Gentleman Jim in the stockmen's hut Works with them, toils with them, side by side; As to his past -- well, his lips are shut. 'Gentleman once,' say his mates with pride; And the wildest Cornstalk can ne'er outdo In feats of recklessness, Jim Carew.
What should he live for? A dull despair! Drink is his master and drags him down, Water of Lethe that drowns all care. Gentleman Jim has a lot to drown, And he reigns as king with a drunken crew, Sinking to misery, Jim Carew.
Such is the end of the ne'er-do-well -- Jimmy the Boozer, all down at heel; But he straightens up when he's asked to tell His name and race, and a flash of steel Still lightens up in those eyes of blue -- 'I am, or -- no, I _WAS_ -- Jim Carew.'
We buried old Bob where the bloodwoods wave At the foot of the Eaglehawk; We fashioned a cross on the old man's grave, For fear that his ghost might walk; We carved his name on a bloodwood tree, With the date of his sad decease, And in place of 'Died from effects of spree', We wrote 'May he rest in peace'.
For Bob was known on the Overland, A regular old bush wag, Tramping along in the dust and sand, Humping his well-worn swag. He would camp for days in the river-bed, And loiter and 'fish for whales'. 'I'm into the swagman's yard,' he said, 'And I never shall find the rails.'
But he found the rails on that summer night For a better place -- or worse, As we watched by turns in the flickering light With an old black gin for nurse. The breeze came in with the scent of pine, The river sounded clear, When a change came on, and we saw the sign That told us the end was near.
But he spoke in a cultured voice and low -- 'I fancy they've “sent the route”; I once was an army man, you know, Though now I'm a drunken brute; But bury me out where the bloodwoods wave, And if ever you're fairly stuck, Just take and shovel me out of the grave And, maybe, I'll bring you luck.
'For I've always heard --' here his voice fell weak, His strength was well-nigh sped, He gasped and struggled and tried to speak, Then fell in a moment -- dead. Thus ended a wasted life and hard, Of energies misapplied -- Old Bob was out of the 'swagman's yard' And over the Great Divide.
The drought came down on the field and flock, And never a raindrop fell, Though the tortured moans of the starving stock Might soften a fiend from hell. And we thought of the hint that the swagman gave When he went to the Great Unseen -- We shovelled the skeleton out of the grave To see what his hint might mean.