MORYAH

“Wisha, where is he goin’ to nowWith the hat on the back of the poll,And the hair of him curled on the brow,Like a millionaire out for a stroll?”“Ar’, Old Man, but he’s yardin’ the cow.”“Moryah![12]With the hat on the back of his poll?”“There’s the red heifer’s calf in the lane,And the gray mare is mad for a bite,And the dog up above on the chainIs shoutin’ and bawlin’ all night.”“Sure, Old Man, you’re keownrawnin’ again.”“Moryah!And that Jim gallivantin’ the night?”“Yer’, Old Man, but the head of him’s young;And the chubby gossoon with the dartHave the wits of him straightened and strungTo the tune of the song in the heart,With the lilt of it there on the tongue.”“Moryah—And bad luck from the song in the heart!”“ ’Tis that Casey girl now have him caught,And her mother out baking the bread;It is there she should be, so she ought,With the eyes dancing jigs in her head;Faith, when I was a boy, sure we thought . . .”“Moryah!’Twas yourself had an eye in the head.”“Don’t I mind the old days that are through,When a boy and a colleen afarFelt the bound and the hurt of it tooAs they swung in a dream on a star—Thiggim-thu,[13]my Old Man, thiggim-thu?”“Ouisha,Poor old woman, ’tis dreamin’ you are.”

“Wisha, where is he goin’ to now

With the hat on the back of the poll,

And the hair of him curled on the brow,

Like a millionaire out for a stroll?”

“Ar’, Old Man, but he’s yardin’ the cow.”

“Moryah![12]

With the hat on the back of his poll?”

“There’s the red heifer’s calf in the lane,And the gray mare is mad for a bite,And the dog up above on the chainIs shoutin’ and bawlin’ all night.”“Sure, Old Man, you’re keownrawnin’ again.”“Moryah!And that Jim gallivantin’ the night?”

“There’s the red heifer’s calf in the lane,

And the gray mare is mad for a bite,

And the dog up above on the chain

Is shoutin’ and bawlin’ all night.”

“Sure, Old Man, you’re keownrawnin’ again.”

“Moryah!

And that Jim gallivantin’ the night?”

“Yer’, Old Man, but the head of him’s young;And the chubby gossoon with the dartHave the wits of him straightened and strungTo the tune of the song in the heart,With the lilt of it there on the tongue.”“Moryah—And bad luck from the song in the heart!”

“Yer’, Old Man, but the head of him’s young;

And the chubby gossoon with the dart

Have the wits of him straightened and strung

To the tune of the song in the heart,

With the lilt of it there on the tongue.”

“Moryah—

And bad luck from the song in the heart!”

“ ’Tis that Casey girl now have him caught,And her mother out baking the bread;It is there she should be, so she ought,With the eyes dancing jigs in her head;Faith, when I was a boy, sure we thought . . .”“Moryah!’Twas yourself had an eye in the head.”

“ ’Tis that Casey girl now have him caught,

And her mother out baking the bread;

It is there she should be, so she ought,

With the eyes dancing jigs in her head;

Faith, when I was a boy, sure we thought . . .”

“Moryah!

’Twas yourself had an eye in the head.”

“Don’t I mind the old days that are through,When a boy and a colleen afarFelt the bound and the hurt of it tooAs they swung in a dream on a star—Thiggim-thu,[13]my Old Man, thiggim-thu?”“Ouisha,Poor old woman, ’tis dreamin’ you are.”

“Don’t I mind the old days that are through,

When a boy and a colleen afar

Felt the bound and the hurt of it too

As they swung in a dream on a star—

Thiggim-thu,[13]my Old Man, thiggim-thu?”

“Ouisha,

Poor old woman, ’tis dreamin’ you are.”

[12]Moryah is the Celtic equivalent of “I don’t think!”

[12]

Moryah is the Celtic equivalent of “I don’t think!”

[13]“Don’t you understand?”

[13]

“Don’t you understand?”

A STRANGER IN THE CHURCH

’Twas Callagan who jerked the thumb—A mute, interrogating thumb—That set the people staringAt Casey’s lot arriving late.They had in tow a fashion-plateIn tailored garments up-to-date,And patent leathers wearing.From heel to collar shining new(His hair was like a poet’s, too),He went and sat in Casey’s pew,His lofty manners airing.’Twas Mrs. Cooney raised her veil—A handsome, netted, spotted veil—To mop the perspiration;And while she mopped, she took the chanceTo shoot one sly enquiring glance(Which trivial happy circumstanceEscaped his observation).And McEvoy, he stole a look,The while he gravely moved the book.And certain useful bearings tookTo help the situation.’Twas Mac himself who told the yarn—An unauthenticated yarn—While after Mass we waited,Of bank account, and purse, and pelf(“But, faith, he was a pagan elf—I never seen him bless himselfNor read his book,” Mac stated)So there and then we made a bidTo find his secret where ’twas hid;We found out what his father did,And how he was related.’Twas brother Jim made up his mind—A calculating, jealous mind—That “that there toff” was courting.He saw him smile when Mary spoke,He watched him help with Mary’s cloak,And drive away with Mary’s folk,At Mary’s side disporting.And Mary looked so coy and trim—At least it seemed that way to Jim—And this it was that rattled him,Each trifle misreporting.

