On the Track of Grand Endeavour,… Past the Turn-Back, and past How… Past old Bullock-Yoke and Bog Fl… Lies the camp that we have christe… We were young and strong and fearl…

It was a week from Christmas-time… As near as I remember, And half a year since, in the rear… We’d left the Darling timber. The track was hot and more than dr…

Far back in the days when the blac… In long single file ’neath the eve… The wool-teams in season came down… And journeyed for weeks on their w… ’Twas then that our hearts and our…

WHEN you drink of what the poets… And yer mouth, in spite of laughin… Do not whine for help or pity; nev… Lay yer list’€™ners back and fight… Though the world on empty pockets…

Our hull is seldom painted, Our decks are seldom stoned; Our sails are patched and cobbled And chains by rust marooned. Our rigging is untidy,

A son of elder sons I am, Whose boyhood days were cramped an… Through ages of domestic sham And family lies and family cant. Come, elder brothers mine, and bri…

When God’s wrath-cloud is o’er me… Affrighting heart and mind; When days seem dark before me, And days seem black behind; Those friends who think they know…

Whenever I’m moving my furniture… Or shifting my furniture out— Which is nearly as often and risky… In these days of shifting about— There isn’t a stretcher, there isn…

The men who camp with Danger Are mostly quiet men: And one may use a rifle, And one may use a pen, And one may strap a camera

What though the world does me ill… And cares my life environ; I’d sooner laugh with Bobbie Burn… Than sneer with titled Byron. The smile has always been the best…

The stamp of Scotland is on his f… But he sailed to the South a lad, And he does not think of the black… And the bitter hard youth he had; He thinks of a nearer and dearer p…

'Where are you going with your hor… And the townsfolk still at rest? Where are you going, with your swa… And the night still in the West? Your clothes are worn, and your ch…

Some carry their swags in the Gre… Where the bravest battle and die, And a few have gone to their last… And a few have said: Good-bye! The coast grows dim, and it may be…

Did you see that man riding past, With shoulders bowed with care? There’s failure in his eyes to las… And in his heart despair. He seldom looks to left or right,

They’re shifting old North Sydney… Perhaps ’tis just as well— They’re carting off the houses Where the old folks used to dwell. Where only ghosts inhabit