嗯，我非常耐心地等着他们滚滚而来，劳森先生，戴森先生，还有他们的其他亲戚，带着他们关于大陆人营地的可怕的、悲惨的故事，他们的火总是冒烟，他们的靴子总是湿的;他们把它画得那么可怕，使人的灵魂充满了阴郁——但是你知道他们喜欢写“尸体”和“坟墓”。所以，在他们诅咒丛林之前，他们应该放开他们的幻想，吃点东西充充物，换一换心情。比如，劳森先生——嗯，当然，我们听到他那“小阿维”的悲惨遭遇时，几乎都哭了出来;听到“他父亲的大副”被杀时，我们也默默流泪;然后他杀了孩子的父亲，我们又哭了起来。还有本·达根和杰克·丹芙，他让他们死了，之后他煮了永不疲倦的杰克·邓恩的雄鹅;毫无疑问，如果你从一个悲伤而深情的诗人和他自己的墓地的呻吟声来判断，那灌木丛是可怜的。他预言了一场革命的热度，当世界听到街上人们的喧嚣;但是那些剪羊毛的家伙——为什么，他把责任推到他们身上，他称他们为“靠游戏为生的煽动者”。但我“重写”了布须曼人! Well, I own without a doubt That I always see the hero in the "man from furthest out". I could never contemplate him through an atmosphere of gloom, And a bushman never struck me as a subject for "the tomb". If it ain't all "golden sunshine" where the "wattle branches wave", Well, it ain't all damp and dismal, and it ain't all "lonely grave". And, of course, there's no denying that the bushman's life is rough, But a man can easy stand it if he's built of sterling stuff; Though it's seldom that the drover gets a bed of eiderdown, Yet the man who's born a bushman, he gets mighty sick of town, For he's jotting down the figures, and he's adding up the bills While his heart is simply aching for a sight of Southern hills. Then he hears a wool-team passing with a rumble and a lurch, And, although the work is pressing, yet it brings him off his perch, For it stirs him like a message from his station friends afar And he seems to sniff the ranges in the scent of wool and tar; And it takes him back in fancy, half in laughter, half in tears, to a sound of other voices and a thought of other years, When the woolshed rang with bustle from the dawning of the day, And the shear-blades were a-clicking to the cry of "Wool away!" Then his face was somewhat browner, and his frame was firmer set -- And he feels his flabby muscles with a feeling of regret. But the wool-team slowly passes, and his eyes go slowly back To the dusty little table and the papers in the rack, And his thoughts go to the terrace where his sickly children squall, And he thinks there's something healthy in the bush-life after all. But we'll go no more a-droving in the wind or in the sun, For out fathers' hearts have failed us, and the droving days are done. There's a nasty dash of danger where the long-horned bullock wheels, And we like to live in comfort and to get our reg'lar meals. For to hang around the township suits us better, you'll agree, And a job at washing bottles is the job for such as we. Let us herd into the cities, let us crush and crowd and push Till we lose the love of roving, and we learn to hate the bush; And we'll turn our aspirations to a city life and beer, And we'll slip across to England -- it's a nicer place than here; For there's not much risk of hardship where all comforts are in store, And the theatres are in plenty, and the pubs are more and more. But that ends it, Mr Lawson, and it's time to say good-bye, So we must agree to differ in all friendship, you and I. Yes, we'll work our own salvation with the stoutest hearts we may, And if fortune only favours we will take the road some day, And go droving down the river 'neath the sunshine and the stars, And then return to Sydney and vermilionize the bars.