And bask in the light of my out-back star—
But I haven’t the guts to go!
[109]
]There’s a fell disease in the touch of ink—
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 weave,
And the glamour that circles the Golden Mile—
But we haven’t the guts to leave!