|There's a bloke gone up the road just now
With the sunbeams on his back;
And there's never a line or care on his brow
As he plods by fern and track.
He's wearing leggings, his arms are brown,
His blue shirt's free at the neck;
He's been to the mail where the Mount looks down,
And has a Micawber cheque.
He fills his pipe and the blue smoke climbs
And drifts to the forest wide.
By the look in his eyes he's making rhymes
As he walks where the red roads ride.
He enters his place by the sawdust-heap
(That Toolangi shack of grey),
Past the wombat's hole, where the wattles sweep
And the parrots are making play.
And now to the creek for a blackfish, too,
For a succulent, simple tea,
Then a log on the fire, as bush-blokes do;
For a fire's good company;
And a pad on the knee and a pencil sharp,
And his dog at his feet by the fire -
So "Den" the poet now strings his harp,
And writes to his heart's desire.
Oh, the night is sweet and thoughts run long
And the peace is wide and deep;
And the mountain creek now makes its song
While the dog and the poet sleep.
The Bloke goes down to the post next day,
Fresh fame and a cheque to win:
The coachdriver takes more verses away,
Addressed to "The Bulletin."
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