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Mulga Twigs

Edward S. Sorenson

There ain’t no golden splendor loose
Around about my old caboose;
‘Tis sand an’ stones an’ mulga trees,
    With no one near;
No singin’ birds nor hummin’ bees,
Nor frivolous corroborees
    From year to year;
But miles an’ miles of Mitchell grass,
An’ saltbush clumps where stockmen pass
    From Elsinore;
But what, with neither lad nor lass,
    Do I want more?

My pipe an’ dog an’ saddle-horse,
A tranquil life to lead,
Enough to eat, an’ then, of course,
A book or two to read.

I’m on a middlin’ steady job,
A-moochin’ round the woolly mob,
An’ ridin’ over flat an’ hill,
    An’ rivulet,
To see each fence is standin’ still,
An’ tanks an’ dams, which seldom fill,
    Are holdin’ yet.
An’ when at times out on the plains,
I meet the gaunt grey camel trains,
    Or some old tramp,
I have a yarn; an’ when it rains
    I do a camp.

An’ little makes for happiness
In camp for man or dog,
If blazing therein you possess
A good old mulga log.

It’s up an’ out when night has gone,
An’ back to bunk when day is done,
An’ work an’ feed an’ smoke between,
    An’ such is life.
For five-an’-twenty years I’ve been
Located midst this grey an’ green,
    ‘Thout mate or wife.
The landscape’s mostly gray an’ sere,
An’ if the summer span’s austere,
    With dust an’ flies.
Say, what’s the cry of mortals here
    When summer dies?

Some mulga twigs to light the fire,
Which makes home warm an’ grand,
An’ satisfies your heart’s desire
O’ nights in Mulgaland.

E’er circulatin’ ‘mid the grim
Wide spaces of the outer rim,
A salamander I might be—
    As some remark—
As dry an’ sapless as the tree
That feeds the flock an’ comforts’me
    When days are dark;
But what about the roof of stars,
The balm that comes to frets an’ scars,
    When daylight’s flown?
The freedom here that knows no bars
    But Nature’s own?

God knows it ain’t all marmalade
In seasons hereabout,
But mulga boughs will make a shade,
| An’ shut the wild winds out.

Though tanned an’ toughened like the vine,
Twined where the sun knows how to shine,
Sometimes I’ve ills an’ mishaps ‘ere,
    Which I could spare;
But such don’t happen ev’ry year
In this God-given atmosphere
    With common care.
Where’er I go the waterbag
Is my inseparable swag,
    Till home again,
To circumvent the grinning hag
    That haunts the plain.

With water, grub, an’ commonsense,
Whatever times may be,
An’ mulga twigs for home defence,
That’s good enough for me.

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