’Twas Callagan who jerked the thumb—

A mute, interrogating thumb—

That set the people staring

At Casey’s lot arriving late.

They had in tow a fashion-plate

In tailored garments up-to-date,

And patent leathers wearing.

From heel to collar shining new

(His hair was like a poet’s, too),

He went and sat in Casey’s pew,

His lofty manners airing.

’Twas Mrs. Cooney raised her veil—A handsome, netted, spotted veil—To mop the perspiration;And while she mopped, she took the chanceTo shoot one sly enquiring glance(Which trivial happy circumstanceEscaped his observation).And McEvoy, he stole a look,The while he gravely moved the book.And certain useful bearings tookTo help the situation.

’Twas Mrs. Cooney raised her veil—

A handsome, netted, spotted veil—

To mop the perspiration;

And while she mopped, she took the chance

To shoot one sly enquiring glance

(Which trivial happy circumstance

Escaped his observation).

And McEvoy, he stole a look,

The while he gravely moved the book.

And certain useful bearings took

To help the situation.

’Twas Mac himself who told the yarn—An unauthenticated yarn—While after Mass we waited,Of bank account, and purse, and pelf(“But, faith, he was a pagan elf—I never seen him bless himselfNor read his book,” Mac stated)So there and then we made a bidTo find his secret where ’twas hid;We found out what his father did,And how he was related.

’Twas Mac himself who told the yarn—

An unauthenticated yarn—

While after Mass we waited,

Of bank account, and purse, and pelf

(“But, faith, he was a pagan elf—

I never seen him bless himself

Nor read his book,” Mac stated)

So there and then we made a bid

To find his secret where ’twas hid;

We found out what his father did,

And how he was related.

’Twas brother Jim made up his mind—A calculating, jealous mind—That “that there toff” was courting.He saw him smile when Mary spoke,He watched him help with Mary’s cloak,And drive away with Mary’s folk,At Mary’s side disporting.And Mary looked so coy and trim—At least it seemed that way to Jim—And this it was that rattled him,Each trifle misreporting.

’Twas brother Jim made up his mind—

A calculating, jealous mind—

That “that there toff” was courting.

He saw him smile when Mary spoke,

He watched him help with Mary’s cloak,

And drive away with Mary’s folk,

At Mary’s side disporting.

And Mary looked so coy and trim—

At least it seemed that way to Jim—

And this it was that rattled him,

Each trifle misreporting.

TELL ME, WHAT’S A GIRL TO DO?

Tell me, what’s a girl to doWhen the gossoons court and cozen?Some have none and some have two,More can count a baker’s dozen.Mary, Mary, by and by,With the woman in you wakin’,Boundin’ heart and laughin’ eye,There’ll be murder, no mistakin’.Cornered sits each captive ladGazin’ vacant at the rafter,Talkin’ wisdom with your dad—Faith, it isn’t him they’re after.Wisha, Mary, there you beNeat and sweet and fair and fetchin’,Heart-whole still and fancy-free!Yer’, Acushla, but ’tis ketchin’.One can give you gold galore;Life with gilded gauds he’d smotherOne can give you something more,Love, that ne’er can love another.Boundin’ heart, and laughin’ eye,In the twinklin’ sunlight walkin’;Love, you tell me, passes by—Wisha, Mary, don’t be talkin’.

Tell me, what’s a girl to do

When the gossoons court and cozen?

Some have none and some have two,

More can count a baker’s dozen.

Mary, Mary, by and by,

With the woman in you wakin’,

Boundin’ heart and laughin’ eye,

There’ll be murder, no mistakin’.

Cornered sits each captive ladGazin’ vacant at the rafter,Talkin’ wisdom with your dad—Faith, it isn’t him they’re after.Wisha, Mary, there you beNeat and sweet and fair and fetchin’,Heart-whole still and fancy-free!Yer’, Acushla, but ’tis ketchin’.

Cornered sits each captive lad

Gazin’ vacant at the rafter,

Talkin’ wisdom with your dad—

Faith, it isn’t him they’re after.

Wisha, Mary, there you be

Neat and sweet and fair and fetchin’,

Heart-whole still and fancy-free!

Yer’, Acushla, but ’tis ketchin’.

One can give you gold galore;Life with gilded gauds he’d smotherOne can give you something more,Love, that ne’er can love another.Boundin’ heart, and laughin’ eye,In the twinklin’ sunlight walkin’;Love, you tell me, passes by—Wisha, Mary, don’t be talkin’.

One can give you gold galore;

Life with gilded gauds he’d smother

One can give you something more,

Love, that ne’er can love another.

