Just before the last elections, and the chaps were fighting wellRound about the Paroo River, on the borderland of hell--But the story of the struggle doesn't matter anyhow,For a Parliament of angels couldn't save the country now.
But a poor old fellow struggled to a hut one broiling day,And his ragged swag fell off him in a hopeless kind of way.He was sick and very shaky, and his eyes were blurr'd and dim--It was plain to all the fellows that 'twas nearly up with him.
He was stiff and out of tucker (all the fellows understood);He wanted medicine and rest before he wanted food.He was making for the border, underneath the blazing sun--Old, and weak, and ill, he tottered, and but half his journey done.
"If I could put the time in up at Hungerford," he said,"Until after the election--I'd be ready to be dead.I wouldn't care so much," he sighed, "my time is nearly past--But I've got a vote for Hughie, and I s'pose 'twill be my last."
And the rough and noisy bushmen gathered round. Their manner grewIn a moment soft and gentle, for their hearts, of course, were true;And they said, "What's up, old fellow?" and "What can we do for you?"
Then he raised his head a moment, and the tired answer came:"There is nothing you can do, lads, but I thank you, all the same;I am pretty cronk and shaky--too far gone for hell or heaven,An' the chances are I'm goin'--that I'm goin' to 'do the seven'.
"But it isn't that that gripes me, an' I'll tell you what it is--Life ain't over bright an' rosy, battlin' round in times like this;For many a year I've knocked round here, where livin' is a crime,An' couldn't get a vote--not once, tho' I tried it every time.
But I got in on 'em this time, an' when I did, said I,This belongs to Hughie Langwell, an' I'll vote before I die.An' I can't reach Yantabulla--that's the thing that makes me fret.Chaps, I've got a vote for Hughie--but it ain't no monte yet."
And it wasn't, chaps; he knew it. That same night he "did his seven",But no doubt the swagman's name is safe upon the list in heaven.