"Got-a-Fag"
He was tall and tough and stringy, with the shoulders of an axe-man,
Broad and loose, with greenhide muscles; and a hand shaped to the reins;
He was slow of speech and prudent, something of a Nature student,
With the eye of one who gazes far across the saltbush plains.
Smith, by name; but long forgotten was his legal patronymic
In a land where every bushman wears some unbaptismal tag;
And through frequent repetition of a well-worn requisition,
"Smith" had long retired in favour of the title, "Got-a-Fag."
Not until the war was raging for a month, or maybe longer,
Did the tidings reach the station, blest with quite unfrequent mails;
And, though still a steady grafter, he grew restless ever after,
And he pondered long of evenings, seated on the stockyard rails.
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