In the Days When the World Was Wide [11]
and starvation; Through childbirth, sickness, hurt, and blight, And nervousness an' scarin', Through bein' left alone at night, I've got to be past carin'. Past botherin' or carin', Past feelin' and past carin'; Through city cheats and neighbours' spite, I've come to be past carin'.
Our first child took, in days like these, A cruel week in dyin', All day upon her father's knees, Or on my poor breast lyin'; The tears we shed -- the prayers we said Were awful, wild -- despairin'! I've pulled three through, and buried two Since then -- and I'm past carin'. I've grown to be past carin', Past worryin' and wearin'; I've pulled three through and buried two Since then, and I'm past carin'.
'Twas ten years first, then came the worst, All for a dusty clearin', I thought, I thought my heart would burst When first my man went shearin'; He's drovin' in the great North-west, I don't know how he's farin'; For I, the one that loved him best, Have grown to be past carin'. I've grown to be past carin' Past lookin' for or carin'; The girl that waited long ago, Has lived to be past carin'.
My eyes are dry, I cannot cry, I've got no heart for breakin', But where it was in days gone by, A dull and empty achin'. My last boy ran away from me, I know my temper's wearin', But now I only wish to be Beyond all signs of carin'. Past wearyin' or carin', Past feelin' and despairin'; And now I only wish to be Beyond all signs of carin'.
The Glass on the Bar
Three bushmen one morning rode up to an inn, And one of them called for the drinks with a grin; They'd only returned from a trip to the North, And, eager to greet them, the landlord came forth. He absently poured out a glass of Three Star. And set down that drink with the rest on the bar.
`There, that is for Harry,' he said, `and it's queer, 'Tis the very same glass that he drank from last year; His name's on the glass, you can read it like print, He scratched it himself with an old piece of flint; I remember his drink -- it was always Three Star' -- And the landlord looked out through the door of the bar.
He looked at the horses, and counted but three: `You were always together -- where's Harry?' cried he. Oh, sadly they looked at the glass as they said, `You may put it away, for our old mate is dead;' But one, gazing out o'er the ridges afar, Said, `We owe him a shout -- leave the glass on the bar.'
They thought of the far-away grave on the plain, They thought of the comrade who came not again, They lifted their glasses, and sadly they said: `We drink to the name of the mate who is dead.' And the sunlight streamed in, and a light like a star Seemed to glow in the depth of the glass on the bar.
And still in that shanty a tumbler is seen, It stands by the clock, ever polished and clean; And often the strangers will read as they pass The name of a bushman engraved on the glass; And though on the shelf but a dozen there are, That glass never stands with the rest on the bar.
The Shanty on the Rise
When the caravans of wool-teams climbed the ranges from the West, On a spur among the mountains stood `The Bullock-drivers' Rest'; It was built of bark and saplings, and was rather rough inside, But 'twas good enough for bushmen in the careless days that died -- Just a quiet little shanty kept by `Something-in-Disguise', As the bushmen called the landlord of the Shanty on the Rise.
City swells who `do the Royal' would have called the Shanty low, But 'twas better far and purer than some toney pubs I know; For the patrons of the Shanty had the principles of men, And the spieler, if he struck it, wasn't welcome there again. You could smoke and drink in quiet, yarn, or else soliloquise, With a decent lot of fellows in the Shanty on the Rise.
'Twas the bullock-driver's haven when his team was on the road, And the waggon-wheels were groaning as they ploughed beneath the load; And I mind how weary teamsters struggled on while it was light, Just to camp within a cooey of the Shanty
Our first child took, in days like these, A cruel week in dyin', All day upon her father's knees, Or on my poor breast lyin'; The tears we shed -- the prayers we said Were awful, wild -- despairin'! I've pulled three through, and buried two Since then -- and I'm past carin'. I've grown to be past carin', Past worryin' and wearin'; I've pulled three through and buried two Since then, and I'm past carin'.
'Twas ten years first, then came the worst, All for a dusty clearin', I thought, I thought my heart would burst When first my man went shearin'; He's drovin' in the great North-west, I don't know how he's farin'; For I, the one that loved him best, Have grown to be past carin'. I've grown to be past carin' Past lookin' for or carin'; The girl that waited long ago, Has lived to be past carin'.
My eyes are dry, I cannot cry, I've got no heart for breakin', But where it was in days gone by, A dull and empty achin'. My last boy ran away from me, I know my temper's wearin', But now I only wish to be Beyond all signs of carin'. Past wearyin' or carin', Past feelin' and despairin'; And now I only wish to be Beyond all signs of carin'.
The Glass on the Bar
Three bushmen one morning rode up to an inn, And one of them called for the drinks with a grin; They'd only returned from a trip to the North, And, eager to greet them, the landlord came forth. He absently poured out a glass of Three Star. And set down that drink with the rest on the bar.
`There, that is for Harry,' he said, `and it's queer, 'Tis the very same glass that he drank from last year; His name's on the glass, you can read it like print, He scratched it himself with an old piece of flint; I remember his drink -- it was always Three Star' -- And the landlord looked out through the door of the bar.
He looked at the horses, and counted but three: `You were always together -- where's Harry?' cried he. Oh, sadly they looked at the glass as they said, `You may put it away, for our old mate is dead;' But one, gazing out o'er the ridges afar, Said, `We owe him a shout -- leave the glass on the bar.'
They thought of the far-away grave on the plain, They thought of the comrade who came not again, They lifted their glasses, and sadly they said: `We drink to the name of the mate who is dead.' And the sunlight streamed in, and a light like a star Seemed to glow in the depth of the glass on the bar.
And still in that shanty a tumbler is seen, It stands by the clock, ever polished and clean; And often the strangers will read as they pass The name of a bushman engraved on the glass; And though on the shelf but a dozen there are, That glass never stands with the rest on the bar.
The Shanty on the Rise
When the caravans of wool-teams climbed the ranges from the West, On a spur among the mountains stood `The Bullock-drivers' Rest'; It was built of bark and saplings, and was rather rough inside, But 'twas good enough for bushmen in the careless days that died -- Just a quiet little shanty kept by `Something-in-Disguise', As the bushmen called the landlord of the Shanty on the Rise.
City swells who `do the Royal' would have called the Shanty low, But 'twas better far and purer than some toney pubs I know; For the patrons of the Shanty had the principles of men, And the spieler, if he struck it, wasn't welcome there again. You could smoke and drink in quiet, yarn, or else soliloquise, With a decent lot of fellows in the Shanty on the Rise.
'Twas the bullock-driver's haven when his team was on the road, And the waggon-wheels were groaning as they ploughed beneath the load; And I mind how weary teamsters struggled on while it was light, Just to camp within a cooey of the Shanty