<h2> The Teams </h2>
<p>A cloud of dust on the long white road,<br/>
And the teams go creeping on<br/>
Inch by inch with the weary load;<br/>
And by the power of the green-hide goad<br/>
The distant goal is won.<br/>
<br/>
With eyes half-shut to the blinding dust,<br/>
And necks to the yokes bent low,<br/>
The beasts are pulling as bullocks must;<br/>
And the shining tires might almost rust<br/>
While the spokes are turning slow.<br/>
<br/>
With face half-hid 'neath a broad-brimmed hat<br/>
That shades from the heat's white waves,<br/>
And shouldered whip with its green-hide plait,<br/>
The driver plods with a gait like that<br/>
Of his weary, patient slaves.<br/>
<br/>
He wipes his brow, for the day is hot,<br/>
And spits to the left with spite;<br/>
He shouts at 'Bally', and flicks at 'Scot',<br/>
And raises dust from the back of 'Spot',<br/>
And spits to the dusty right.<br/>
<br/>
He'll sometimes pause as a thing of form<br/>
In front of a settler's door,<br/>
And ask for a drink, and remark 'It's warm,<br/>
Or say 'There's signs of a thunder-storm';<br/>
But he seldom utters more.<br/>
<br/>
But the rains are heavy on roads like these;<br/>
And, fronting his lonely home,<br/>
For weeks together the settler sees<br/>
The teams bogged down to the axletrees,<br/>
Or ploughing the sodden loam.<br/>
<br/>
And then when the roads are at their worst,<br/>
The bushman's children hear<br/>
The cruel blows of the whips reversed<br/>
While bullocks pull as their hearts would burst,<br/>
And bellow with pain and fear.<br/>
<br/>
And thus with little of joy or rest<br/>
Are the long, long journeys done;<br/>
And thus — 'tis a cruel war at the best —<br/>
Is distance fought in the mighty West,<br/>
And the lonely battles won.<br/></p>
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