I haven’t the guts to go

I want to be out where the battlers are,
Away from the tyrant pen,
Where the bell-bird sits on the morning star
To waken the mulga men;
I want to stand on the crazy brace,
Or hammer away below,
While Luck waits by with a shining face
So long as the “leader” pans a trace—
But I haven’t the guts to go!

I want to be fixed in the same old camp,
And sit by the sandal fire—
I can see it now in the flickering lamp:
It looks like a funeral pyre.
I want to be with the gods of graft,
The stars of an out-back sky,
Or follow on with a bushman’s craft,
With my bag and bundle before and aft—
But I haven’t the guts to try!

Oh, I know a place where the gold went down,
The spot where the “country” broke:
And the shaft is there near the ridge’s crown,
By the foot of an old bull-oak.
I know the metal is waiting still
For a lusty heart to buy,
For a trusty arm, and a tireless will,
Till the slug rolls out from the public mill—
But I haven’t the guts to try!

There’s a shanty, too, and a lodestone there—
A girl of the out-back type—
The midnight sleeps in her vagrant hair
And her lips are cherry-ripe:
The battlers vie at the kipsy bar,
And many a mulga beau;
And I want to be where the battlers are,
And bask in the light of my out-back star—
But I haven’t the guts to go!

There’s a fell disease in the touch of ink—
The shriek of a coastal train—
There’s a subtle curse in the draught we drink
That softens the bushman’s brain:
We weary fast of the gauds and guile,
Though strong are the bonds they weave,
And the glamour that circles the Golden Mile—
But we haven’t the guts to leave!

I want to up with my swag and hence,
Away from the tyrant pen,
Where the bell-bird calls from the morning’s fence
To waken the mulga men!
I want to stand on a crazy brace,
Or hammer away below,
While Luck looks on with a beaming face,
So long as the “leader” pans a trace—
But I haven’t the guts to go!