Alexander Bathgate.



The Clematis

Fair crown of stars of purest ray, Hung aloft on Mapau tree, What floral beauties ye display, Stars of snowy purity; Around the dark-leaved mapau's head Unsullied garlands ye have spread.

Concealed were all thy beauties rare 'Neath the dark umbrageous shade, But still to gain the loftiest spray, Thy weak stem its efforts made; Now, every obstacle o'ercome, Thou smilest from thy leafy home.

That home secure, 'mid sombre leaves Yielded by thy stalwart spouse, Helps thee to show thy fairy crown, Decorates his dusky boughs: His strength, thy beauty, both unite And form a picture to delight.

Fair flower, methinks thou dost afford Emblem of a perfect wife, Whose work is hidden from the world, Till, perchance, her husband's life Is by her influence beautified, And this by others is descried.



Philip Joseph Holdsworth.



Quis Separabit?

All my life's short years had been stern and sterile — I stood like one whom the blasts blow back — As with shipmen whirled through the straits of Peril, So fierce foes menaced my every track.

But I steeled my soul to a strong endeavour, I bared my brow as the sharp strokes fell, And I said to my heart — "Hope on! Hope ever: Have Courage — Courage, and all is well."

Then, bright as the blood in my heart's rich chalice, O Blossom, Blossom! — you came from far; And life rang joy, till the World's loud malice Shrilled to the edge of our utmost star.

And I said: "On me let the rough storms hurtle, The great clouds gather and shroud my sun — But you shall be Queen where the rose and myrtle Laugh with the year till the year is done."

So my Dream fell dead; and the fluctuant passion — The stress and strain of the past re-grew, The world laughed on in its heedless fashion, But Earth whirled worthless, because of you!

In that Lake of Tears which my grief discovered, I laid dead Love with a passionate kiss, And over those soundless depths has hovered The sweet, sad wraith of my vanished bliss.

Heart clings to Heart — let the strange years sever The fates of two who had met — to part; Love's strength survives, and the harsh world never Shall crush the passion of heart for heart;

For I know my life, though it droop and dwindle, Shall leave me Love till I fade and die, And when hereafter our Souls re-kindle, Who shall be fonder — You or I?



My Queen of Dreams

In the warm flushed heart of the rose-red west, When the great sun quivered and died to-day, You pulsed, O star, by yon pine-clad crest — And throbbed till the bright eve ashened grey — Then I saw you swim By the shadowy rim Where the grey gum dips to the western plain, And you rayed delight As you winged your flight To the mystic spheres where your kinsmen reign.

O star, did you see her? My queen of dreams! Was it you that glimmered the night we strayed A month ago by these scented streams? Half-checked by the litter the musk-buds made? Did you sleep or wake? Ah, for Love's sweet sake (Though the world should fail and the soft stars wane!) I shall dream delight Till our souls take flight To the mystic spheres where your kinsmen reign!



Mary Hannay Foott.



Where the Pelican Builds

The horses were ready, the rails were down, But the riders lingered still — One had a parting word to say, And one had his pipe to fill. Then they mounted, one with a granted prayer, And one with a grief unguessed. "We are going," they said, as they rode away — "Where the pelican builds her nest!"

They had told us of pastures wide and green, To be sought past the sunset's glow; Of rifts in the ranges by opal lit; And gold 'neath the river's flow. And thirst and hunger were banished words When they spoke of that unknown West; No drought they dreaded, no flood they feared, Where the pelican builds her nest!

The creek at the ford was but fetlock deep When we watched them crossing there; The rains have replenished it thrice since then, And thrice has the rock lain bare. But the waters of Hope have flowed and fled, And never from blue hill's breast Come back — by the sun and the sands devoured — Where the pelican builds her nest.



New Country

Conde had come with us all the way — Eight hundred miles — but the fortnight's rest Made him fresh as a youngster, the sturdy bay! And Lurline was looking her very best.

Weary and footsore, the cattle strayed 'Mid the silvery saltbush well content; Where the creeks lay cool 'neath the gidya's shade The stock-horses clustered, travel-spent.

In the bright spring morning we left them all — Camp, and cattle, and white, and black — And rode for the Range's westward fall, Where the dingo's trail was the only track.

Slow through the clay-pans, wet to the knee, With the cane-grass rustling overhead; Swift o'er the plains with never a tree; Up the cliffs by a torrent's bed.

Bridle on arm for a mile or more We toiled, ere we reached Bindanna's verge And saw — as one sees a far-off shore — The blue hills bounding the forest surge.

An ocean of trees, by the west wind stirred, Rolled, ever rolled, to the great cliff's base; And its sound like the noise of waves was heard 'Mid the rocks and the caves of that lonely place.

. . . . .

We recked not of wealth in stream or soil As we heard on the heights the breezes sing; We felt no longer our travel-toil; We feared no more what the years might bring.



No Message

She heard the story of the end, Each message, too, she heard; And there was one for every friend; For her alone — no word.

And shall she bear a heavier heart, And deem his love was fled; Because his soul from earth could part Leaving her name unsaid?

No — No! — Though neither sign nor sound A parting thought expressed — Not heedless passed the Homeward-Bound Of her he loved the best.

Of voyage-perils, bravely borne, He would not tell the tale; Of shattered planks and canvas torn, And war with wind and gale.

He waited till the light-house star Should rise against the sky; And from the mainland, looming far, The forest scents blow by.

He hoped to tell — assurance sweet! — That pain and grief were o'er — What blessings haste the soul to meet, Ere yet within the door.

Then one farewell he thought to speak When all the rest were past — As in the parting-hour we seek The dearest hand the last.

And while for this delaying but To see Heaven's opening Gate — Lo, it received him — and was shut — Ere he could say "I wait."



Happy Days

A fringe of rushes — one green line Upon a faded plain; A silver streak of water-shine — Above, tree-watchers twain. It was our resting-place awhile, And still, with backward gaze, We say: "'Tis many a weary mile — But there were happy days."

And shall no ripple break the sand Upon our farther way? Or reedy ranks all knee-deep stand? Or leafy tree-tops sway? The gold of dawn is surely met In sunset's lavish blaze; And — in horizons hidden yet — There shall be happy days.



Henry Lea Twisleton.



To a Cabbage Rose

Thy clustering leaves are steeped in splendour; No evening red, no morning dun, Can show a hue as rich and tender As thine — bright lover of the sun!

What wondrous hints of hidden glory, Of strains no human lips can sing; What symbols rare of life's strange story, Dost thou from earth's dark bosom bring!

What elements have made thy sweetness, Thy glowing hue, thy emerald stem? What hand has fashioned to completeness From tiny germ, thy diadem?

Thou art the fair earth's fond expression Of tenderness for heaven above — The virgin blush that yields confession — Thou bright "ambassador of love"!

Fair are thy leaves when summer glowing Lies in the lap of swooning spring; But where art thou when autumn, blowing, Bids youth and tenderness take wing?

Sweet messenger! thou waftest beauty Wherever human lives are sown, Around the peasant's humble duty Or weary grandeurs of a throne.

Transfused through hearts in future ages, Thy glowing power anew may shine Effulgent in the poets' pages Or music's harmony divine.

But not to thee from future glory Can shine one added charm or day; Sweet is thy life's unwritten story Of radiant bloom and swift decay.

Give, then, to vagrant winds thy sweetness, Shine, tearful, in the summer shower; And, heedless of thy season's fleetness, Enrich with joy the passing hour.



Mrs. James Glenny Wilson.



Fairyland

Do you remember that careless band, Riding o'er meadow and wet sea-sand, One autumn day, in a mist of sunshine, Joyously seeking for fairyland?

The wind in the tree-tops was scarcely heard, The streamlet repeated its one silver word, And far away, o'er the depths of wood-land, Floated the bell of the parson-bird.

Pale hoar-frost glittered in shady slips, Where ferns were dipping their finger-tips, From mossy branches a faint perfume Breathed o'er honeyed Clematis lips.

At last we climbed to the ridge on high Ah, crystal vision! Dreamland nigh! Far, far below us, the wide Pacific Slumbered in azure from sky to sky.

And cloud and shadow, across the deep Wavered, or paused in enchanted sleep, And eastward, the purple-misted islets Fretted the wave with terrace and steep.

We looked on the tranquil, glassy bay, On headlands sheeted in dazzling spray, And the whitening ribs of a wreck forlorn That for twenty years had wasted away.

All was so calm, and pure and fair, It seemed the hour of worship there, Silent, as where the great North-Minster Rises for ever, a visible prayer.

Then we turned from the murmurous forest-land, And rode over shingle and silver sand, For so fair was the earth in the golden autumn, That we sought no farther for Fairyland.



A Winter Daybreak

From the dark gorge, where burns the morning star, I hear the glacier river rattling on And sweeping o'er his ice-ploughed shingle-bar, While wood owls shout in sombre unison, And fluttering southern dancers glide and go; And black swan's airy trumpets wildly, sweetly blow.

The cock crows in the windy winter morn, Then must I rise and fling the curtain by. All dark! But for a strip of fiery sky Behind the ragged mountains, peaked and torn. One planet glitters in the icy cold, Poised like a hawk above the frozen peaks, And now again the wild nor'-wester speaks, And bends the cypress, shuddering, to his fold, While every timber, every casement creaks. But still the skylarks sing aloud and bold; The wooded hills arise; the white cascade Shakes with wild laughter all the silent shadowy glade.

Now from the shuttered east a silvery bar Shines through the mist, and shows the mild daystar. The storm-wrapped peaks start out and fade again, And rosy vapours skirt the pastoral plain; The garden paths with hoary rime are wet; And sweetly breathes the winter violet; The jonquil half unfolds her ivory cup, With clouds of gold-eyed daisies waking up.