Boundin’ heart, and laughin’ eye,

In the twinklin’ sunlight walkin’;

Love, you tell me, passes by—

Wisha, Mary, don’t be talkin’.

THE WIREE’S SONG

The wiree sang that Christmas Day,A rippling, limpid, liquid layIn clump and cover trilling;On ripened grain and gleaming roadThe molten, golden sunlight glowed,The lone land’s rapture stilling.And health and strength and youth and graceWere gathered down at Casey’s placeIn mirthful mood of madness;While, hidden in the currajong,The wiree sang his limpid song,Responsive to the gladness.And Mary sparkled everywhere,The sunlight weaving through her hairThe colours of December;Ah, two shall strive—but one shall winAnd one shall feel the javelin’Twere poison to remember!The silent bush that Christmas DayIn molten, golden sunlight lay,Nor bough nor leaf a-tremble;All hushed and mute, it seemed asleep,Or wrapped away in musings deepThat sleep itself resemble.One voice the outer spaces filled—That lilting lay the wiree trilled,Like raptures of a lover,“Wir-ree, Wir-ee, Itchong, Itchong”—Then rippled through its liquid song,Leaf-hidden in the cover.And one has seen the love ariseTo shade the light of laughing eyesLike white clouds in December;But one has felt the piercing pangThat thrilled the song the wiree sang—And he shall still remember.

The wiree sang that Christmas Day,A rippling, limpid, liquid layIn clump and cover trilling;On ripened grain and gleaming roadThe molten, golden sunlight glowed,The lone land’s rapture stilling.

The wiree sang that Christmas Day,

A rippling, limpid, liquid lay

In clump and cover trilling;

On ripened grain and gleaming road

The molten, golden sunlight glowed,

The lone land’s rapture stilling.

And health and strength and youth and graceWere gathered down at Casey’s placeIn mirthful mood of madness;While, hidden in the currajong,The wiree sang his limpid song,Responsive to the gladness.

And health and strength and youth and grace

Were gathered down at Casey’s place

In mirthful mood of madness;

While, hidden in the currajong,

The wiree sang his limpid song,

Responsive to the gladness.

And Mary sparkled everywhere,The sunlight weaving through her hairThe colours of December;Ah, two shall strive—but one shall winAnd one shall feel the javelin’Twere poison to remember!

And Mary sparkled everywhere,

The sunlight weaving through her hair

The colours of December;

Ah, two shall strive—but one shall win

And one shall feel the javelin

’Twere poison to remember!

The silent bush that Christmas DayIn molten, golden sunlight lay,Nor bough nor leaf a-tremble;All hushed and mute, it seemed asleep,Or wrapped away in musings deepThat sleep itself resemble.

The silent bush that Christmas Day

In molten, golden sunlight lay,

Nor bough nor leaf a-tremble;

All hushed and mute, it seemed asleep,

Or wrapped away in musings deep

That sleep itself resemble.

One voice the outer spaces filled—That lilting lay the wiree trilled,Like raptures of a lover,“Wir-ree, Wir-ee, Itchong, Itchong”—Then rippled through its liquid song,Leaf-hidden in the cover.

One voice the outer spaces filled—

That lilting lay the wiree trilled,

Like raptures of a lover,

“Wir-ree, Wir-ee, Itchong, Itchong”—

Then rippled through its liquid song,

Leaf-hidden in the cover.

And one has seen the love ariseTo shade the light of laughing eyesLike white clouds in December;But one has felt the piercing pangThat thrilled the song the wiree sang—And he shall still remember.

And one has seen the love arise

To shade the light of laughing eyes

Like white clouds in December;

But one has felt the piercing pang

That thrilled the song the wiree sang—

And he shall still remember.

WISHA, WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH JIM?

“Wisha, what is the matter with Jim, I dunno?Is he right in the mind for this last week or so?Or has he come in for a station?He is trapesin’ around, and he’s treadin’ on air,He is brushin’ the clothes, and he’s doin’ the hair;He is like a play-actor at times, I declare,And his antics they beggar creation.“Like a sheep-killing dog he’ll be vanishing quite,If you leave him one moment get out of your sight,With the fire and the fever prevailin’;While his horse is worn down to the skin and the boneFrom the hours that he keeps. If you let him alone,To the Caseys’ he’d canter across on his own,And tie himself up to the palin’.”There’s a track, through the timber that rambles along,And a cantering horse vamps the time to a songThat the heart of a dreamer is singing.There are bells for a wedding that ring in the breeze,That sound in the grass that is brushing his knees;And down in the crowfoot, and up in the treesThey’re ringing, and ringing, and ringing.

“Wisha, what is the matter with Jim, I dunno?

Is he right in the mind for this last week or so?

Or has he come in for a station?

He is trapesin’ around, and he’s treadin’ on air,

He is brushin’ the clothes, and he’s doin’ the hair;

He is like a play-actor at times, I declare,

And his antics they beggar creation.

