The Northern Mail is moving fast
With seven hundred souls;
Though many vow this ride’s their last,
The fireman shovels coal.
Who knows the drama buried here
Within this lurching throng?
Who knows what tales of love and fear—
Who knows who’s right—or wrong?
There’s cutters, shearers, spielers, thugs,
Commercials with cigars
With town-men, bushmen, bad men, mugs,
They jostle through the cars.