While The Billy BoilsSearchWith eyes that seem shrunken to pierceTo the awful horizons of land,Through the haze of hot days, and the fierceWhite heat-waves that flow on the sand;Through the Never Land westward and nor’ward,Bronzed, bearded and gaunt on the track,Quiet-voiced and hard-knuckled, rides forwardThe Christ of the Outer Out-back.
For the cause that will ne’er be relinquishedSpite of all the great cynics on earth—In the ranks of the bush undistinguishedBy manner or dress—if by birth—God’s preacher, of churches unheeded—God’s vineyard, though barren the sod—Plain spokesman where spokesman is needed—Rough link ’twixt the bushman and God.
He works where the hearts of all nationsAre withered in flame from the sky,Where the sinners work out their salvationsIn a hell-upon-earth ere they die.In the camp or the lonely hut lyingIn a waste that seems out of God’s sight,He’s the doctor—the mate of the dyingThrough the smothering heat of the night.
By his work in the hells of the shearers,Where the drinking is ghastly and grim,Where the roughest and worst of his hearersHave listened bareheaded to him.By his paths through the parched desolationHot rides and the terrible tramps;By the hunger, the thirst, the privationOf his work in the furthermost camps;
By his worth in the light that shall search menAnd prove—ay! and justify each—I place him in front of all churchmenWho feel not, who know not—but preach!