“Like a sheep-killing dog he’ll be vanishing quite,If you leave him one moment get out of your sight,With the fire and the fever prevailin’;While his horse is worn down to the skin and the boneFrom the hours that he keeps. If you let him alone,To the Caseys’ he’d canter across on his own,And tie himself up to the palin’.”

“Like a sheep-killing dog he’ll be vanishing quite,

If you leave him one moment get out of your sight,

With the fire and the fever prevailin’;

While his horse is worn down to the skin and the bone

From the hours that he keeps. If you let him alone,

To the Caseys’ he’d canter across on his own,

And tie himself up to the palin’.”

There’s a track, through the timber that rambles along,And a cantering horse vamps the time to a songThat the heart of a dreamer is singing.There are bells for a wedding that ring in the breeze,That sound in the grass that is brushing his knees;And down in the crowfoot, and up in the treesThey’re ringing, and ringing, and ringing.

There’s a track, through the timber that rambles along,

And a cantering horse vamps the time to a song

That the heart of a dreamer is singing.

There are bells for a wedding that ring in the breeze,

That sound in the grass that is brushing his knees;

And down in the crowfoot, and up in the trees

They’re ringing, and ringing, and ringing.

SAID THE WHITE-HAIRED PRIEST

Said the white-haired priest, “So the boy has come,And the old, old dreams are o’er you,And you give no thought to the gray humdrumOf the world that lies before you!’Tis a queer old world; ’tis a jumble wildWhere the fairest hopes may smother;Ay, and things are just as they seem, my child,To the likes of your fine old mother.“Put the dreams one side; give your head a chance,For the heart discerns but poorly,And it beats the time of a mad wild dance,When a lover has gripped it surely.There is one wise heart in the wanton whirl,Though you find through life no other;And it beats with a sober pulse, my girl,In the breast of your grand old mother.“Let them paint fresh colours on vale and hill,Let them say new flowers bloom brighter;’Tis the same old rut on the highway stillWhich she trod when her steps were lighterAnd the same old hopes that her way beguiled,And the same old griefs,—no other,Ah, they wait hard by for yourself, my child,As they did for your poor old mother.“On her tired breast shall you tell your taleWhen the drifting doubts distress you;You shall kneel to her in your bridal veil,And no holier hands shall bless you.Put your young bright head, with its wealth of curl,By that old white head of the other,And entwine the gold with the gray, my girl,By the side of your dear old mother.“Though her eyes be weary and dim to-day,In the shade of the dusk advancingShe sees the visions along the wayWhere your young swift feet are dancing;At your fond sweet dreams she has gently smiled!—Yes, and you will smile at anotherWhen you see the tinsel and sham, my child,With the eyes of your wise old mother.“Then go to her side and your story tellWith its hopes and its fears completed:She will understand, ah, she knows it well,It is merely her own repeated.She will fold you close, and the tides that swellIn your bosoms shall choke and smother;Oh, it’s blessed indeed is the bride, my girl,When she kneels by a gray old mother.”

Said the white-haired priest, “So the boy has come,

And the old, old dreams are o’er you,

And you give no thought to the gray humdrum

Of the world that lies before you!

’Tis a queer old world; ’tis a jumble wild

Where the fairest hopes may smother;

Ay, and things are just as they seem, my child,

To the likes of your fine old mother.

“Put the dreams one side; give your head a chance,For the heart discerns but poorly,And it beats the time of a mad wild dance,When a lover has gripped it surely.There is one wise heart in the wanton whirl,Though you find through life no other;And it beats with a sober pulse, my girl,In the breast of your grand old mother.

“Put the dreams one side; give your head a chance,

For the heart discerns but poorly,

And it beats the time of a mad wild dance,

When a lover has gripped it surely.

There is one wise heart in the wanton whirl,

Though you find through life no other;

And it beats with a sober pulse, my girl,

In the breast of your grand old mother.

“Let them paint fresh colours on vale and hill,Let them say new flowers bloom brighter;’Tis the same old rut on the highway stillWhich she trod when her steps were lighterAnd the same old hopes that her way beguiled,And the same old griefs,—no other,Ah, they wait hard by for yourself, my child,As they did for your poor old mother.

“Let them paint fresh colours on vale and hill,

Let them say new flowers bloom brighter;

’Tis the same old rut on the highway still

Which she trod when her steps were lighter

And the same old hopes that her way beguiled,

And the same old griefs,—no other,

Ah, they wait hard by for yourself, my child,

As they did for your poor old mother.

“On her tired breast shall you tell your taleWhen the drifting doubts distress you;You shall kneel to her in your bridal veil,And no holier hands shall bless you.Put your young bright head, with its wealth of curl,By that old white head of the other,And entwine the gold with the gray, my girl,By the side of your dear old mother.

“On her tired breast shall you tell your tale

When the drifting doubts distress you;

You shall kneel to her in your bridal veil,

And no holier hands shall bless you.

Put your young bright head, with its wealth of curl,

By that old white head of the other,

And entwine the gold with the gray, my girl,

By the side of your dear old mother.

