On the Track

by Henry Lawson

However:

What's out of sight is out of mind, in the Ould Bark Hut.
. . . . .
We washed our greasy moleskins
On the banks of the Condamine.—

Somebody tackling the “Old Bullock Dray”; it must be over fifty verses now. I saw a bushman at a country dance start to sing that song; he'd get up to ten or fifteen verses, break down, and start afresh. At last he sat down on his heel to it, in the centre of the clear floor, resting his wrist on his knee, and keeping time with an index finger. It was very funny, but the thing was taken seriously all through.

Irreverent echo from the old Lambing Flat trouble, from camp across the gully:

Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!
No more Chinamen will enter Noo South Wales!

and

Yankee Doodle came to town
On a little pony—
Stick a feather in his cap,
And call him Maccaroni!

All the camps seem to be singing to-night:

Ring the bell, watchman!
Ring! Ring! Ring!
Ring, for the good news
Is now on the wing!

Good lines, the introduction: