No church-bell rings them from the Track, <br />No pulpit lights theirblindness-- <br />'Tis hardship, drought, and homelessness <br />That teach those Bushmen kindness: <br />The mateship born, in barren lands, <br />Of toil and thirst and danger, <br />The camp-fare for the wanderer set, <br />The first place to the stranger. <br />They do the best they can to-day-- <br />Take no thought of the morrow; <br />Their way is not the old-world way-- <br />They live to lend and borrow. <br />When shearing's done and cheques gone wrong, <br />They call it "time to slither"-- <br />They saddle up and say "So-long!" <br />And ride the Lord knows whither. <br /> <br />And though he may be brown or black, <br />Or wrong man there, or right man, <br />The mate that's steadfast to his mates <br />They call that man a "white man!" <br />They tramp in mateship side by side-- <br />The Protestant and Roman-- <br />They call no biped lord or sir, <br />And touch their hat to no man! <br /> <br />They carry in their swags perhaps, <br />A portrait and a letter-- <br />And, maybe, deep down in their hearts, <br />The hope of "something better." <br />Where lonely miles are long to ride, <br />And long, hot days recurrent, <br />There's lots of time to think of men <br />They might have been--but weren't. <br /> <br />They turn their faces to the west <br />And leave the world behind them <br />(Their drought-dry graves are seldom set <br />Where even mates can find them). <br />They know too little of the world <br />To rise to wealth or greatness; <br />But in these lines I gladly pay <br />My tribute to their greatness.<br /><br />Henry Lawson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-shearers/