“Though her eyes be weary and dim to-day,In the shade of the dusk advancingShe sees the visions along the wayWhere your young swift feet are dancing;At your fond sweet dreams she has gently smiled!—Yes, and you will smile at anotherWhen you see the tinsel and sham, my child,With the eyes of your wise old mother.

“Though her eyes be weary and dim to-day,

In the shade of the dusk advancing

She sees the visions along the way

Where your young swift feet are dancing;

At your fond sweet dreams she has gently smiled!—

Yes, and you will smile at another

When you see the tinsel and sham, my child,

With the eyes of your wise old mother.

“Then go to her side and your story tellWith its hopes and its fears completed:She will understand, ah, she knows it well,It is merely her own repeated.She will fold you close, and the tides that swellIn your bosoms shall choke and smother;Oh, it’s blessed indeed is the bride, my girl,When she kneels by a gray old mother.”

“Then go to her side and your story tell

With its hopes and its fears completed:

She will understand, ah, she knows it well,

It is merely her own repeated.

She will fold you close, and the tides that swell

In your bosoms shall choke and smother;

Oh, it’s blessed indeed is the bride, my girl,

When she kneels by a gray old mother.”

HONEYMOONING FROM THE COUNTRY

To the rooms where I am dining in the glaring city’s dayCome the happy honeymooners from the country far away,Two days old, and very awkward as they wander straight ahead,Much too careful lest the people should suspect them country-bred.He’s a well set-up young fellow; she’s a dainty little bride;And he follows where she leads him with the bush swing in his stride,Makes himself at home—or tries to—with defiance in his stare,Thinks he’s in the old bush kitchen with his hat beneath the chair.Every eye is turned upon them, and the kindly smiles that flitO’er the faces of the diners seem to bless them where they sit;But for me the past revives with thronging memories in its train.And I’m thinking that it’s Jim and Laughing Mary once again.Don’t I see it all before me? and I feel the mood is good—There’s the horse tied by the sliprails, and a hole worn where he stood;There’s the dreamer riding homewards while the same old fancies throng,With the same old stars a-staring, and the same old lilting song.There’s the “talkin’ matters over,” “gettin’ all arrangements straight,”Mum and Dad in the committee for the fixing of the date;Then the buggies and the jinkers at the church upon the hill,And the ribbons and the garlands, and the flounces and the “frill”;There’s the breakfast down at Mother’s—oh, the planning o’er and o’er,And the murder and the tearing that went on the day before!Working double shifts and bustling—every female in demand—Half the women of the parish round to lend a helping hand,Offering loans to bridge the shortage of the cups and spoons, and thenTying threads around the handles, so they’ll know their own again.Racing in and out and fussing, so to strike the country dumb;But they’ll talk of Mary’s wedding for a score of years to come!Yes, the breakfast down at Mother’s—there’s the long, long table spread,And a houseful of the neighbours with the old priest at their head;And the speeches—Lord, the speeches—hitting hurdles every stride,Full of awkward, heartfelt blessings for the bridegroom and the bride;And the lad himself “respondin’,” when the cheers had died away,Shifting crumbs around the table in the worst speech of the day.Don’t I see it all before me? and my heart and head resentAll the smiles that patronize them, though they may be kindly meant.“Scent of gum-leaves!” ’Tis a byword in the city’s roar and push,Where they do not know the greatness and the kindness of the bush.“Scent of gum-leaves,” so they whisper. Oh, it sweetens not the airIn the overcrowded city, for the spirit is not there.Scent of gum-leaves to be scoffed at in the land that gave them birth!“Scent of gum-leaves”—cease your jargon. ’Tis the finest scent on earth.Ay, it clung around the Anzacs when they stormed Gallipoli;And it steeps the nation-builders from the centre to the sea.Speed the day when all united, heart to heart and hand to hand,We’ll proclaim the scent of gum-leaves to be sacred in the land.* * * * *But my honeymooners leave me, and I watch them passing through—They are homesick for the freshness of the open spaces, too—So they gather up their bundles, and they wander home againBack to where the morning magpies lather out the old refrain,Back to love in fullest measure, pressed and flowing overtop,Through the green months and the brown months, in the house behind the crop.From the overcrowded city, from the bustle and the pushPass my sturdy, happy couples who are sticking to the bush.

To the rooms where I am dining in the glaring city’s day

Come the happy honeymooners from the country far away,

Two days old, and very awkward as they wander straight ahead,

Much too careful lest the people should suspect them country-bred.

He’s a well set-up young fellow; she’s a dainty little bride;

And he follows where she leads him with the bush swing in his stride,

Makes himself at home—or tries to—with defiance in his stare,

Thinks he’s in the old bush kitchen with his hat beneath the chair.

Every eye is turned upon them, and the kindly smiles that flit

O’er the faces of the diners seem to bless them where they sit;

But for me the past revives with thronging memories in its train.

And I’m thinking that it’s Jim and Laughing Mary once again.