Pleasant it is to turn and see the fire Dance on the hearth, as he would never tire; The home-baked loaf, the Indian bean's perfume, Fill with their homely cheer the panelled room. Come, crazy storm! And thou, wild glittering hail, Rave o'er the roof and wave your icy veil; Shout in our ears and take your madcap way! I laugh at storms! for Roderick comes to-day.



The Lark's Song

The morning is wild and dark, The night mist runs on the vale, Bright Lucifer dies to a spark, And the wind whistles up for a gale. And stormy the day may be That breaks through its prison bars, But it brings no regret to me, For I sing at the door of the stars!

Along the dim ocean-verge I see the ships labouring on; They rise on the lifting surge One moment, and they are gone. I see on the twilight plain The flash of the flying cars; Men travail in joy or pain — But I sing at the door of the stars!

I see the green, sleeping world, The pastures all glazed with rime; The smoke from the chimney curled; I hear the faint church bells chime. I see the grey mountain crest, The slopes, and the forest spars, With the dying moon on their breast — While I sing at the door of the stars!



Edward Booth Loughran.



Dead Leaves

When these dead leaves were green, love, November's skies were blue, And summer came with lips aflame, The gentle spring to woo; And to us, wandering hand in hand, Life was a fairy scene, That golden morning in the woods When these dead leaves were green!

How dream-like now that dewy morn, Sweet with the wattle's flowers, When love, love, love was all our theme, And youth and hope were ours! Two happier hearts in all the land There were not then, I ween, Than those young lovers' — yours and mine — When these dead leaves were green.

How gaily did you pluck these leaves From the acacia's bough, To mark the lyric we had read — I can repeat it now! While came the words, like music sweet, Your smiling lips between — "So fold my love within your heart," When these dead leaves were green!

How many springs have passed since then? Ah, wherefore should we count, The years that sped, like waters fled From Time's unstaying fount? We've had our share of happiness, Our share of care have seen; But love alone has never flown Since these dead leaves were green.

Your heart is kind and loving still, Your face to me as fair, As when, that morn, the sunshine played Amid your golden hair. So, dearest, sweethearts still we'll be, As we have ever been, And keep our love as fresh and true As when these leaves were green.



Isolation

Man lives alone; star-like, each soul In its own orbit circles ever; Myriads may by or round it roll — The ways may meet, but mingle never.

Self-pois'd, each soul its course pursues In light or dark, companionless: Drop into drop may blend the dews — The spirit's law is loneliness.

If seemingly two souls unite, 'Tis but as joins yon silent mere The stream that through it, flashing bright, Carries its waters swift and clear.

The fringes of the rushing tide May on the lake's calm bosom sleep — Its hidden spirit doth abide Apart, still bearing toward the deep.

O Love, to me more dear than life! O Friend, more faithful than a brother! How many a bitter inward strife Our souls have never told each other!

We journey side by side for years, We dream our lives, our hopes are one — And with some chance-said word appears The spanless gulf, so long unknown!

For candour's want yet neither blame; Even to ourselves but half-confessed, Glows in each heart some silent flame, Blooms some hope-violet of the breast.

And temptings dark, and struggles deep There are, each soul alone must bear, Through midnight hours unblest with sleep, Through burning noontides of despair.

And kindly is the ordinance sent By which each spirit dwells apart — Could Love or Friendship live, if rent The "Bluebeard chambers of the heart"?



Ishmonie

The traveller tells how, in that ancient clime Whose mystic monuments and ruins hoar Still struggle with the antiquary's lore, To guard the secrets of a by-gone time, He saw, uprising from the desert bare, Like a white ghost, a city of the dead, With palaces and temples wondrous fair, Where moon-horn'd Isis once was worshipped. But silence, like a pall, did all enfold, And the inhabitants were turn'd to stone — Yea, stone the very heart of every one! Once to a rich man I this tale re-told. "Stone hearts! A traveller's myth!" — he turn'd aside, As Hunger begg'd, pale-featured and wild-eyed.



John Liddell Kelly.



Immortality

At twenty-five I cast my horoscope, And saw a future with all good things rife — A firm assurance of eternal life In worlds beyond, and in this world the hope Of deathless fame. But now my sun doth slope To setting, and the toil of sordid strife, The care of food and raiment, child and wife, Have dimmed and narrowed all my spirit's scope.

Eternal life — a river gulphed in sands! Undying fame — a rainbow lost in clouds! What hope of immortality remains But this: "Some soul that loves and understands Shall save thee from the darkness that enshrouds"; And this: "Thy blood shall course in others' veins"?



Heredity

More than a fleshly immortality Is mine. Though I myself return again To dust, my qualities of heart and brain, Of soul and spirit, shall not cease to be. I view them growing, day by day, in thee, My first-begotten son; I trace them plain In you, my daughters; and I count it gain Myself renewed and multiplied to see.

But sadness mingles with my selfish joy, At thought of what you may be called to bear. Oh, passionate maid! Oh, glad, impulsive boy! Your father's sad experience you must share — Self-torture, the unfeeling world's annoy, Gross pleasure, fierce exultance, grim despair!



Robert Richardson.



A Ballade of Wattle Blossom

There's a land that is happy and fair, Set gem-like in halcyon seas; The white winters visit not there, To sadden its blossoming leas, More bland than the Hesperides, Or any warm isle of the West, Where the wattle-bloom perfumes the breeze, And the bell-bird builds her nest.

When the oak and the elm are bare, And wild winds vex the shuddering trees; There the clematis whitens the air, And the husbandman laughs as he sees The grass rippling green to his knees, And his vineyards in emerald drest — Where the wattle-bloom bends in the breeze, And the bell-bird builds her nest.

What land is with this to compare? Not the green hills of Hybla, with bees Honey-sweet, are more radiant and rare In colour and fragrance than these Boon shores, where the storm-clouds cease, And the wind and the wave are at rest — Where the wattle-bloom waves in the breeze, And the bell-bird builds her nest.

Envoy.

Sweetheart, let them praise as they please Other lands, but we know which is best — Where the wattle-bloom perfumes the breeze, And the bell-bird builds her nest.



A Song

Above us only The Southern stars, And the moon o'er brimming Her golden bars. And a song sweet and clear As the bell-bird's plaint, Hums low in my ear Like a dream-echo faint. The kind old song — How did it go? With its ripple and flow, That you used to sing, dear, Long ago.

Hand fast in hand, I, love, and thou; Hand locked in hand, And on my brow Your perfumed lips Breathing love and life — The love of the maiden, The trust of the wife. And I'm listening still To the ripple and flow — How did it go? — Of the little French song Of that long ago.

Can you recall it Across the years? You used to sing it With laughter and tears. If you sang it now, dear, That kind old refrain, It would bring back the fragrance Of the dead years again. Le printemps pour l'amour — How did it go? Only we know; Sing it, sweetheart, to-night, As you did long ago.



James Lister Cuthbertson.



Australia Federata

Australia! land of lonely lake And serpent-haunted fen; Land of the torrent and the fire And forest-sundered men: Thou art not now as thou shalt be When the stern invaders come, In the hush before the hurricane, The dread before the drum.

A louder thunder shall be heard Than echoes on thy shore, When o'er the blackened basalt cliffs The foreign cannon roar — When the stand is made in the sheoaks' shade When heroes fall for thee, And the creeks in gloomy gullies run Dark crimson to the sea:

When under honeysuckles gray, And wattles' swaying gold, The stalwart arm may strike no more, The valiant heart is cold — When thou shalt know the agony, The fever, and the strife Of those who wrestle against odds For liberty and life:

Then is the great Dominion born, The seven sisters bound, From Sydney's greenly wooded port To lone King George's Sound — Then shall the islands of the south, The lands of bloom and snow, Forth from their isolation come To meet the common foe.

Then, only then — when after war Is peace with honour born, When from the bosom of the night Comes golden-sandalled morn, When laurelled victory is thine, And the day of battle done, Shall the heart of a mighty people stir, And Australia be as one.



At Cape Schanck

Down to the lighthouse pillar The rolling woodland comes, Gay with the gold of she-oaks And the green of the stunted gums, With the silver-grey of honeysuckle, With the wasted bracken red, With a tuft of softest emerald And a cloud-flecked sky o'erhead.

We climbed by ridge and boulder, Umber and yellow scarred, Out to the utmost precipice, To the point that was ocean-barred, Till we looked below on the fastness Of the breeding eagle's nest, And Cape Wollomai opened eastward And the Otway on the west.

Over the mirror of azure The purple shadows crept, League upon league of rollers Landward evermore swept, And burst upon gleaming basalt, And foamed in cranny and crack, And mounted in sheets of silver, And hurried reluctant back.

And the sea, so calm out yonder, Wherever we turned our eyes, Like the blast of an angel's trumpet Rang out to the earth and skies, Till the reefs and the rocky ramparts Throbbed to the giant fray, And the gullies and jutting headlands Were bathed in a misty spray.

Oh, sweet in the distant ranges, To the ear of inland men, Is the ripple of falling water In sassafras-haunted glen, The stir in the ripening cornfield That gently rustles and swells, The wind in the wattle sighing, The tinkle of cattle bells.

But best is the voice of ocean, That strikes to the heart and brain, That lulls with its passionate music Trouble and grief and pain, That murmurs the requiem sweetest For those who have loved and lost, And thunders a jubilant anthem To brave hearts tempest-tossed.

That takes to its boundless bosom The burden of all our care, That whispers of sorrow vanquished, Of hours that may yet be fair, That tells of a Harbour of Refuge Beyond life's stormy straits, Of an infinite peace that gladdens, Of an infinite love that waits.



