I'm lyin’ on the barren ground that's baked and cracked with drought, And dunno if my legs or back or heart is most wore out; I've got no spirits left to rise and smooth me achin’ brow — I'm too knocked up to light a fire and bile the billy now.
Oh it's trampin’, trampin’, tra-a-mpin’, in flies an’ dust an’ heat, Or it's trampin’ trampin’ tra-a-a-mpin’ through mud and slush‘ n sleet; It's tramp an’ tramp for tucker — one everlastin’ strife, An’ wearin’ out yer boots an’ heart in the wastin’ of yer life.
They whine o’ lost an’ wasted lives in idleness and crime — I've wasted mine for twenty years, and grafted all the time And never drunk the stuff I earned, nor gambled when I shore — But somehow when yer on the track yer life seems wasted more.
A long dry stretch of thirty miles I've tramped this broilin’ day, All for the off-chance of a job a hundred miles away; There's twenty hungry beggars wild for any job this year, An’ fifty might be at the shed while I am lyin’ here.
The sinews in my legs seem drawn, red-hot —‘ n that's the truth; I seem to weigh a ton, and ache like one tremendous tooth; I'm stung between my shoulder-blades — my blessed back seems broke; I'm too knocked out to eat a bite — I'm too knocked up to smoke.
The blessed rain is comin’ too — there's oceans in the sky, An’ I suppose I must get up and rig the blessed fly; The heat is bad, the water's bad, the flies a crimson curse, The grub is bad, mosquitoes damned — but rheumatism's worse.
I wonder why poor blokes like me will stick so fast ter breath, Though Shakespeare says it is the fear of somethin’ after death; But though Eternity be cursed with God's almighty curse — What ever that same somethin’ is I swear it can n't be worse.
For it's trampin’, trampin’, tra-a-mpin’ thro’ hell across the plain, And it's trampin’ trampin’ tra-a-mpin’ thro’ slush‘ n mud‘ n rain — A livin’ worse than any dog — without a home‘ n wife, A-wearin’ out yer heart‘ n soul in the wastin’ of yer life.
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