As I breasted the shanty bars:
I’ve made my bit, and have squandered it
In an island of dreams, rum-girt—
To fall at last with my flag half-mast,
’Neath the curse of a laundried shirt!
The stampers roar to the tune no more
Of “Aboard for the Sydney-side!”
The merry hum of the windlass drum
’S like the song of the swan—that died:
My mulga maid, in whose eyes hope played—