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The Bicycle’s Gone to the Bush

Edward S. Sorenson

It’s all up a tree with the swagmen,
   It’s all over now with the tramp,
And the horsemen can dally with bagmen,
   For they’re wanted no more on the camp.
They’re trooping in droves from the west-track,
   With tidings of woe to their push,
For the inside, they say, is the best track,
   Since the bicycle’s gone to the bush.

In old times we went to the city,
   With a tidy old cheque to knock down;
We’d muse on the beauties of Kitty
   As we lit from the lights of the town;
We had only to steer for the back-blocks
   Again in a while to be flush—
Now it’s all for our youth and our black looks,
   Since the bicycle’s gone to the bush.

On the stations out back they are riding
   Long bound’ry and rabbit-proof fence;
And rouseabouts swiftly are gliding
   With shearers and tank-sinkers hence;
They’re rounding up sheep and scrub cattle,
They stem the most desperate rush—
Even the myalls will peddle to battle
   On the bikes that have gone to the bush.

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