Wattle and Myrtle

Gold of the tangled wilderness of wattle, Break in the lone green hollows of the hills, Flame on the iron headlands of the ocean, Gleam on the margin of the hurrying rills.

Come with thy saffron diadem and scatter Odours of Araby that haunt the air, Queen of our woodland, rival of the roses, Spring in the yellow tresses of thy hair.

Surely the old gods, dwellers on Olympus, Under thy shining loveliness have strayed, Crowned with thy clusters, magical Apollo, Pan with his reedy music may have played.

Surely within thy fastness, Aphrodite, She of the sea-ways, fallen from above, Wandered beneath thy canopy of blossom, Nothing disdainful of a mortal's love.

Aye, and Her sweet breath lingers on the wattle, Aye, and Her myrtle dominates the glade, And with a deep and perilous enchantment Melts in the heart of lover and of maid.



The Australian Sunrise

The Morning Star paled slowly, the Cross hung low to the sea, And down the shadowy reaches the tide came swirling free, The lustrous purple blackness of the soft Australian night, Waned in the gray awakening that heralded the light; Still in the dying darkness, still in the forest dim The pearly dew of the dawning clung to each giant limb, Till the sun came up from ocean, red with the cold sea mist, And smote on the limestone ridges, and the shining tree-tops kissed; Then the fiery Scorpion vanished, the magpie's note was heard, And the wind in the she-oak wavered, and the honeysuckles stirred, The airy golden vapour rose from the river breast, The kingfisher came darting out of his crannied nest, And the bulrushes and reed-beds put off their sallow gray And burnt with cloudy crimson at dawning of the day.



John Farrell.



Australia to England

June 22nd, 1897

What of the years of Englishmen? What have they brought of growth and grace Since mud-built London by its fen Became the Briton's breeding-place? What of the Village, where our blood Was brewed by sires, half man, half brute, In vessels of wild womanhood, From blood of Saxon, Celt and Jute?

What are its gifts, this Harvest Home Of English tilth and English cost, Where fell the hamlet won by Rome And rose the city that she lost? O! terrible and grand and strange Beyond all phantasy that gleams When Hope, asleep, sees radiant Change Come to her through the halls of dreams!

A heaving sea of life, that beats Like England's heart of pride to-day, And up from roaring miles of streets Flings on the roofs its human spray; And fluttering miles of flags aflow, And cannon's voice, and boom of bell, And seas of fire to-night, as though A hundred cities flamed and fell;

While, under many a fair festoon And flowering crescent, set ablaze With all the dyes that English June Can lend to deck a day of days, And past where mart and palace rise, And shrine and temple lift their spears, Below five million misted eyes Goes a grey Queen of Sixty Years —

Go lords, and servants of the lords Of earth, with homage on their lips, And kinsmen carrying English swords, And offering England battle-ships; And tribute-payers, on whose hands Their English fetters scarce appear; And gathered round from utmost lands Ambassadors of Love and Fear!

Dim signs of greeting waved afar, Far trumpets blown and flags unfurled, And England's name an Avatar Of light and sound throughout the world — Hailed Empress among nations, Queen Enthroned in solemn majesty, On splendid proofs of what has been, And presages of what will be!

For this your sons, foreseeing not Or heeding not, the aftermath, Because their strenuous hearts were hot Went first on many a cruel path, And, trusting first and last to blows, Fed death with such as would gainsay Their instant passing, or oppose With talk of Right strength's right of way!

For this their names are on the stone Of mountain spires, and carven trees That stand in flickering wastes unknown Wait with their dying messages; When fire blasts dance with desert drifts The English bones show white below, And, not so white, when summer lifts The counterpane of Yukon's snow.

Condemned by blood to reach for grapes That hang in sight, however high, Beyond the smoke of Asian capes, The nameless, dauntless, dead ones lie; And where Sierran morning shines On summits rolling out like waves, By many a brow of royal pines The noisiest find quiet graves.

By lust of flesh and lust of gold, And depth of loins and hairy breadth Of breast, and hands to take and hold, And boastful scorn of pain and death, And something more of manliness Than tamer men, and growing shame Of shameful things, and something less Of final faith in sword and flame —

By many a battle fought for wrong, And many a battle fought for right, So have you grown august and strong, Magnificent in all men's sight — A voice for which the kings have ears, A face the craftiest statesmen scan; A mind to mould the after years, And mint the destinies of man!

Red sins were yours: the avid greed Of pirate fathers, smocked as Grace, Sent Judas missioners to read Christ's Word to many a feebler race — False priests of Truth who made their tryst At Mammon's shrine, and reft or slew — Some hands you taught to pray to Christ Have prayed His curse to rest on you!

Your way has been to pluck the blade Too readily, and train the guns. We here, apart and unafraid Of envious foes, are but your sons: We stretched a heedless hand to smutch Our spotless flag with Murder's blight — For one less sacrilegious touch God's vengeance blasted Uzza white!

You vaunted most of forts and fleets, And courage proved in battle-feasts, The courage of the beast that eats His torn and quivering fellow-beasts; Your pride of deadliest armament — What is it but the self-same dint Of joy with which the Caveman bent To shape a bloodier axe of flint?

But praise to you, and more than praise And thankfulness, for some things done; And blessedness, and length of days As long as earth shall last, or sun! You first among the peoples spoke Sharp words and angry questionings Which burst the bonds and shed the yoke That made your men the slaves of Kings!

You set and showed the whole world's school The lesson it will surely read, That each one ruled has right to rule — The alphabet of Freedom's creed Which slowly wins it proselytes And makes uneasier many a throne; You taught them all to prate of Rights In language growing like your own!

And now your holiest and best And wisest dream of such a tie As, holding hearts from East to West, Shall strengthen while the years go by: And of a time when every man For every fellow-man will do His kindliest, working by the plan God set him. May the dream come true!

And greater dreams! O Englishmen, Be sure the safest time of all For even the mightiest State is when Not even the least desires its fall! Make England stand supreme for aye, Because supreme for peace and good, Warned well by wrecks of yesterday That strongest feet may slip in blood!



Arthur Patchett Martin.



Bushland

Not sweeter to the storm-tossed mariner Is glimpse of home, where wife and children wait To welcome him with kisses at the gate, Than to the town-worn man the breezy stir Of mountain winds on rugged pathless heights: His long-pent soul drinks in the deep delights That Nature hath in store. The sun-kissed bay Gleams thro' the grand old gnarled gum-tree boughs Like burnished brass; the strong-winged bird of prey Sweeps by, upon his lonely vengeful way — While over all, like breath of holy vows, The sweet airs blow, and the high-vaulted sky Looks down in pity this fair Summer day On all poor earth-born creatures doomed to die.



Douglas Brooke Wheelton Sladen.



Under the Wattle

"Why should not wattle do For mistletoe?" Asked one — they were but two — Where wattles grow.

He was her lover, too, Who urged her so — "Why should not wattle do For mistletoe?"

A rose-cheek rosier grew; Rose-lips breathed low; "Since it is here, and YOU, I hardly know Why wattle should not do."



Victor James Daley.



Players

And after all — and after all, Our passionate prayers, and sighs, and tears, Is life a reckless carnival? And are they lost, our golden years?

Ah, no; ah, no; for, long ago, Ere time could sear, or care could fret, There was a youth called Romeo, There was a maid named Juliet.

The players of the past are gone; The races rise; the races pass; And softly over all is drawn The quiet Curtain of the Grass.

But when the world went wild with Spring, What days we had! Do you forget? When I of all the world was King, And you were my Queen Juliet?

The things that are; the things that seem — Who shall distinguish shape from show? The great processional, splendid dream Of life is all I wish to know.

The gods their faces turn away From nations and their little wars; But we our golden drama play Before the footlights of the stars.

There lives — though Time should cease to flow, And stars their courses should forget — There lives a grey-haired Romeo, Who loves a golden Juliet.



Anna

The pale discrowned stacks of maize, Like spectres in the sun, Stand shivering nigh Avonaise, Where all is dead and gone.

The sere leaves make a music vain, With melancholy chords; Like cries from some old battle-plain, Like clash of phantom swords.

But when the maize was lush and green With musical green waves, She went, its plumed ranks between, Unto the hill of graves.

There you may see sweet flowers set O'er damsels and o'er dames — Rose, Ellen, Mary, Margaret — The sweet old quiet names.

The gravestones show in long array, Though white or green with moss, How linked in Life and Death are they — The Shamrock and the Cross.

The gravestones face the Golden East, And in the morn they take The blessing of the Great High Priest, Before the living wake.

Who was she? Never ask her name, Her beauty and her grace Have passed, with her poor little shame, Into the Silent Place.

In Avonaise, in Avonaise, Where all is dead and done, The folk who rest there all their days Care not for moon or sun.

They care not, when the living pass, Whether they sigh or smile; They hear above their graves the grass That sighs — "A little while!"

A white stone marks her small green bed With "Anna" and "Adieu". Madonna Mary, rest her head On your dear lap of blue!



The Night Ride

The red sun on the lonely lands Gazed, under clouds of rose, As one who under knitted hands Takes one last look and goes.

Then Pain, with her white sister Fear, Crept nearer to my bed: "The sands are running; dost thou hear Thy sobbing heart?" she said.

There came a rider to the gate, And stern and clear spake he: "For meat or drink thou must not wait, But rise and ride with me."

I waited not for meat or drink, Or kiss, or farewell kind — But oh! my heart was sore to think Of friends I left behind.

We rode o'er hills that seemed to sweep Skyward like swelling waves; The living stirred not in their sleep, The dead slept in their graves.

And ever as we rode I heard A moan of anguish sore — No voice of man or beast or bird, But all of these and more.

