So the world of odds and evens ceased to trouble Harry Stephens,
and the niggard road no longer echoes to his lonely tread.
For another bushman found him with his ‘bluey’ wrapped around him, sleeping like a bushman, only sleeping with the mighty dead.
And the shadows were upon him, and they found a ticket on him – just a relic of a battle that was lately lost and won.
And it told the stray Camboonian he’d been loyal to his union (right or wrong) – he had been loyal to the strike of ‘91’.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem