Down The River

A poem by Henry Lawson

I’ve done with joys an’ misery,
An’ why should I repine?
There’s no one knows the past but me
An’ that ol’ dog o’ mine.
We camp an’ walk an’ camp an’ walk,
An’ find it fairly good;
He can do anything but talk,
An’ he wouldn’t if he could.

We sits an’ thinks beside the fire,
With all the stars a-shine,
An’ no one knows our thoughts but me
An’ that there dog o’ mine.
We has our Johnny-cake an’ “scrag,”
An’ finds ’em fairly good;
He can do anything but talk,
An’ he wouldn’t if he could.

He gets a ’possum now an’ then,
I cooks it on the fire;
He has his water, me my tea,
What more could we desire?
He gets a rabbit when he likes,
We finds it pretty good;
He can do anything but talk,
An’ he wouldn’t if he could.

I has me smoke, he has his rest,
When sunset’s gettin’ dim;
An’ if I do get drunk at times,
It’s all the same to him.
So long’s he’s got me swag to mind,
He thinks that times is good;
He can do anything but talk,
An’ he wouldn’t if he could.

He gets his tucker from the cook,
For cook is good to him,
An’ when I sobers up a bit,
He goes an’ has a swim.
He likes the rivers where I fish,
An’ all the world is good;
He can do anything but talk,
An’ he wouldn’t if he could.

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