"Is it the moaning of the Earth? Dark Rider, answer me!" "It is the cry of life at birth" He answered quietly:

"But thou canst turn a face of cheer To good days still in store; Thou needst not care for Pain or Fear — They cannot harm thee more."

Yet I rode on with sullen heart, And said with breaking breath, "If thou art he I think thou art, Then slay me now, O Death!"

The veil was from my eyesight drawn — "Thou knowest now," said he: "I am the Angel of the Dawn! Ride back, and wait for me."

So I rode back at morning light, And there, beside my bed, Fear had become a lily white And Pain a rose of red.



Alice Werner.



Bannerman of the Dandenong

I rode through the Bush in the burning noon, Over the hills to my bride, — The track was rough and the way was long, And Bannerman of the Dandenong, He rode along by my side.

A day's march off my Beautiful dwelt, By the Murray streams in the West; — Lightly lilting a gay love-song Rode Bannerman of the Dandenong, With a blood-red rose on his breast.

"Red, red rose of the Western streams" Was the song he sang that day — Truest comrade in hour of need, — Bay Mathinna his peerless steed — I had my own good grey.

There fell a spark on the upland grass — The dry Bush leapt into flame; — And I felt my heart go cold as death, And Bannerman smiled and caught his breath, — But I heard him name Her name.

Down the hill-side the fire-floods rushed, On the roaring eastern wind; — Neck and neck was the reckless race, — Ever the bay mare kept her pace, But the grey horse dropped behind.

He turned in the saddle — "Let's change, I say!" And his bridle rein he drew. He sprang to the ground, — "Look sharp!" he said With a backward toss of his curly head — "I ride lighter than you!"

Down and up — it was quickly done — No words to waste that day! — Swift as a swallow she sped along, The good bay mare from Dandenong, — And Bannerman rode the grey.

The hot air scorched like a furnace blast From the very mouth of Hell: — The blue gums caught and blazed on high Like flaming pillars into the sky; . . . The grey horse staggered and fell.

"Ride, ride, lad, — ride for her sake!" he cried; — Into the gulf of flame Were swept, in less than a breathing space The laughing eyes, and the comely face, And the lips that named HER name.

She bore me bravely, the good bay mare; — Stunned, and dizzy and blind, I heard the sound of a mingling roar — 'Twas the Lachlan River that rushed before, And the flames that rolled behind.

Safe — safe, at Nammoora gate, I fell, and lay like a stone. O love! thine arms were about me then, Thy warm tears called me to life again, — But — O God! that I came alone! —

We dwell in peace, my beautiful one And I, by the streams in the West, — But oft through the mist of my dreams along Rides Bannerman of the Dandenong, With the blood-red rose on his breast.



Ethel Castilla.



An Australian Girl

"She's pretty to walk with, And witty to talk with, And pleasant, too, to think on." Sir John Suckling.

She has a beauty of her own, A beauty of a paler tone Than English belles; Yet southern sun and southern air Have kissed her cheeks, until they wear The dainty tints that oft appear On rosy shells.

Her frank, clear eyes bespeak a mind Old-world traditions fail to bind. She is not shy Or bold, but simply self-possessed; Her independence adds a zest Unto her speech, her piquant jest, Her quaint reply.

O'er classic volumes she will pore With joy; and true scholastic lore Will often gain. In sports she bears away the bell, Nor, under music's siren spell, To dance divinely, flirt as well, Does she disdain.



A Song of Sydney

(1894)

High headlands all jealously hide thee, O fairest of sea-girdled towns! Thine Ocean-spouse smileth beside thee, While each headland threatens and frowns. Like Venice, upheld on sea-pinion, And fated to reign o'er the free, Thou wearest, in sign of dominion, The zone of the sea.

No winter thy fertile slope hardens, O new Florence, set in the South! All lands give their flowers to thy gardens, That glow to thy bright harbour's mouth; The waratah and England's red roses With stately magnolias entwine, Gay sunflowers fill sea-scented closes, All sweet with woodbine.

Thy harbour's fair flower-crowned islands See flags of all countries unfurled, Thou smilest from green, sunlit highlands To open thine arms to the world! Dark East's and fair West's emulations Resound from each hill-shadowed quay, And over the songs of all nations, The voice of the sea.



Francis William Lauderdale Adams.



Something

It is something in this darker dream demented to have wrestled with its pleasure and its pain: it is something to have sinned, and have repented: it is something to have failed, and tried again!

It is something to have loved the brightest Beauty with no hope of aught but silence for your vow: it is something to have tried to do your duty: it is something to be trying, trying now!

And, in the silent solemn hours, when your soul floats down the far faint flood of time — to think of Earth's lovers who are ours, of her saviours saving, suffering, sublime:

And that you with THESE may be her lover, with THESE may save and suffer for her sake — IT IS JOY TO HAVE LIVED, SO TO DISCOVER YOU'VE A LIFE YOU CAN GIVE AND SHE CAN TAKE!



Gordon's Grave

All the heat and the glow and the hush of the summer afternoon; the scent of the sweet-briar bush over bowing grass-blades and broom;

the birds that flit and pass; singing the song he knows, the grass-hopper in the grass; the voice of the she-oak boughs.

Ah, and the shattered column crowned with the poet's wreath. Who, who keeps silent and solemn his passing place beneath?

This was a poet that loved God's breath; his life was a passionate quest; he looked down deep in the wells of death, and now he is taking his rest.



To A. L. Gordon

In night-long days, in aeons where all Time's nights are one; where life and death sing paeans as of Greeks and Galileans, never begun or done;

where fate, the slow swooping condor, comes glooming all the sky — as you have pondered I ponder, as you have wandered I wander, as you have died, shall I die?



Love and Death

Death? is it death you give? So be it! O Death, thou hast been long my friend, and now thy pale cool cheek shall have my kiss, while the faint breath expires on thy still lips, O lovely Death!

Come then, loose hands, fair Life, without a wail! We've had good hours together, and you were sweet what time love whispered with the nightingale, tho' ever your music by the lark's would fail.

Come then, loose hands! Our lover time is done. Now is the marriage with the eternal sun. The hours are few that rest, are few and fleet. Good-bye! The game is lost: the game is won.



Thomas William Heney.



Absence

Ah, happy air that, rough or soft, May kiss that face and stay; And happy beams that from above May choose to her their way; And happy flowers that now and then Touch lips more sweet than they!

But it were not so blest to be Or light or air or rose; Those dainty fingers tear and toss The bloom that in them glows; And come or go, both wind and ray She heeds not, if she knows.

But if I come thy choice should be Either to love or not — For if I might I would not kiss And then be all forgot; And it were best thy love to lose If love self-scorn begot.



A Riverina Road

Now while so many turn with love and longing To wan lands lying in the grey North Sea, To thee we turn, hearts, mem'ries, all belonging, Dear land of ours, to thee.

West, ever west, with the strong sunshine marching Beyond the mountains, far from this soft coast, Until we almost see the great plains arching, In endless mirage lost.

A land of camps where seldom is sojourning, Where men like the dim fathers of our race, Halt for a time, and next day, unreturning, Fare ever on apace.

Last night how many a leaping blaze affrighted The wailing birds of passage in their file; And dawn sees ashes dead and embers whited Where men had dwelt awhile.

The sun may burn, the mirage shift and vanish And fade and glare by turns along the sky; The haze of heat may all the distance banish To the uncaring eye.

By speech, or tongue of bird or brute, unbroken Silence may brood upon the lifeless plain, Nor any sign, far off or near, betoken Man in this vast domain.

Though tender grace the landscape lacks, too spacious, Impassive, silent, lonely, to be fair, Their kindness swiftly comes more soft and gracious, Who live or tarry there.

All that he has, in camp or homestead, proffers To stranger guest at once a stranger host, Proudest to see accepted what he offers, Given without a boast.

Pass, if you can, the drover's cattle stringing Along the miles of the wide travelled road, Without a challenge through the hot dust ringing, Kind though abrupt the mode.

A cloud of dust where polish'd wheels are flashing Passes along, and in it rolls the mail. Comes from the box as on the coach goes dashing The lonely driver's hail.

Or in the track a station youngster mounted Sits in his saddle smoking for a "spell", Rides a while onward; then, his news recounted, Parts with a brief farewell.

To-day these plains may seem a face defiant, Turn'd to a mortal foe, yet scorning fear; As when, with heaven at war, an Earth-born giant Saw the Olympian near.

Come yet again! No child's fair face is sweeter With young delight than this cool blooming land, Silent no more, for songs than wings are fleeter, No blaze, but sunshine bland.

Thus in her likeness that strange nature moulding Makes man as moody, sad and savage too; Yet in his heart, like her, a passion holding, Unselfish, kind and true.

Therefore, while many turn with love and longing To wan lands lying on the grey North Sea, To-day possessed by other mem'ries thronging We turn, wild West, to thee!

23rd December, 1891.



Patrick Edward Quinn.



A Girl's Grave

"Aged 17, OF A BROKEN HEART, January 1st, 1841."

What story is here of broken love, What idyllic sad romance, What arrow fretted the silken dove That met with such grim mischance?

I picture you, sleeper of long ago, When you trifled and danced and smiled, All golden laughter and beauty's glow In a girl life sweet and wild.

Hair with the red gold's luring tinge, Fine as the finest silk, Violet eyes with a golden fringe And cheeks of roses and milk.

Something of this you must have been, Something gentle and sweet, To have broken your heart at seventeen And died in such sad defeat.

Hardly one of your kinsfolk live, It was all so long ago, The tale of the cruel love to give That laid you here so low.

