Tramp, tramp, the grim road, the road from Mons to Wipers
(I've 'ammered out this ditty with me bruised and bleedin' feet);
Tramp, tramp, the dim road — we didn't 'ave no pipers,
And bellies that was 'oller was the drums we 'ad to beat.
Tramp, tramp, the bad road, the bits o' kiddies cryin' there,
The fell birds a-flyin' there, the 'ouses all aflame;
Tramp, tramp, the sad road, the pals I left a-lyin' there,
Red there, and dead there . . . Oh, blimy, it's a shame!

A-singin' " 'Oo's Yer Lady Friend? " we started out from 'Arver,

Christmas, in the Riverina,
Where it's either wet or dry;
And the good old concertina
Squawked its last in days gone by.
Where pianos, sounding nearer,
Make you wish that you were dead,
And a greenhand and a shearer
Tramped from Sam McCaughey's shed.

They had both been in the cities
And the Bushman dropped his mask:
" Are you married, mate — if it is
A fair thing to ask? "
" I was married — yes, I'm married! "
The other made reply,
As he eased the swag he carried.
Said the Bushman, " So was I. "

It was the Casual Lunatic
That sought the hawker's camp.
The air was chill, the fog was thick,
And all outside was damp.
Two horses and an old black mule
Were to a sapling tied;
The hawker stood beside a stool
And warmed the other side.

The hawker's van had dribbled out —
Like some unconscious friend —
The camp-ware and the grub about
At its domestic end.
(The sheep-dog never said a word
When — Looney — hove in view —
He was a dog who'd chase a bird,
So he was looney too.)

The hawker's kids, who freeze and bake

The Hut of the Phantom Dwelling , which Basho rewrote a number of times in 1690, is considered the first outstanding example of haibun literature. Earlier haibun tended to be extremely short and to function primarily as salutations.

And now
I know how quiet a thing
And calm
Is freedom …
It cannot raise its voice nor break
The rhythm of its breathing …

It is,—
Needing no song,
No trumpets …
It does not cry nor laugh
But is silent …

To give it voice
Silence should have to turn to song.
But what is song?
. . . . Silence broken.

We've said good-bye to a mate of mine
Who has gone where the best men go;
O things were slack in the building line,
And his days were dull and slow.
He sharpened his tools and he passed somehow;
He's knocking up bunks on the transport now,
Where soldiers are making a joyful row—
And he's gone for the Kaiser's Mo'!
He's gone for the Kaiser's Mo'!
He's gone for the Kaiser's Mo'!
He swore that he'd bring, for every pal,
A hair of the Kaiser's Mo'!

We took him and filled him with tanglefoot
In a Sydney bar we knew,

In your deserts who so to vertue fly ,
O noble Earle needs must you be on by ,
Hy vertue is, and as a Load-stone drawes,
Nobly that foule that's guided by her lawes.

Fly then on high, Fly after vertue still,
Loving the same you stand on honours hill,
Ensuing what great virtue, till on high ,
In endlesse honour we shall see you fly ,
More honour still will unto you increase,
In that you love so well a vertuous peace.
Nay, when as death unto you is in highing,
Greatly we then shall see you on high Flying .

Oh the wife she tried to tell me that 'twas nothing but the thrumming
Of a wood-pecker a-rapping on the hollow of a tree;
And she thought that I was fooling when I said it was the drumming
Of the mustering of legions, and 'twas calling unto me;
'Twas calling me to pull my freight and hop across the sea.

And a-mending of my fish-nets sure I started up in wonder,
For I heard a savage roaring and 'twas coming from afar;
Oh the wife she tried to tell me that 'twas only summer thunder,
And she laughed a bit sarcastic when I told her it was War;

It was a little English girl that talked about the War:
She said, " Mama! I never thought that brave men cried before;
But down at Harefield Hospital where Johnny went, and I,
That big Australian soldier there, he cried! — I saw him cry . "

It was a little English boy, who voted girls a bore:
He said, " Mama! I never thought that brave men ever swore;
But, down at Harefield Hospital, with Sis, and Uncle there,
That big Australian soldier's " mate", he swore — I heard him swear. "

April for me I choose!
In it the old things tumble,
In it things new refresh us;
It makes a mighty rumble, —
But peace is not so precious
As that his will man shows.

April for me I choose,
Because it storms and scourges,
Because it smiles and blesses,
Because its power purges,
Because it strength possesses, —
In it the summer grows.