Don’t I see it all before me? and I feel the mood is good—

There’s the horse tied by the sliprails, and a hole worn where he stood;

There’s the dreamer riding homewards while the same old fancies throng,

With the same old stars a-staring, and the same old lilting song.

There’s the “talkin’ matters over,” “gettin’ all arrangements straight,”

Mum and Dad in the committee for the fixing of the date;

Then the buggies and the jinkers at the church upon the hill,

And the ribbons and the garlands, and the flounces and the “frill”;

There’s the breakfast down at Mother’s—oh, the planning o’er and o’er,

And the murder and the tearing that went on the day before!

Working double shifts and bustling—every female in demand—

Half the women of the parish round to lend a helping hand,

Offering loans to bridge the shortage of the cups and spoons, and then

Tying threads around the handles, so they’ll know their own again.

Racing in and out and fussing, so to strike the country dumb;

But they’ll talk of Mary’s wedding for a score of years to come!

Yes, the breakfast down at Mother’s—there’s the long, long table spread,

And a houseful of the neighbours with the old priest at their head;

And the speeches—Lord, the speeches—hitting hurdles every stride,

Full of awkward, heartfelt blessings for the bridegroom and the bride;

And the lad himself “respondin’,” when the cheers had died away,

Shifting crumbs around the table in the worst speech of the day.

Don’t I see it all before me? and my heart and head resent

All the smiles that patronize them, though they may be kindly meant.

“Scent of gum-leaves!” ’Tis a byword in the city’s roar and push,

Where they do not know the greatness and the kindness of the bush.

“Scent of gum-leaves,” so they whisper. Oh, it sweetens not the air

In the overcrowded city, for the spirit is not there.

Scent of gum-leaves to be scoffed at in the land that gave them birth!

“Scent of gum-leaves”—cease your jargon. ’Tis the finest scent on earth.

Ay, it clung around the Anzacs when they stormed Gallipoli;

And it steeps the nation-builders from the centre to the sea.

Speed the day when all united, heart to heart and hand to hand,

We’ll proclaim the scent of gum-leaves to be sacred in the land.

* * * * *

But my honeymooners leave me, and I watch them passing through—They are homesick for the freshness of the open spaces, too—So they gather up their bundles, and they wander home againBack to where the morning magpies lather out the old refrain,Back to love in fullest measure, pressed and flowing overtop,Through the green months and the brown months, in the house behind the crop.From the overcrowded city, from the bustle and the pushPass my sturdy, happy couples who are sticking to the bush.

But my honeymooners leave me, and I watch them passing through—

They are homesick for the freshness of the open spaces, too—

So they gather up their bundles, and they wander home again

Back to where the morning magpies lather out the old refrain,

Back to love in fullest measure, pressed and flowing overtop,

Through the green months and the brown months, in the house behind the crop.

From the overcrowded city, from the bustle and the push

Pass my sturdy, happy couples who are sticking to the bush.

MAKING HOME

No, you don’t quite get the meaning when the fun is at its heightWith the neighbours at the breakfast, and the world is warm and bright;And it doesn’t come upon you when you’re driving to the train;What with wrastling with the luggage, you’ve no time to feel the pain,But it grips you like a footpad, making home,And you feel the sun will never drive the dark away again,Making home.Yes, you go in with the rest to see your married girl away;There’s a mopy feeling round you, and you’ve nothing much to say;So you crack a joke to mend things, but you make them worse instead.Yet the loving words in hundreds are a-running through your head,Welling from a heart that’s melting, making home,Interrupted by the stabbing of that wretched thing you said,Making home.When the women start a-crying, just to show how glad they feel,And you rouse upon “herself” a bit to keep the tears to heel,It’s a lot of silly business, and the whole thing gets you beat;So before you realize it, you are climbing to the seatOf your buggy, with the missus, making home,And the old horse clouts the metal with his heavy awkward feet,Making home.You get glimpses through the timber of the lights a-sliding by,You can see the red reflection palpitating in the sky;You can hear the easy puffing as she swings into her stride,And you feel a sort of pigmy in a world that’s cold and wide,With the wise old stars above you, making home,While you’ve got a notion someone is a-sobbing by your side,Making home.Then the past shows up before you every ghost you thought had fled,Everything you did unkindly, every peevish word you said;And the poor old woman, battling with the tears that blind and ache,She’s been showering love around her all for someone else’s sake,And it starts your mind a-wondering, making home,Whether what you’ve been attending was a wedding or a wake,Making home.So you pull up at the stable, take the harness off the horse,Hit your shins against a bucket—well, it does no good, of course.There’s a gloom around the kitchen where the banquet still is spread,And the cat upon the rocking-chair is sleeping like the dead,While the ghosts come leering at you, and you’re home,And “herself” she lights the candle, and she goes straight off to bed,When you’re home.But you don’t feel much like sleeping with the throbbing in your brain,And your heart is on a journey vagabonding with a train;So you peel the choking collar off, and get out in the cool,Where you light your pipe and smoke upon the old verandah stool,Thinking matters slowly over when you’re home,Winding back the skein that somehow’s got entangled on the spool,When you’re home.Here’s the little home you started when your hopes were all aglow;Them’s the currajongs you planted five-and-thirty year ago;This here sixty-acre paddock was the first you called your own;That there clearing was a forest, with the timber overgrown.So you start a-recollecting, when you’re home.Five-and-thirty years have flitted, and you don’t know where they’ve flown,When you’re home.Here you’ve been along to-night to see the married girl away,And you rocked her in her cradle—well, it seems but yesterday;And “herself” you thought she looked so old, and bent and worn with care—Five-and-thirty slaving winters pile the snows on heart and hair—And you find that you’re an old man, making Home;And the mile-posts on the road have got behind you unaware,Making Home.There were joys your heart was craving, but you never gathered them;Fragrant buds that yearned to blossom, but you hacked them from the stem;Hearts of children, erring sometimes—ah, but golden through and through,Beating back to where you led them, big with love of home and you!Now you see them in the distance, making Home,Like the three red lights you watched to-night receding from your view,Making home.So you sit with eyes wide open, seeing where you’ve been the fool,Wise with wisdom born of sorrow, smoking, thinking in the cool,Reckoning him God’s new apostle who is busy being kind,Hearing angel voices chant it in the music of the wind—Chastened, lonely, and so weary; making Home,Praying God to pardon what you’ve been because your eyes were blind,Making Home.

