Wangled By The Wayside

'Country blokes is kind,' he said, And sat upon his swag (I had no pipe tobacco, So he said he'd 'risk a fag.') 'A country bloke's my sort o' bloke, As I've had cause to find. Them city coves is cold as mud: But country blokes is kind. 'Now, f'rinstance, just you take yerself. I meets you on the road, A stranger, fur as I'm concerned A cove I've never knowed. An' when I sprags you for a smoke, I'll bet you didn't mind. You done your best; tho' fags is muck. Country blokes is kind. 'Country hearts is rightly placed A every battler knows. If I'd have asked you for a feed, Or p'raps some carst-off clo'es, I'll wager you'd have searched your house For all that you could find In shape of tucker or of duds, Yes; country blokes is kind. 'But city coves! - I ain't been there For years - nigh on fifteen. But lately I meandered down Just for a change of scene But rekernise a human bean? They ain't that way inclined, That crowd of stone-eyed strangers there. Not like the conutry kind. 'To ask a bob for food or drink In cities is a sin, An' they goes an' calls a copper, An' the copper turns you in. But, if you pitch a likely tale, Most like you don't git fined. So I hoofs it back to country scenes Where blokes is nice and kind. 'So here I am, back in the bush, Still battlin' an' dead-broke. An' the minnit I seen you I sez, 'Now, there's a country bloke,' I sez. 'He's got that sort of face.' I'm broke, but I'm not blind. Stone-broke ... Well, I best push along ... Thanks. Country blokes is kind.'