SONG OF THE TIMES

Hokitika Guardian, 16 September 1933, Page 2

SONG OF THE TIMES

ON HANGING BACK. The following adapted from “Tlic Blue Bush Man,” is considered apropos by a contributor, to present conditions when volunteer prospectors are at a premium. I want to be out where the battlers arc, 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” panq a trace— But I haven’t the push 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 the bushman’s craft, With my bag and bundle before and aft— But I haven’t the pluck to try.

Oh, I know a place where the gold went down, The spot wliefe the “country’’ broke; And the shaft is there near the ridge’s crown, By the foot of all 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 tile slug rolls out from the public mill— But I haven’t the push to try.

There’s a shanty, too, and a lodestone thereA 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 inulga beau; And I want to be where the battlers are, And bask jn the light of my oijt- ;■ back, star— But I haven’t, the pluck to go.

There's a fell disease in the touch of jink—•' ' 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 i weave,’ And the glamour that circles the Gold- ■■ en Mile— But we haven’t the push 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 miilga men; t want to stand on a crazy brace, Or hammer away below, While Luok looks on with a beaming face, / So long as the “leader’’ pans a trace— But I haven’t the pluck to .go. —J. P. Bourke