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We were standing by the fireside at the pub one wintry night Drinking grog and 'pitching fairies' while the lengthening hours took flight, And a stranger there was present, one who seemed quite city-bred--- There was little showed about him to denote him 'mulga-fed'. For he wore a four-inch collar, tucked up pants, and boots of tan--- You might take him for a new-chum, or a Sydney city man--- But in spite of cuff or collar, Lord! he gave himself away When he cut and rubbed and had filled his coloured clay. For he never asked for matches--although in that boozing band There was more than one man standing with a matchbox in his hand; And I knew him for a bushman 'spite his tailor-made attire'. As I saw him stoop and fossick for a fire-stick from the fire. And that mode of weed-ignition to my memory brought back Long nights when nags were hobbled on a far North-western track; Recalled campfires in the timber, when the stars shone big and bright, And we learned the matchless virtues of a glowing gidgee light. And I thought of piney sand-ridges---and somehow I could swear That this tailor-made Johnny had at one time been 'out there'. And as he blew the white ash from the tapering, glowing coal, Faith! my heart went out towards him for a kindred country soul. Harry Morant (the breaker) |
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