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If you have seen the western side,
Or ridden to and fro
Across the sheep runs lone and wide,
I reckon you will know
The men of note, who shear or ride,
Or lead where drovers go.
You’ll know them not by proper names—
Which p’rhaps you’ll never hear,
Except when Jones and Smith and James
In black and white appear—
Though you may join them in their games,
And side by side may shear.
You speak of them as “Wingy Dick,”
And “Wonnaminta Joe”;
As “Bogan Dan” and “Crooked Mick.”
“Long Bob” and “Warrego”;
Which names are known Outback, and stick
A thousand miles or so.
A reference to “Gunningbland,”
“The Splinter,” or “The Ped”;
To “Thackaringa Billy” and
To “Brumby” or “Big Ned,”
Is plain for all to understand
In any camp or shed.
I cannot tell their history,
But scores there are who can;
I do not know their pedigree.
Nor where their days began;
But what’s the odds if their decree
Is “white” to every man?
And whether it be “Greenhide Jack,”
Or “Sam of Mumblebone,”
The nickname ‘long the western track
Will ever stand alone—
Immortal ‘mong the sons Outback
As though engraved in stone.
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