Loving, trusting, and foully paid — The story is easily guessed, A blotted sun and skies that fade And this grass-grown grave the rest.

Whatever the cynic may sourly say, With a dash of truth, I ween, Of the girls of the period, in your day They had hearts at seventeen.

Dead of a fashion out of date, Such folly has passed away Like the hoop and patch and modish gait That went out with an older day.

The stone is battered and all awry, The words can be scarcely read, The rank reeds clustering thick and high Over your buried head.

I pluck one straight as a Paynim's lance To keep your memory green, For the lordly sake of old Romance And your own, sad seventeen.



John Sandes.



'With Death's Prophetic Ear'

Lay my rifle here beside me, set my Bible on my breast, For a moment let the warning bugles cease; As the century is closing I am going to my rest, Lord, lettest Thou Thy servant go in peace. But loud through all the bugles rings a cadence in mine ear, And on the winds my hopes of peace are strowed. Those winds that waft the voices that already I can hear Of the rooi-baatjes singing on the road.

Yes, the red-coats are returning, I can hear the steady tramp, After twenty years of waiting, lulled to sleep, Since rank and file at Potchefstroom we hemmed them in their camp, And cut them up at Bronkerspruit like sheep. They shelled us at Ingogo, but we galloped into range, And we shot the British gunners where they showed. I guessed they would return to us, I knew the chance must change — Hark! the rooi-baatjes singing on the road!

But now from snow-swept Canada, from India's torrid plains, From lone Australian outposts, hither led, Obeying their commando, as they heard the bugle's strains, The men in brown have joined the men in red. They come to find the colours at Majuba left and lost, They come to pay us back the debt they owed; And I hear new voices lifted, and I see strange colours tossed, 'Mid the rooi-baatjes singing on the road.

The old, old faiths must falter, and the old, old creeds must fail — I hear it in that distant murmur low — The old, old order changes, and 'tis vain for us to rail, The great world does not want us — we must go. And veldt, and spruit, and kopje to the stranger will belong, No more to trek before him we shall load; Too well, too well, I know it, for I hear it in the song Of the rooi-baatjes singing on the road.



Inez K. Hyland.



To a Wave

Where were you yesterday? In Gulistan, With roses and the frenzied nightingales? Rather would I believe you shining ran With peaceful floods, where the soft voice prevails Of building doves in lordly trees set high, Trees which enclose a home where love abides — His love and hers, a passioned ecstasy; Your tone has caught its echo and derides My joyless lot, as face down pressed I lie Upon the shifting sand, and hear the reeds Voicing a thin, dissonant threnody Unto the cliff and wind-tormented weeds. As with the faint half-lights of jade toward The shore you come and show a violet hue, I wonder if the face of my adored Was ever held importraitured by you. Ah, no! if you had seen his face, still prest Within your hold the picture dear would be, Like that bright portrait which so moved the breast Of fairest Gurd with soft unrest that she, Born in ice halls, she who but raised her eyes And scornful questioned, "What is love, indeed? None ever viewed it 'neath these northern skies," — Seeing the face soon learned love's gentle creed; But you hold nothing to be counted dear — Only a gift of weed and broken shells; Yet I will gather one, so I can hear The soft remembrance which still in it dwells: For in the shell, though broken, ever lies The murmur of the sea whence it was torn — So in a woman's heart there never dies The memory of love, though love be lorn.



Bread and Wine

A cup of opal Through which there glows The cream of the pearl, The heart of the rose; And the blue of the sea Where Australia lies, And the amber flush Of her sunset skies, And the emerald tints Of the dragon fly Shall stain my cup With their brilliant dye. And into this cup I would pour the wine Of youth and health And the gifts divine Of music and song, And the sweet content Which must ever belong To a life well spent. And what bread would I break With my wine, think you? The bread of a love That is pure and true.



George Essex Evans.



An Australian Symphony

Not as the songs of other lands Her song shall be Where dim Her purple shore-line stands Above the sea! As erst she stood, she stands alone; Her inspiration is her own. From sunlit plains to mangrove strands Not as the songs of other lands Her song shall be.

O Southern Singers! Rich and sweet, Like chimes of bells, The cadence swings with rhythmic beat The music swells; But undertones, weird, mournful, strong, Sweep like swift currents thro' the song. In deepest chords, with passion fraught, In softest notes of sweetest thought, This sadness dwells.

Is this her song, so weirdly strange, So mixed with pain, That whereso'er her poets range Is heard the strain? Broods there no spell upon the air But desolation and despair? No voice, save Sorrow's, to intrude Upon her mountain solitude Or sun-kissed plain?

The silence and the sunshine creep With soft caress O'er billowy plain and mountain steep And wilderness — A velvet touch, a subtle breath, As sweet as love, as calm as death, On earth, on air, so soft, so fine, Till all the soul a spell divine O'ershadoweth.

The gray gums by the lonely creek, The star-crowned height, The wind-swept plain, the dim blue peak, The cold white light, The solitude spread near and far Around the camp-fire's tiny star, The horse-bell's melody remote, The curlew's melancholy note Across the night.

These have their message; yet from these Our songs have thrown O'er all our Austral hills and leas One sombre tone. Whence doth the mournful keynote start? From the pure depths of Nature's heart? Or from the heart of him who sings And deems his hand upon the strings Is Nature's own?

Could tints be deeper, skies less dim, More soft and fair, Dappled with milk-white clouds that swim In faintest air? The soft moss sleeps upon the stone, Green scrub-vine traceries enthrone The dead gray trunks, and boulders red, Roofed by the pine and carpeted With maidenhair.

But far and near, o'er each, o'er all, Above, below, Hangs the great silence like a pall Softer than snow. Not sorrow is the spell it brings, But thoughts of calmer, purer things, Like the sweet touch of hands we love, A woman's tenderness above A fevered brow.

These purple hills, these yellow leas, These forests lone, These mangrove shores, these shimmering seas, This summer zone — Shall they inspire no nobler strain Than songs of bitterness and pain? Strike her wild harp with firmer hand, And send her music thro' the land, With loftier tone!

. . . . .

Her song is silence; unto her Its mystery clings. Silence is the interpreter Of deeper things. O for sonorous voice and strong To change that silence into song, To give that melody release Which sleeps in the deep heart of peace With folded wings!



A Nocturne

Like weary sea-birds spent with flight And faltering, The slow hours beat across the night On leaden wing. The wild bird knows where rest shall be Soe'er he roam. Heart of my heart! apart from thee I have no home.

Afar from thee, yet not alone, Heart of my heart! Like some soft haunting whisper blown From Heaven thou art. I hear the magic music roll Its waves divine; The subtle fragrance of thy soul Has passed to mine.

Nor dawn nor Heaven my heart can know Save that which lies In lights and shades that come and go In thy soft eyes. Here in the night I dream the day, By love upborne, When thy sweet eyes shall shine and say "It is the morn!"



A Pastoral

Nature feels the touch of noon; Not a rustle stirs the grass; Not a shadow flecks the sky, Save the brown hawk hovering nigh; Not a ripple dims the glass Of the wide lagoon.

Darkly, like an armed host Seen afar against the blue, Rise the hills, and yellow-grey Sleeps the plain in cove and bay, Like a shining sea that dreams Round a silent coast.

From the heart of these blue hills, Like the joy that flows from peace, Creeps the river far below Fringed with willow, sinuous, slow. Surely here there seems surcease From the care that kills.

Surely here might radiant Love Fill with happiness his cup, Where the purple lucerne-bloom Floods the air with sweet perfume, Nature's incense floating up To the Gods above.

'Neath the gnarled-boughed apple trees Motionless the cattle stand; Chequered cornfield, homestead white, Sleeping in the streaming light, For deep trance is o'er the land, And the wings of peace.

Here, O Power that moves the heart, Thou art in the quiet air; Here, unvexed of code or creed, Man may breathe his bitter need; Nor with impious lips declare What Thou wert and art.

All the strong souls of the race Thro' the aeons that have run, They have cried aloud to Thee — "Thou art that which stirs in me!" As the flame leaps towards the sun They have sought Thy face.

But the faiths have flowered and flown, And the truth is but in part; Many a creed and many a grade For Thy purpose Thou hast made. None can know Thee what Thou art, Fathomless! Unknown!



The Women of the West

They left the vine-wreathed cottage and the mansion on the hill, The houses in the busy streets where life is never still, The pleasures of the city, and the friends they cherished best: For love they faced the wilderness — the Women of the West.

The roar, and rush, and fever of the city died away, And the old-time joys and faces — they were gone for many a day; In their place the lurching coach-wheel, or the creaking bullock chains, O'er the everlasting sameness of the never-ending plains.

In the slab-built, zinc-roofed homestead of some lately taken run, In the tent beside the bankment of a railway just begun, In the huts on new selections, in the camps of man's unrest, On the frontiers of the Nation, live the Women of the West.

The red sun robs their beauty, and, in weariness and pain, The slow years steal the nameless grace that never comes again; And there are hours men cannot soothe, and words men cannot say — The nearest woman's face may be a hundred miles away.

The wide bush holds the secrets of their longing and desires, When the white stars in reverence light their holy altar fires, And silence, like the touch of God, sinks deep into the breast — Perchance He hears and understands the Women of the West.

For them no trumpet sounds the call, no poet plies his arts — They only hear the beating of their gallant, loving hearts. But they have sung with silent lives the song all songs above — The holiness of sacrifice, the dignity of love.

Well have we held our father's creed. No call has passed us by. We faced and fought the wilderness, we sent our sons to die. And we have hearts to do and dare, and yet, o'er all the rest, The hearts that made the Nation were the Women of the West.



Mary Colborne-Veel.



'What Look hath She?'

