| Where are the mates I used to have?
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| I wonder where they are?
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| Some still wander and some made good
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| And others traveled far.
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| Some have gathered their gear and gone
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| To a better land or worse;
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| Their load was heavy, the passing years
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| Is the weight that oldsters curse.
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| When we were young and the world was wide
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| And the longest day not hard,
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| We would joke our way from dawn to dark,
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| Through the mob in the branding yard.
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| One I remember when I was there,
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| Who helped me in early years,
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| When I was the butt of the stockrail jokes,
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| He taught me to take the jeers.
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| In life he didn’t amount to much,
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| He came from further out.
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| He was only a lanky coloured lad,
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| A station rouse about.
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| Oh, I’ve thanked him often in after life,
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| For the things he taught me then,
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| He guided my youth through the stockman’s life
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| In the hard, tough world of men.
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| Although he didn’t amount to much,
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| All that he had, he gave.
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| He was white enough and man enough
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| To rest in a soldier’s grave.
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| Forgotten by most of the ones he knew
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| And those of his tribal tree;
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| The world forgetting, the world forgot
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| Except by mates like me.
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| So long, old mate from early days
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| Wherever you may be.
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| May the grass be green and the water good,
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| From care may your days be free.
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| I’ve traveled a span of the road of life
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| And I’ve learned to understand,
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| Through mate-ship the way it was meant to be,
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| Has no colour, creed nor land.
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| Contributed: Marten Busstra 2009] |