The crows at sunrise flopping round
    Where some poor life has run down;
The pair of emus trotting from
    The lonely tank at sundown,
Their snaky heads well up, and eyes
    Well out for man’s manoeuvres,
And feathers bobbing round behind
    Like fringes round improvers.

The swagman tramping ’cross the plain;
    Good Lord, there’s nothing sadder,
Except the dog that slopes behind
    His master like a shadder;
The turkey-tail to scare the flies,
    The water-bag and billy;
The nose-bag getting cruel light,
    The traveller getting silly.

The plain that seems to Jackaroos
    Like gently sloping rises,
The shrubs and tufts that’s miles away
    But magnified in sizes;
The track that seems arisen up
    Or else seems gently slopin’,
And just a hint of kangaroos
    Way out across the open.

The joy and hope the swagman feels
    Returning, after shearing,
Or after six months’ tramp Out Back,
    He strikes the final clearing.
His weary spirit breathes again,
    His aching legs seem limber
When to the East across the plain
    He spots the Darling Timber!

But what’s the use of writing ‘bush’—
    Though editors demand it—
For city folk and cockatoos,
    They do not understand it.
They’re blind to what the whaler sees
    The best with eyes shut tightest,
Out where Australia’s widest, and
    The stars are most and brightest.