His Gippsland Girl

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Now, money was scarce and work was slack
  And love to his heart Crept in,
And he rode away on the Northern track
  To war with the world and win;
And he vowed by the locket upon his breast
  And its treasure, one red gold curl,
To work with with a will in the fartherest West
  For the sake of his Gippsland girl.

The hot wind blows on the dusty plain
  And the red sun burns above,
But he sees her face at his side again,
  And he strikes each blow for love.
He toils by the light of one far-off star
  For the winning of one white pearl,
And the swinging pick and the driving bar
  Strike home for the Gippsland girl.

With an aching wrist and a back that's bent,
  With salt sweat blinding eyes,
'Tis little he'd reek if his life were spent
  In the winning so grand a prize.
His shear blades flash and over his hand
  The folds of the white fleece curl,
And all day long he sticks to his stand
  For the love of his Gippsland girl.

When the shearing's done and the shed's cut out
  On Barwon and Narran and Bree;
When the shearer mates with the rouseabout
  And the Union man with the free;
When the doors of the shanty, open wide,
  An uproarious welcome hurl,
He passes by on the other side
  For the sake of his gippsland girl.

When summer lay brown on the Western Land
  He rode once more to the South,
Athirst for the touch of a lily hand
  And the kiss of a rosebud mouth;
And he sang the songs that shorten the way,
  And he envied not king or earl,
And he spared not the spur in his dappled grey
  For the sake of his Gippsland girl.

At the garden gate when the shadows fell
  His hopes in the dusk lay dead;
'Nelli? Oh! Surely you heard that Nell
  Is married a month' they said.
He spoke no word; with a dull, dumb pain
  At his heart, and his brain awhirl
He turned his grey to the North again
  For the sake of his Gippsland girl.

And he rung the board in a Paroo shed
  By the sweat of his aching brow,
But he blued his cheque, for he grimly said,
  'There is nothing to live for now.'
And out and away where the big floods start
  And the Darling dust-showers swirl,
There's a drunken shearer who broke his heart
  Over a Gippsland girl!

© William Henry Ogilvie