No, you don’t quite get the meaning when the fun is at its height

With the neighbours at the breakfast, and the world is warm and bright;

And it doesn’t come upon you when you’re driving to the train;

What with wrastling with the luggage, you’ve no time to feel the pain,

But it grips you like a footpad, making home,

And you feel the sun will never drive the dark away again,

Making home.

Yes, you go in with the rest to see your married girl away;There’s a mopy feeling round you, and you’ve nothing much to say;So you crack a joke to mend things, but you make them worse instead.Yet the loving words in hundreds are a-running through your head,Welling from a heart that’s melting, making home,Interrupted by the stabbing of that wretched thing you said,Making home.

Yes, you go in with the rest to see your married girl away;

There’s a mopy feeling round you, and you’ve nothing much to say;

So you crack a joke to mend things, but you make them worse instead.

Yet the loving words in hundreds are a-running through your head,

Welling from a heart that’s melting, making home,

Interrupted by the stabbing of that wretched thing you said,

Making home.

When the women start a-crying, just to show how glad they feel,And you rouse upon “herself” a bit to keep the tears to heel,It’s a lot of silly business, and the whole thing gets you beat;So before you realize it, you are climbing to the seatOf your buggy, with the missus, making home,And the old horse clouts the metal with his heavy awkward feet,Making home.

When the women start a-crying, just to show how glad they feel,

And you rouse upon “herself” a bit to keep the tears to heel,

It’s a lot of silly business, and the whole thing gets you beat;

So before you realize it, you are climbing to the seat

Of your buggy, with the missus, making home,

And the old horse clouts the metal with his heavy awkward feet,

Making home.

You get glimpses through the timber of the lights a-sliding by,You can see the red reflection palpitating in the sky;You can hear the easy puffing as she swings into her stride,And you feel a sort of pigmy in a world that’s cold and wide,With the wise old stars above you, making home,While you’ve got a notion someone is a-sobbing by your side,Making home.

You get glimpses through the timber of the lights a-sliding by,

You can see the red reflection palpitating in the sky;

You can hear the easy puffing as she swings into her stride,

And you feel a sort of pigmy in a world that’s cold and wide,

With the wise old stars above you, making home,

While you’ve got a notion someone is a-sobbing by your side,

Making home.

Then the past shows up before you every ghost you thought had fled,Everything you did unkindly, every peevish word you said;And the poor old woman, battling with the tears that blind and ache,She’s been showering love around her all for someone else’s sake,And it starts your mind a-wondering, making home,Whether what you’ve been attending was a wedding or a wake,Making home.

Then the past shows up before you every ghost you thought had fled,

Everything you did unkindly, every peevish word you said;

And the poor old woman, battling with the tears that blind and ache,

She’s been showering love around her all for someone else’s sake,

And it starts your mind a-wondering, making home,

Whether what you’ve been attending was a wedding or a wake,

Making home.

So you pull up at the stable, take the harness off the horse,Hit your shins against a bucket—well, it does no good, of course.There’s a gloom around the kitchen where the banquet still is spread,And the cat upon the rocking-chair is sleeping like the dead,While the ghosts come leering at you, and you’re home,And “herself” she lights the candle, and she goes straight off to bed,When you’re home.

So you pull up at the stable, take the harness off the horse,

Hit your shins against a bucket—well, it does no good, of course.

There’s a gloom around the kitchen where the banquet still is spread,

And the cat upon the rocking-chair is sleeping like the dead,

While the ghosts come leering at you, and you’re home,

And “herself” she lights the candle, and she goes straight off to bed,

When you’re home.