What look hath she, What majestie, That must so high approve her? What graces move That I so love, That I so greatly love her?

No majestie But Truth hath She; Thoughts sweet and gracious move her; That straight approve My heart to love, And all my life to love her!



Saturday Night

Saturday night in the crowded town; Pleasure and pain going up and down, Murmuring low on the ear there beat Echoes unceasing of voice and feet. Withered age, with its load of care, Come in this tumult of life to share, Childhood glad in its radiance brief, Happiest-hearted or bowed with grief, Meet alike, as the stars look down Week by week on the crowded town.

And in a kingdom of mystery, Rapt from this weariful world to see Magic sights in the yellow glare, Breathing delight in the gas-lit air, Careless of sorrow, of grief or pain, Two by two, again and again, Strephon and Chloe together move, Walking in Arcady, land of love.

What are the meanings that burden all These murmuring voices that rise and fall? Tragedies whispered of, secrets told, Over the baskets of bought and sold; Joyous speech of the lately wed; Broken lamentings that name the dead: Endless runes of the gossip's rede, And gathered home with the weekly need, Kindly greetings as neighbours meet There in the stir of the busy street.

Then is the glare of the gaslight ray Gifted with potency strange to-day, Records of time-written history Flash into sight as each face goes by. There, as the hundreds slow moving go, Each with his burden of joy or woe, Souls, in the meeting of stranger's eyes, Startled this kinship to recognise, — Meet and part, as the stars look down, Week by week on the crowded town.

And still, in the midst of the busy hum, Rapt in their dream of delight they come. Heedless of sorrow, of grief or care, Wandering on in enchanted air, Far from the haunting shadow of pain: Two by two, again and again, Strephon and Chloe together move, Walking in Arcady, land of love.



'Resurgam'

(Autumn Song)

Chill breezes moaning are Where leaves hang yellow: O'er the grey hills afar Flies the last swallow; To come again, my love, to come again Blithe with the summer. But Ah! the long months ere we welcome then That bright new comer.

Cold lie the flowers and dead Where leaves are falling. Meekly they bowed and sped At Autumn's calling. To come again, my love, to come again Blithe with the swallow. Ah! might I dreaming lie at rest till then, Or rise and follow!

The summer blooms are gone, And bright birds darting; Cold lies the earth forlorn; And we are parting. To meet again, my love, to meet again In deathless greeting, But ah! what wintry bitterness of pain Ere that far meeting!



Distant Authors

"Aqui esta encerrada el alma licenciado Pedro Garcias."

Dear books! and each the living soul, Our hearts aver, of men unseen, Whose power to strengthen, charm, control, Surmounts all earth's green miles between.

For us at least the artists show Apart from fret of work-day jars: We know them but as friends may know, Or they are known beyond the stars.

Their mirth, their grief, their soul's desire, When twilight murmuring of streams, Or skies far touched by sunset fire, Exalt them to pure worlds of dreams;

Their love of good; their rage at wrong; Their hours when struggling thought makes way; Their hours when fancy drifts to song Lightly and glad as bird-trills may;

All these are truths. And if as true More graceless scrutiny that reads, "These fruits amid strange husking grew;" "These lilies blossomed amongst weeds;"

Here no despoiling doubts shall blow, No fret of feud, of work-day jars. We know them but as friends may know, Or they are known beyond the stars.



John Bernard O'Hara.



Happy Creek

The little creek goes winding Thro' gums of white and blue, A silver arm Around the farm It flings, a lover true; And softly, where the rushes lean, It sings (O sweet and low) A lover's song, And winds along, How happy — lovers know!

The little creek goes singing By maidenhair and moss, Along its banks In rosy ranks The wild flowers wave and toss; And ever where the ferns dip down It sings (O sweet and low) A lover's song, And winds along, How happy — lovers know!

The little creek takes colour, From summer skies above; Now blue, now gold, Its waters fold The clouds in closest love; But loudly when the thunders roll It sings (nor sweet, nor low) No lover's song, But sweeps along, How angry — lovers know!

The little creek for ever Goes winding, winding down, Away, away, By night, by day, Where dark the ranges frown; But ever as it glides it sings, It sings (O sweet and low) A lover's song, And winds along, How happy — lovers know!



A Country Village

Among the folding hills It lies, a quiet nook, Where dreaming nature fills Sweet pages of her book, While through the meadow flowers She sings in summer hours, Or weds the woodland rills Low-laughing to the brook.

The graveyard whitely gleams Across the soundless vale, So sad, so sweet, yet seems A watcher cold and pale That waits through many springs The tribute old Time brings, And knows, though life be loud, The reaper may not fail.

Here come not feet of change From year to fading year; Ringed by the rolling range No world-wide notes men hear. The wheels of time may stand Here in a lonely land, Age after age may pass Untouched of change or cheer;

As still the farmer keeps The same dull round of things; He reaps and sows and reaps, And clings, as ivy clings, To old-time trust, nor cares What science does or dares, What lever moves the world, What progress spreads its wings.

Yet here, of woman born, Are lives that know not rest, With fierce desires that scorn The quiet life as best; That see in wider ways Life's richer splendours blaze, And feel ambition's fire Burn in their ardent breast.

Yea, some that fain would know Life's purpose strange and vast, How wide is human woe, What wailing of the past Still strikes the present dumb, What phantoms go and come Of wrongs that cry aloud, "At last, O God! at last!"

Here, too, are dreams that wing Rich regions of Romance; Love waking when the Spring Begins its first wild dance, Love redder than the rose, Love paler than the snows, Love frail as corn that tilts With morning winds a lance.

For never land so lone That love could find not wings In every wind that's blown By lips of jewelled springs, For love is life's sweet pain, And when sweet life is slain It finds a radiant rest Beyond the change of things.

Beyond the shocks that jar, The chance of changing fate, Where fraud and violence are, And heedless lust and hate; Yet still where faith is clear, And honour held most dear, And hope that seeks the dawn Looks up with heart elate.



Flinders

He left his island home For leagues of sleepless foam, For stress of alien seas, Where wild winds ever blow; For England's sake he sought Fresh fields of fame, and fought A stormy world for these A hundred years ago.

And where the Austral shore Heard southward far the roar Of rising tides that came From lands of ice and snow, Beneath a gracious sky To fadeless memory He left a deathless name A hundred years ago.

Yea, left a name sublime From that wild dawn of Time, Whose light he haply saw In supreme sunrise flow, And from the shadows vast, That filled the dim dead past, A brighter glory draw, A hundred years ago.

Perchance, he saw in dreams Beside our sunlit streams In some majestic hour Old England's banners blow; Mayhap, the radiant morn Of this great nation born, August with perfect power, A hundred years ago.

We know not, — yet for thee Far may the season be, Whose harp in shameful sleep Is soundless lying low! Far be the noteless hour That holds of fame no flower For those who dared our deep A hundred years ago.



M. A. Sinclair.



The Chatelaine

I have built one, so have you; Paved with marble, domed with blue, Battlement and ladies' bower, Donjon keep and watchman's tower.

I have climbed, as you have done, To the tower at set of sun — Crying from its parlous height, "Watchman, tell us of the night."

I have stolen at midnight bell, Like you, to the secret cell, Shuddering at its charnel breath — Left lockfast the spectre, Death.

I have used your lure to call Choice guests to my golden hall: Rarely welcome, rarely free To my hospitality.

In a glow of rosy light Hours, like minutes, take their flight — As from you they fled away, When, like you, I bade them stay.

Ah! the pretty flow of wit, And the good hearts under it; While the wheels of life go round With a most melodious sound.

Not a vestige anywhere Of our grim familiar, Care — Roses! from the trees of yore Blooming by the rivers four.

Not a jar, and not a fret; Ecstasy and longing met. But why should I thus define — Is not your chateau like mine?

Scarcely were it strange to meet In that magic realm so sweet, So! I'll take this dreamland train Bound for my chateau in Spain.



Sydney Jephcott.



Chaucer

O gracious morning eglantine, Making the far old English ways divine! Though from thy stock our mateless rose was bred, Staining the world's skies with its red, Our garden gives no scent so fresh as thine, Sweet, thorny-seeming eglantine.



White Paper

Smooth white paper 'neath the pen; Richest field that iron ploughs, Germinating thoughts of men, Though no heaven its rain allows;

Till they ripen, thousand fold, And our spirits reap the corn, In a day-long dream of gold; Food for all the souls unborn.

Like the murmur of the earth, When we listen stooping low; Like the sap that sings in mirth, Hastening up the trees that grow;

Evermore a tiny song Sings the pen unto it, while Thought's elixir flows along, Diviner than the holy Nile.

Greater than the sphering sea, For it holds the sea and land; Seed of all ideas to be Down its current borne like sand.

How our fathers in the dark Pored on it the plans obscure, By star-light or stake-fires stark Tracing there the path secure.

The poor paper drawn askance With the spell of Truth half-known, Holds back Hell of ignorance, Roaring round us, thronged, alone.

O white list of champions, Spirit born, and schooled for fight, Mailed in armour of the sun's Who shall win our utmost right!

Think of paper lightly sold, Which few pence had made too dear On its blank to have enscrolled Beatrice, Lucifer, or Lear!

Think of paper Milton took, Written, in his hands to feel, Musing of what things a look Down its pages would reveal.

O the glorious Heaven wrought By Cadmean souls of yore, From pure element of thought! And thy leaves they are its door!

Light they open, and we stand Past the sovereignty of Fate, Glad amongst them, calm and grand, The Creators and Create!



Splitting

Morning.

Out from the hut at break of day, And up the hills in the dawning grey; With the young wind flowing From the blue east, growing Red with the white sun's ray!

