soft sunbeams of morn light
Through the shadows gently play.
Round the pathway that you traverse
In the perfume of the day. And you're building airy castles,
For you're hoping soon to wed ;
Lightsome eyes in truant fancy
Seems to beckon you ahead.
You are tramping somewhere westward
Where they dip the golden fleece,
In the land of silvern virtues
Where true friendships never cease. You have heard the tales of shearing.
And of ways the wool teams go;
Of the cheques knocked up by shearers
Both the fast men and the slow.
It's a big run where you're going.
And there's fifty in it clear;
You can see Dame Fortune pointing
To a change in your career. So, the bushland falls behind you
As you tramp, your lilting way,
Till you woo the open stretches
Of the lonely treeless clay.
Where old Sol in ardent fury
Has grown heated all too soon,
But you think he's overheated
In the blaze of throbbing noon. When your shoulder straps are galling
And your pack begins to sag,
And your pint or two of water
Found a way from our your bag.
When your tongue has started swelling,
And your eyes are growing red,
In your tucker bag there's nothing
But some antiquated bread. When your step has lost its swinging,
And you stumble in your stride,
With the burning chafe line rising,
You are walking rather wide.
When the salt dew from your forehead
Makes a mist before your eyes
Then you wonder why the poets
Call it "outback paradise." When some squatter's benzine waggon
Passes by with lifted break.
With a dust cloud intermingled
With the black snake in its wake.
Leaves you spluttering wild curses
And vile threats of things you'll do,
Leaves you wondering the diff'rence
T'wixt the ancient slave and you. Little weeds of revolution freshly shoot
Within your mind,
And are nourished by your troubles
As the long miles fall behind;
All your thoughts one sentimental
From your fevered brain have fled,
For you're feeling rather bitter,
And your thoughts are deepest red. Yet, with troubles crowding on you,
You are battling bravely on,
In the hopes of reaching water.
E'er the next long mile has gone,
You are cursing well-fed squatters
And their sundrled thirsty land,
As you think of city friendships
And past dates around the Strand. When you see some station homestead
In the mirage o'er the plain,
And your throat feels like a furnace
And your senses are on the wane.
When you rest a while to ease and
Cool your burning blistered feet,
Then your thoughts turn back to Erstwhile
Pals still pirating the street. When at last your destination
You have reached beyond the hills,
And you've dropped your chafing bundle
And the curses of your ills;
As the early veil of twilight
Tells another day is done.
Then you are thankful for the ending
Of the battle you have won. Oh, the life's no cello solo,
For it's mostly lumps and ruts.
And to scale its many inclines
You must take its bruising butts;
For the man who casts his bundle
On his battle o'er the plain.
Will be food for preying vultures
Midst the bones of other slain. Leilavale. P. JAMES IRVINE. Notes From the Queensland Newspaper The Townsville Daily Bulletin 21 Nov 1925 p. 3.