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!_