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HEN I'm out among the fellows, with the work to hold my mind. Then there's heaps of joy in livin' an' the world seems awful kind— Awful kind an' awful jolly, with no trace of melancholy. An' I tell myself the bloke that don't enjoy it must be blind— When I'm out among the fellows; but, when I am sittin' here, Dreamin' by my lonely fireside, then the world gets kind of queer.

I suppose it's how you take it: what they call the point of view; An' a man don't look for dreamin' when there's work for him to do. But he can't be ever toilin', an' at times he gets to spoilin' All the joy the day has brought him — when he lets the black thoughts through. I suppose it's livin' lonely, as a fellow never should; For a lonely man gets broodin', an' the broodin' isn't good. It's never good, the sayin' is, for man to live alone. But 'tain't because I like it that I'm batchin' on my own. For a bloke must take what's goin', an' my life ain't all been growin'