Prelude (Paterson)

I have gathered these stories afar In the wind and the rain, In the land where the cattle-camps are, On the edge of the Plain. On the overland routes of the west, When the watches were long, I have fashioned in earnest and jest These fragments of song.

They are just the rude stories one hears In sadness and mirth, The records of wandering years -- And scant is their worth. Though their merits indeed are but slight, I shall not repine If they give you one moment's delight, Old comrades of mine.