The world is narrow and ways are short, and our lives are dull and slow,
For little is new where the crowds resort, and less where the wanderers go;
Greater, or smaller, the same old things we see by the dull road-side --
...
Tall, and stout, and solid-looking,
Yet a wreck;
None would think Death's finger's hooking
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IT IS well when you’ve lived in clover,
To mourn for the days gone by—
Would I live the same life over
Could I live again? Not I!
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When the kindly hours of darkness, save for light of moon and star,
Hide the picture on the signboard over Doughty's Horse Bazaar;
When the last rose-tint is fading on the distant mulga scrub,
...
There's many a schoolboy's bat and ball that are gathering dust at home,
For he hears a voice in the future call, and he trains for the war to come;
A serious light in his eyes is seen as he comes from the schoolhouse gate;
He keeps his kit and his rifle clean, and he sees that his back is straight.
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Across the stony ridges,
Across the rolling plain,
Young Harry Dale, the drover,
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Tall and freckled and sandy,
Face of a country lout;
This was the picture of Andy,
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Day of ending for beginnings!
Ocean hath another innings,
Ocean hath another score;
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The short hour's halt is ended,
The red gone from the west,
The broken wheel is mended,
And the dead men laid to rest.
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On a lonely selection far out in the West
An old woman works all the day without rest,
And she croons, as she toils 'neath the sky's glassy dome,
`Sure I'll keep the ould place till the childer come home.'
...