A faithful mate of days gone by—
A friend of many a far-off track,—
And yet you here neglected lie,
Battered, old, and black.

How oft before I brought you West,
I’ve heard you sing and bubble;
How oft you’ve shared each tramp and rest
And fleeting joy or trouble.

Thro’ each and every change of luck,
Thro’ fortune’s smiles and frowns,
Have you and I together stuck,
In ups and downs.

Each stinted meal to mind you bring,
Each mile of hopeless drag —
I feel again your measure swing,
Against a phantom swag.

And yet your music sped the miles
Of weary scrubs and plains.
And bid me strive for fortune’s smiles,
While youth was in my veins.

Your muffled jingle beat the time,
As loosely on my back you hung —
O’er sandy stretch or mountain climb
Your gentle rhythm rung.

Away from cities’ roar and rush
Have you and I together tramped,
And far amid the forest’s hush
Together we have camped.

In summer nights, how sweet it seemed
To set you on the leaping blaze.
While smoke, sweet-scented, lightly streamed
Towards the leafy haze.

From Danadoo to Mittagong
I’ve carried you with pride;
I’ve dipped you in each billabong
Along the Great Divide.

From Otway up to Murray Bridge,
From Bendigo to Sale,
From Brandy Creek to Bogong Ridge,
And up the Mitchell Vale.

Around the great Victoria Lake,
Along the coastal reach
Where ninety miles of rollers break
On ninety miles of beach.

So working on with spells of rest,
With spirits high and pocket low,
Until we struck the Golden West
A year or two ago,

Where, tho our luck’s not been the best
We’ve still a decent show,
And I’ve a wife to share the nest,
For cares of living grow.

But I find, tho married and settled,
And considered as quite secure,
That a loaf well made, and a table laid,
Can never my passion cure.—
Can never the wand’ring fever kill,
And a stay-at-home life assure.

But Billy—the house is still,
The fire is burning bright,
Again your battered old hulk I’ll fill,
And drink to the past to-night.
I’ll seem to see each valley and hill
In the mythical dancing light.

Each stinted meal to mind you’ll bring,
each mile of hopeless drag;
I’ll feel again your measured swing
Against a phantom swag.

So merrily bubble and sing.
Tho’ old and battered and black,
The best of mates together we’ll cling,
And visit again on fancy’s wing
Each well-remembered track.

“THE PROSPECTOR.”

Here’s a song for the sturdy prospector,
For the men who have blazed the track ;
For the men who have borne the hardships,
And have opened the Fields–Out Back.

With a supply that was scant they started .
With the pick and the water-bag ;
And they have fought against perils and hardships
When the bravest of hearts might have flagged.

Where the sun, like a fiery furnace.
Strikes the earth with a merciless glare,
Till all hut the iron-like mulga
Has crumbled and died in despair.

Where the scorching wind howls o’er the ridges.
And the dust clouds are driven ahead ;
Where the landscape’s a glaring red desert–
Like the ghost of a world that is dead.

They have fossicked away without ceasing-
They are men with the patience of Job;
They have suffered a hundred reverses
In search of a payable lode.

Now the trains rush into the desert,
Where cities have sprung up like maize ;
And the thundering stampers sing peans
Of the men of the earlier days.

And the rattle and din of the traffic
All day through the hurrying streets
Re-echoes in praise of the heroes-
The heroes who knew not defeat.

Then, cheer ye the sturdy prospectors,
‘The men who have blazed the track ;
Who have conquered drought, heat and privation,
And have opened the Fields–Out Back.

by TWILIGHT. July 28 1907

SWAGMAN UNKNOWN.    Age About 5O.

The body of a swagman was recently found and: buried in the bush out from Coolgardie. His name was unknown, and he was about 50 years of age.

In the loose mould
Out from Coolgardie
Bury an old .
Pioneer hardy.

Not old. in years,
One of the stragglers
Who’d conjure no tears
From huckstering haggler,

A page from the past
These tragedies sully,
Uncoffined at last
Within an old gully.

Lay all alone
in the Sand drifty
Swagman Unknown,
Aged About 50.

Maybe this clay
So starkly sleeping
Once bad its day
In the years leaping

When Bayley’d burst
Where the dawn blushes
Maybe was first
in the*new rushes;

Twisted the dish
In the days olden,
Heard every swish
When it was golden,

Specking rich stone
In the soil sifty,
Now. he Unknown,
Aged About 50!

Maybe some mate,
Sister or brother.
Sighs in this State,
Smiles in another.

Someone adored
In the years yester,
Mary or Maud,
Eva or Esther

Some pal or friend.
Who might, have saved him
Solaced his end.
Decently graved him.

Someone o’erthrown
Some bond grown rifty
Now he’s Unknown,
Aged About 50.

Maybe he’ll sleep
Sound as they slumber,
Where women weep
And the graves cumber.

No verse in head
Tells of his dying,
But o’er his head
Sheoaks are sighing.

On his behalf
No tomb arises;
His epitaph
No one surprises:

Living alone,
Habits unthrifty
Swagman Unknown,
Aged About 50.

by DRYBLOWER MURPHY.