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Unwatched and unkempt in the bend of the creek,
It stands, like a dead-house, alone,
Unpainted, unfurnished, and gaping and bleak,
With a fire-place rough circled with stone;
Though none call it home, it is evidence plain
Of the goodness of Squatter McNutt,
Who, pained at the thought of tramps camped in the rain,
Erected the “Travellers’ Hut.”
They come from all parts of the civilised globe.
All sorts and conditions of men,
And each, with the stoical patience of Job,
Makes room in the limited den;
And they wash and they cook, and stop gaps in their togs,
And blow of the tallies they’ve cut.
Of horses they’ve ridden, of wonderful dogs
That have camped in the Travellers’ Hut.
According to treatment they scribble their views
Of Squatter McNutt on the slabs;
And they read on the wall a budget of news
Pertaining to bosses and scabs;
While raddled and charcoaled, and cut out with knives.
On the ricketty door that won’t shut.
Are legends denoting the want of good wives
By men in the Travellers’ Hut.
It has sheltered the artist who favors the nude—
His creations unsettle the mind:
And the budding bush bard whose effusions, though crude,
Are of a delectable kind;
Unhampered by aught in Morality's code.
He follows no common place rut,
And produces a hair-raising, soul-stirring ode
That staggers the Travellers’ Hut.
‘T is a club where the wandering geniuses meet,
With the cream of bush liars in tow,
And they hold a smoke concert, or musical treat,
While the mopokes are calling below;
And they register all their cognomens ornate,
Which a sample is “Billy-the-Nut,”
With poetic allusions to loves out of date.
On the walls of the Travellers’ Hut.
Their language is forceful, their manners superb,
Their modesty's really sublime;
There’s little their feelings will hurt or disturb,
But to “mister” a man is a crime.
They sleep on the floor, and they fidget and snore,
These talented students of Smut,
And at morn with Matilda they’re padding once more
From the door of the Travellers’ Hut.
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