And a brush with the town-bred folk—
For a bit of a change from my “moated grange”
(A camp by an outback soak):
But drift I still with a flagging will
And a spirit that grows inert—
A sagging jaw and a bleaching paw—
’Neath the curse of a laundried shirt!
I’ve lit my camp with the moon’s soft lamp
And the light of the outback stars,
And drunk my fill of the Out-Back swill,