Explore "The Heart of the Swag" by Henry Lawson on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
OH, the track through the scrub groweth ever more dreary, / And lower and lower his grey head doth bow; / For the swagman is old and the swagman is weary -- / He's been tramping for over a century now. / He tramps in a worn-out old "side spring" and "blucher," / His hat is a ruin, his coat is a rag, / And he carries forever, far into the future, / The key of his life in the core of his swag.
There are old-fashioned portraits of girls who are grannies, / There are tresses of dark hair whose owner's are grey; / There are faded old letters from Marys and Annies, / And Toms, Dicks, and Harrys, dead many a day. / There are broken-heart secrets and bitter-heart reasons -- / They are sewn in a canvas or calico bag, / And wrapped up in oilskin through dark rainy seasons, / And he carries them safe in the core of his swag.