BARE HANDS

He who lives by the mark of an axe and the sound of a falling tree,
Or the squeal as the ironbark slowly splits, into fence posts yet to be,
And he who digs through the gibber stones or the clay that chokes the spade,
Or driving a line through deserted wastes knows how this land was made.

He who rides on a spirited horse enjoys when their will explores,
He'll ride in a frenzy on an open course but mourn till the mare wants more,
And he who toys with the savage dog is bitten I do expect,
But plays none-the-less till the wild beast falls and submits to the man's respect.

And these are the things which they said were gone,
Said belonged to the pioneers,
But this I say, that "they" are wrong, such trials still meet us here.
For this is the test of the spirit in man and the strength of his offspring true,
And such is the challenge of life and land,
Bare hands to pull us through.

He who has driven through virgin scrub in a bomb that barely fires,
Knows what it's like by the seat of his pants when the odds are mounting higher,
And he who takes on a mighty storm in a dingy half built for three,
Knows what it's like to feel the sting of a psychopathic sea.

He who faces a bush-fire's rage with potato sack alone,
Though the front is more than ten mile long, stands brave before his home,
For these are the things that test the glue when the hour of testing comes,
So I'll put my money on the honest few, from the land of the Southern Sons.

For out of the harsh rub of this land, a rugged music starts,
Whose beats are the ring of a swinging axe,
Whose notes are a thumping heart,
And the song they sing is a splendid scorn, of things that were and are,
To such is the Aussie Battler born like an isolated star.

And these are the things they said were gone and belonged to the pioneers,
But I'll say this, with the self-same scorn, these trials still call us here.
For this is the test of the spirit in man and the strength of his offspring true,
And such is the challenge of life and land, bare hands to pull us through.