I'm lyin' on the barren ground that's baked and cracked with drought, And dunno if my legs or back or heart is most wore out; I've got no spirits left to rise and smooth me achin' brow -- I'm too knocked up to light a fire and bile the billy now.
Oh it's trampin', trampin', tra-a-mpin', in flies an' dust an' heat, Or it's trampin' trampin' tra-a-a-mpin' through mud and slush 'n sleet; It's tramp an' tramp for tucker -- one everlastin' strife, An' wearin' out yer boots an' heart in the wastin' of yer life.
They whine o' lost an' wasted lives in idleness and crime -- I've wasted mine for twenty years, and grafted all the time And never drunk the stuff I earned, nor gambled when I shore -- But somehow when yer on the track yer life seems wasted more.
A long dry stretch of thirty miles I've tramped this broilin' day, All for the off-chance of a job a hundred miles away; There's twenty hungry beggars wild for any job this year, An' fifty might be at the shed while I am lyin' here.
The sinews in my legs seem drawn, red-hot -- 'n that's the truth; I seem to weigh a ton, and ache like one tremendous tooth; I'm stung between my shoulder-blades -- my blessed back seems broke; I'm too knocked out to eat a bite -- I'm too knocked up to smoke.
The blessed rain is comin' too -- there's oceans in the sky, An' I suppose I must get up and rig the blessed fly; The heat is bad, the water's bad, the flies a crimson curse, The grub is bad, mosquitoes damned -- but rheumatism's worse.
I wonder why poor blokes like me will stick so fast ter breath, Though Shakespeare says it is the fear of somethin' after death; But though Eternity be cursed with God's almighty curse -- What ever that same somethin' is I swear it can't be worse.
For it's trampin', trampin', tra-a-mpin' thro' hell across the plain, And it's trampin' trampin' tra-a-mpin' thro' slush 'n mud 'n rain -- A livin' worse than any dog -- without a home 'n wife, A-wearin' out yer heart 'n soul in the wastin' of yer life.