WEARY old wife, with the bucket and cow, <br />‘How’s your son Jack? and where is he now?’ <br />Haggard old eyes that turn to the west— <br />‘Boys will be boys, and he’s gone with the rest!’ <br />Grief without tears and grief without sound; <br />‘Somewhere up-country he’s knocking around.’ <br /> <br />Knocking around with a vagabond crew, <br />Does for himself what a mother would do; <br />Maybe in trouble and maybe hard-up, <br />Maybe in want of a bite or a sup; <br />Dead of the fever, or lost in the drought, <br />Lonely old mother! he’s knocking about. <br /> <br />Wiry old man at the tail of the plough, <br />‘Heard of Jack lately? and where is he now?’ <br />Pauses a moment his forehead to wipe, <br />Drops the rope reins while he feels for his pipe, <br />Scratches his grey head in sorrow or doubt: <br />‘Somewheers or others he’s knocking about.’ <br /> <br />Knocking about on the runs of the West, <br />Holding his own with the worst and the best <br />Breaking in horses and risking his neck, <br />Droving or shearing and making a cheque; <br />Straight as a sapling—six-foot and sound, <br />Jack is all right when he’s knocking around.<br /><br />Henry Lawson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/knocking-around/
