We’ll honour the man who can’t afford
    To wait for a job that suits,
But sticks a swag on his shoulders broad
    And his feet in blucher boots,
And tramps away o’er the ridges far
    And over the burning sand
To look for work where the stations are
    In the lonely Western land.

He’ll brave the drouth and he’ll brave the rain,
        And fight his sorrows down,
And help to garden the inland plain
    And build the inland town;
And he’ll be found in the coming years
    With a heart as firm and stout,
An honoured man with the pioneers
    Who lead the people out.