Lone and clear as a deep-bright dream Under mid-night's and mid-slumber's stream, Up rises the mount against the sunrise shower, Vast as a kingdom, fair as a flower: O'er it doth the foam of foliage ream

In vivid softness serene, Pearly-purple and marble green; Clear in their mingling tinges, Up away to the crest that fringes Skies studded with cloud-crags sheen.

Day.

Like birds frayed from their lurking-shaw, Like ripples fleet 'neath a furious flaw, The echoes re-echo, flying Down from the mauls hot-plying; Clatter the axes, grides the saw.

Ruddy and white the chips out-spring, Like money sown by a pageant king; The free wood yields to the driven wedges, With its white sap-edges, And heart in the sunshine glistening.

Broadly the ice-clear azure floods down, Where the great tree-tops are overthrown; As on through the endless day we labour; The sun for our nearest neighbour, Up o'er the mountains lone.

And so intensely it doth illume, That it shuts by times to gloom; In the open spaces thrilling; From the dead leaves distilling A hot and harsh perfume.

Evening.

Give over! All the valleys in sight Fill, fill with the rising tide of night; While the sunset with gold-dust bridges The black-ravined ridges, Whose mighty muscles curve in its light.

In our weary climb, while night dyes deep, Down the broken and stony steep, How our jaded bodies are shaken By each step in half-blindness taken — One's thoughts lie heaped like brutes asleep.

Open the door of the dismal hut, Silence and darkness lone were shut In it, as a tidal pool, until returning Night drowns the land, — no ember's burning, — One is too weary the food to cut.

Body and soul with every blow, Wasted for ever, and who will know, Where, past this mountained night of toiling, Red life in its thousand veins is boiling, Of chips scattered on the mountain's brow?



Home-woe

The wreckage of some name-forgotten barque, Half-buried by the dolorous shore; Whereto the living waters never more Their urgent billows pour; But the salt spray can reach and cark —

So lies my spirit, lonely and forlorn, On Being's strange and perilous strand. And rusted sword and fleshless hand Point from the smothering sand; And anchor chainless and out-worn.

But o'er what Deep, unconquered and uncharted, And steering by what vanished star; And where my dim-imagined consorts are, Or hidden harbour far, From whence my sails, unblessed, departed,

Can memory, nor still intuition teach. And so I watch with alien eyes This World's remote and unremembered skies; While around me weary rise The babblings of a foreign speech.



A Ballad of the last King of Thule

There was a King of Thule Whom a Witch-wife stole at birth; In a country known but newly, All under the dumb, huge Earth.

That King's in a Forest toiling; And he never the green sward delves But he sees all his green waves boiling Over his sands and shelves;

In these sunsets vast and fiery, In these dawns divine he sees Hy-Brasil, Mannan and Eire, And the Isle of Appletrees;

He watches, heart-still and breathless, The clouds through the deep day trailing, As the white-winged vessels gathered, Into his harbours sailing;

Ranked Ibis and lazy Eagles In the great blue flame may rise, But ne'er Sea-mew or Solan beating Up through their grey low skies;

When the storm-led fires are breaking, Great waves of the molten night, Deep in his eyes comes aching The icy Boreal Light.

. . . . .

O, lost King, and O, people perished, Your Thule has grown one grave! Unvisited as uncherished, Save by the wandering wave!

The billows burst in his doorways, The spray swoops over his walls! — O, his banners that throb dishonoured O'er arms that hide in his halls —

Deserved is your desolation! — Why could you not stir and save The last-born heir of your nation? — Sold into the South, a slave

Till he dies, and is buried duly In the hot Australian earth — The lorn, lost King of Thule, Whom a Witch-wife stole at birth.



A Fragment

But, under all, my heart believes the day Was not diviner over Athens, nor The West wind sweeter thro' the Cyclades Than here and now; and from the altar of To-day The eloquent, quick tongues of flame uprise As fervid, if not unfaltering as of old, And life atones with speed and plenitude For coarser texture. Our poor present will, Far in the brooding future, make a past Full of the morning's music still, and starred With great tears shining on the eyelids' eaves Of our immortal faces yearning t'wards the sun.



Andrew Barton Paterson ('Banjo').



The Daylight is Dying

The daylight is dying Away in the west, The wild birds are flying In silence to rest; In leafage and frondage Where shadows are deep, They pass to their bondage — The kingdom of sleep. And watched in their sleeping By stars in the height, They rest in your keeping, Oh, wonderful night.

When night doth her glories Of starshine unfold, 'Tis then that the stories Of bushland are told. Unnumbered I hold them In memories bright, But who could unfold them, Or read them aright?

Beyond all denials The stars in their glories The breeze in the myalls Are part of these stories. The waving of grasses, The song of the river That sings as it passes For ever and ever, The hobble-chains' rattle, The calling of birds, The lowing of cattle Must blend with the words. Without these, indeed, you Would find it ere long, As though I should read you The words of a song That lamely would linger When lacking the rune, The voice of the singer, The lilt of the tune.

But, as one half-hearing An old-time refrain, With memory clearing, Recalls it again, These tales, roughly wrought of The bush and its ways, May call back a thought of The wandering days. And, blending with each In the mem'ries that throng, There haply shall reach You some echo of song.



Clancy of the Overflow

I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago, He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him, Just "on spec", addressed as follows, "Clancy, of The Overflow".

And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected, (And I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar) 'Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it: "Clancy's gone to Queensland droving, and we don't know where he are."

. . . . .

In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy Gone a-droving "down the Cooper" where the Western drovers go; As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing, For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know.

And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars, And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended, And at night the wondrous glory of the everlasting stars.

. . . . .

I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall, And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city, Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all.

And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle Of the tramways and the 'buses making hurry down the street, And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting, Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet.

And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste, With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy, For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.

And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy, Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go, While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal — But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of "The Overflow".



Black Swans

As I lie at rest on a patch of clover In the Western Park when the day is done, I watch as the wild black swans fly over With their phalanx turned to the sinking sun; And I hear the clang of their leader crying To a lagging mate in the rearward flying, And they fade away in the darkness dying, Where the stars are mustering one by one.

Oh! ye wild black swans, 'twere a world of wonder For a while to join in your westward flight, With the stars above and the dim earth under, Through the cooling air of the glorious night. As we swept along on our pinions winging, We should catch the chime of a church-bell ringing, Or the distant note of a torrent singing, Or the far-off flash of a station light.

From the northern lakes with the reeds and rushes, Where the hills are clothed with a purple haze, Where the bell-birds chime and the songs of thrushes Make music sweet in the jungle maze, They will hold their course to the westward ever, Till they reach the banks of the old grey river, Where the waters wash, and the reed-beds quiver In the burning heat of the summer days.

Oh! ye strange wild birds, will ye bear a greeting To the folk that live in that western land? Then for every sweep of your pinions beating, Ye shall bear a wish to the sunburnt band, To the stalwart men who are stoutly fighting With the heat and drought and the dust-storm smiting, Yet whose life somehow has a strange inviting, When once to the work they have put their hand.

Facing it yet! Oh, my friend stout-hearted, What does it matter for rain or shine, For the hopes deferred and the gain departed? Nothing could conquer that heart of thine. And thy health and strength are beyond confessing As the only joys that are worth possessing. May the days to come be as rich in blessing As the days we spent in the auld lang syne.

I would fain go back to the old grey river, To the old bush days when our hearts were light, But, alas! those days they have fled for ever, They are like the swans that have swept from sight. And I know full well that the strangers' faces Would meet us now in our dearest places; For our day is dead and has left no traces But the thoughts that live in my mind to-night.

There are folk long dead, and our hearts would sicken — We would grieve for them with a bitter pain, If the past could live and the dead could quicken, We then might turn to that life again. But on lonely nights we would hear them calling, We should hear their steps on the pathways falling, We should loathe the life with a hate appalling In our lonely rides by the ridge and plain.

. . . . .

In the silent park is a scent of clover, And the distant roar of the town is dead, And I hear once more as the swans fly over Their far-off clamour from overhead. They are flying west, by their instinct guided, And for man likewise is his fate decided, And griefs apportioned and joys divided By a mighty power with a purpose dread.



The Travelling Post Office

The roving breezes come and go, the reed beds sweep and sway, The sleepy river murmurs low, and loiters on its way, It is the land of lots o' time along the Castlereagh.

. . . . .

The old man's son had left the farm, he found it dull and slow, He drifted to the great North-west where all the rovers go. "He's gone so long," the old man said, "he's dropped right out of mind, But if you'd write a line to him I'd take it very kind; He's shearing here and fencing there, a kind of waif and stray, He's droving now with Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh. The sheep are travelling for the grass, and travelling very slow; They may be at Mundooran now, or past the Overflow, Or tramping down the black soil flats across by Waddiwong, But all those little country towns would send the letter wrong, The mailman, if he's extra tired, would pass them in his sleep, It's safest to address the note to 'Care of Conroy's sheep', For five and twenty thousand head can scarcely go astray, You write to 'Care of Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh'."

. . . . .

By rock and ridge and riverside the western mail has gone, Across the great Blue Mountain Range to take that letter on. A moment on the topmost grade while open fire doors glare, She pauses like a living thing to breathe the mountain air, Then launches down the other side across the plains away To bear that note to "Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh".

And now by coach and mailman's bag it goes from town to town, And Conroy's Gap and Conroy's Creek have marked it "further down". Beneath a sky of deepest blue where never cloud abides, A speck upon the waste of plain the lonely mailman rides. Where fierce hot winds have set the pine and myall boughs asweep He hails the shearers passing by for news of Conroy's sheep. By big lagoons where wildfowl play and crested pigeons flock, By camp fires where the drovers ride around their restless stock, And past the teamster toiling down to fetch the wool away My letter chases Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh.



