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,