The Old Australian Ways

The London lights are far abeam Behind a bank of cloud, Along the shore the gaslights gleam, The gale is piping loud; And down the Channel, groping blind, We drive her through the haze Towards the land we left behind — The good old land of "never mind", And old Australian ways.

The narrow ways of English folk Are not for such as we; They bear the long-accustomed yoke Of staid conservancy: But all our roads are new and strange, And through our blood there runs The vagabonding love of change That drove us westward of the range And westward of the suns.

The city folk go to and fro Behind a prison's bars, They never feel the breezes blow And never see the stars; They never hear in blossomed trees The music low and sweet Of wild birds making melodies, Nor catch the little laughing breeze That whispers in the wheat.

Our fathers came of roving stock That could not fixed abide: And we have followed field and flock Since e'er we learnt to ride; By miner's camp and shearing shed, In land of heat and drought, We followed where our fortunes led, With fortune always on ahead And always further out.

The wind is in the barley-grass, The wattles are in bloom; The breezes greet us as they pass With honey-sweet perfume; The parrakeets go screaming by With flash of golden wing, And from the swamp the wild-ducks cry Their long-drawn note of revelry, Rejoicing at the Spring.

So throw the weary pen aside And let the papers rest, For we must saddle up and ride Towards the blue hill's breast; And we must travel far and fast Across their rugged maze, To find the Spring of Youth at last, And call back from the buried past The old Australian ways.

When Clancy took the drover's track In years of long ago, He drifted to the outer back Beyond the Overflow; By rolling plain and rocky shelf, With stockwhip in his hand, He reached at last, oh lucky elf! The Town of Come-and-help-yourself In Rough-and-ready Land.

And if it be that you would know The tracks he used to ride, Then you must saddle up and go Beyond the Queensland side — Beyond the reach of rule or law, To ride the long day through, In Nature's homestead — filled with awe: You then might see what Clancy saw And know what Clancy knew.



By the Grey Gulf-Water

Far to the Northward there lies a land, A wonderful land that the winds blow over, And none may fathom nor understand The charm it holds for the restless rover; A great grey chaos — a land half made, Where endless space is and no life stirreth; And the soul of a man will recoil afraid From the sphinx-like visage that Nature weareth. But old Dame Nature, though scornful, craves Her dole of death and her share of slaughter; Many indeed are the nameless graves Where her victims sleep by the Grey Gulf-water.

Slowly and slowly those grey streams glide, Drifting along with a languid motion, Lapping the reed-beds on either side, Wending their way to the Northern Ocean. Grey are the plains where the emus pass Silent and slow, with their staid demeanour; Over the dead men's graves the grass Maybe is waving a trifle greener. Down in the world where men toil and spin Dame Nature smiles as man's hand has taught her; Only the dead men her smiles can win In the great lone land by the Grey Gulf-water.

For the strength of man is an insect's strength In the face of that mighty plain and river, And the life of a man is a moment's length To the life of the stream that will run for ever. And so it cometh they take no part In small-world worries; each hardy rover Rideth abroad and is light of heart, With the plains around and the blue sky over. And up in the heavens the brown lark sings The songs that the strange wild land has taught her; Full of thanksgiving her sweet song rings — And I wish I were back by the Grey Gulf-water.



Jessie Mackay.



The Grey Company

O the grey, grey company Of the pallid dawn! O the ghostly faces, Ashen-like and drawn! The Lord's lone sentinels Dotted down the years, The little grey company Before the pioneers.

Dreaming of Utopias Ere the time was ripe, They awoke to scorning, The jeering and the strife. Dreaming of millenniums In a world of wars, They awoke to shudder At a flaming Mars.

Never was a Luther But a Huss was first — A fountain unregarded In the primal thirst. Never was a Newton Crowned and honoured well, But first, alone, Galileo Wasted in a cell.

In each other's faces Looked the pioneers; Drank the wine of courage All their battle years. For their weary sowing Through the world wide, Green they saw the harvest Ere the day they died.

But the grey, grey company Stood every man alone In the chilly dawnlight, Scarcely had they known Ere the day they perished, That their beacon-star Was not glint of marsh-light In the shadows far.

The brave white witnesses To the truth within Took the dart of folly, Took the jeer of sin; Crying "Follow, follow, Back to Eden gate!" They trod the Polar desert, Met a desert fate.

Be laurel to the victor, And roses to the fair, And asphodel Elysian Let the hero wear; But lay the maiden lilies Upon their narrow biers — The lone grey company Before the pioneers.



A Folk Song

I came to your town, my love, And you were away, away! I said "She is with the Queen's maidens: They tarry long at their play. They are stringing her words like pearls To throw to the dukes and earls." But O, the pity! I had but a morn of windy red To come to the town where you were bred, And you were away, away!

I came to your town, my love, And you were away, away! I said, "She is with the mountain elves And misty and fair as they. They are spinning a diamond net To cover her curls of jet." But O, the pity! I had but a noon of searing heat To come to your town, my love, my sweet, And you were away, away!

I came to your town, my love, And you were away, away! I said, "She is with the pale white saints, And they tarry long to pray. They give her a white lily-crown, And I fear she will never come down." But O, the pity! I had but an even grey and wan To come to your town and plead as man, And you were away, away!



Dunedin in the Gloaming

Like a black, enamoured King whispered low the thunder To the lights of Roslyn, terraced far asunder: Hovered low the sister cloud in wild, warm wonder.

"O my love, Dunedin town, the only, the abiding! Who can look undazzled up where the Norn is riding, — Watch the sword of destiny from the scabbard gliding!

"Dark and rich and ringing true — word and look for ever; Taking to her woman heart all forlorn endeavour; Heaven's sea about her feet, not the bounded river!"

"Sister of the mountain mist, and never to be holden With the weary sophistries that dimmer eyes embolden, — O the dark Dunedin town, shot with green and golden!"

Then a silver pioneer netted in the rift, Leaning over Maori Hill, dreaming in the lift, Dropped her starry memories through the passioned drift: —

"Once — I do remember them, the glory and the garden, Ere the elder stars had learnt God's mystery of pardon, Ere the youngest, I myself, had seen the flaming warden —

"Once even after even I stole ever shy and early To mirror me within a glade of Eden cool and pearly, Where shy and cold and holy ran a torrent sought but rarely.

"And fondly could I swear that this my glade had risen newly, — Burst the burning desert tomb wherein she lieth truly, To keep an Easter with the birds and me who loved her duly."

Wailing, laughing, loving, hoar, spake the lordly ocean: "You are sheen and steadfastness: I am sheen and motion, Gulfing argosies for whim, navies for a notion.

"Sleep you well, Dunedin Town, though loud the lulling lyre is; Lady of the stars terrene, where quick the human fire is, Lady of the Maori pines, the turrets, and the eyries!"



The Burial of Sir John Mackenzie

(1901)

They played him home to the House of Stones All the way, all the way, To his grave in the sound of the winter sea: The sky was dour, the sky was gray. They played him home with the chieftain's dirge, Till the wail was wed to the rolling surge, They played him home with a sorrowful will To his grave at the foot of the Holy Hill And the pipes went mourning all the way.

Strong hands that had struck for right All the day, all the day, Folded now in the dark of earth, Veiled dawn of the upper way! Strong hands that struck with his From days that were to the day that is Carry him now from the house of woe To ride the way the Chief must go: And his peers went mourning all the way.

Son and brother at his right hand All the way, all the way! And O for them and O for her Who stayed within, the dowie day! Son and brother and near of kin Go out with the chief who never comes in! And of all who loved him far and near 'Twas the nearest most who held him dear — And his kin went mourning all the way!

The clan went on with the pipes before All the way, all the way; A wider clan than ever he knew Followed him home that dowie day. And who were they of the wider clan? The landless man and the no man's man, The man that lacked and the man unlearned, The man that lived but as he earned — And the clan went mourning all the way.

The heart of New Zealand went beside All the way, all the way, To the resting-place of her Highland Chief; Much she thought she could not say; He found her a land of many domains, Maiden forest and fallow plains — He left her a land of many homes, The pearl of the world where the sea wind roams, And New Zealand went mourning all the way.



Henry Lawson.



Andy's gone with Cattle

Our Andy's gone to battle now 'Gainst Drought, the red marauder; Our Andy's gone with cattle now Across the Queensland border.

He's left us in dejection now; Our hearts with him are roving. It's dull on this selection now, Since Andy went a-droving.

Who now shall wear the cheerful face In times when things are slackest? And who shall whistle round the place When Fortune frowns her blackest?

Oh, who shall cheek the squatter now When he comes round us snarling? His tongue is growing hotter now Since Andy cross'd the Darling.

The gates are out of order now, In storms the "riders" rattle; For far across the border now Our Andy's gone with cattle.

Oh, may the showers in torrents fall, And all the tanks run over; And may the grass grow green and tall In pathways of the drover;

And may good angels send the rain On desert stretches sandy; And when the summer comes again God grant 'twill bring us Andy.



Out Back

The old year went, and the new returned, in the withering weeks of drought, The cheque was spent that the shearer earned, and the sheds were all cut out; The publican's words were short and few, and the publican's looks were black — And the time had come, as the shearer knew, to carry his swag Out Back.

For time means tucker, and tramp you must, where the scrubs and plains are wide, With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide; All day long in the dust and heat — when summer is on the track — With stinted stomachs and blistered feet, they carry their swags Out Back.

He tramped away from the shanty there, when the days were long and hot, With never a soul to know or care if he died on the track or not. The poor of the city have friends in woe, no matter how much they lack, But only God and the swagmen know how a poor man fares Out Back.