But you don’t feel much like sleeping with the throbbing in your brain,And your heart is on a journey vagabonding with a train;So you peel the choking collar off, and get out in the cool,Where you light your pipe and smoke upon the old verandah stool,Thinking matters slowly over when you’re home,Winding back the skein that somehow’s got entangled on the spool,When you’re home.

But you don’t feel much like sleeping with the throbbing in your brain,

And your heart is on a journey vagabonding with a train;

So you peel the choking collar off, and get out in the cool,

Where you light your pipe and smoke upon the old verandah stool,

Thinking matters slowly over when you’re home,

Winding back the skein that somehow’s got entangled on the spool,

When you’re home.

Here’s the little home you started when your hopes were all aglow;Them’s the currajongs you planted five-and-thirty year ago;This here sixty-acre paddock was the first you called your own;That there clearing was a forest, with the timber overgrown.So you start a-recollecting, when you’re home.Five-and-thirty years have flitted, and you don’t know where they’ve flown,When you’re home.

Here’s the little home you started when your hopes were all aglow;

Them’s the currajongs you planted five-and-thirty year ago;

This here sixty-acre paddock was the first you called your own;

That there clearing was a forest, with the timber overgrown.

So you start a-recollecting, when you’re home.

Five-and-thirty years have flitted, and you don’t know where they’ve flown,

When you’re home.

Here you’ve been along to-night to see the married girl away,And you rocked her in her cradle—well, it seems but yesterday;And “herself” you thought she looked so old, and bent and worn with care—Five-and-thirty slaving winters pile the snows on heart and hair—And you find that you’re an old man, making Home;And the mile-posts on the road have got behind you unaware,Making Home.

Here you’ve been along to-night to see the married girl away,

And you rocked her in her cradle—well, it seems but yesterday;

And “herself” you thought she looked so old, and bent and worn with care—

Five-and-thirty slaving winters pile the snows on heart and hair—

And you find that you’re an old man, making Home;

And the mile-posts on the road have got behind you unaware,

Making Home.

There were joys your heart was craving, but you never gathered them;Fragrant buds that yearned to blossom, but you hacked them from the stem;Hearts of children, erring sometimes—ah, but golden through and through,Beating back to where you led them, big with love of home and you!Now you see them in the distance, making Home,Like the three red lights you watched to-night receding from your view,Making home.

There were joys your heart was craving, but you never gathered them;

Fragrant buds that yearned to blossom, but you hacked them from the stem;

Hearts of children, erring sometimes—ah, but golden through and through,

Beating back to where you led them, big with love of home and you!

Now you see them in the distance, making Home,

Like the three red lights you watched to-night receding from your view,

Making home.

So you sit with eyes wide open, seeing where you’ve been the fool,Wise with wisdom born of sorrow, smoking, thinking in the cool,Reckoning him God’s new apostle who is busy being kind,Hearing angel voices chant it in the music of the wind—Chastened, lonely, and so weary; making Home,Praying God to pardon what you’ve been because your eyes were blind,Making Home.

So you sit with eyes wide open, seeing where you’ve been the fool,

Wise with wisdom born of sorrow, smoking, thinking in the cool,

Reckoning him God’s new apostle who is busy being kind,

Hearing angel voices chant it in the music of the wind—

Chastened, lonely, and so weary; making Home,

Praying God to pardon what you’ve been because your eyes were blind,

Making Home.

COULD I HEAR THE KOOKABURRAS ONCE AGAIN

May a fading fancy hover round a gladness that is over?May a dreamer in the silence rake the ashes of the past?So a spirit might awaken in the best the years have taken,And the love that left him lonely might be with him at the last.While he searches in the by-ways, shall his heart forget the highwaysWhere the sunburnt arms are toiling in the sunshine and the rain,Where the simple things and lowly make their lives sublime and holy,And the kookaburras chorus once again?There’s a little house a-peeping o’er the swaying and the sweepingOf the wheat that nods and ripples as the breezes skim its top;And the days of pioneering in the ringing and the clearingSee the first-born of their labours in the house behind the crop.There the fallow land is showing where the box and pine were growing,And a sweet hope gilds the future with the colour of the grain;Gentle visions softly tripping in the ploughing and the stripping,While the kookaburras chorus once again.Let a dying fancy hover round the glories that are over;Lift a song to sing the present—to the hopeless hope impart—For above the past’s bewailing, golden-writ but unavailing,Is the simple little ditty that can cheer a drooping heart.Lift it high for all to hear it. In the Helper’s love endear it,And my ageing heart shall hasten to applaud the sweet refrain;Yes, I’d feel the pulses stirring to the splendid truth recurring,Could I hear the kookaburras once again.Could I hear them as I heard them when the joy of living spurred them,When the world was clean and wholesome and they laughed the gloom away,All the fatal fiction scorning that the canvas of the morningIs but splashed with faded colours from the brush of yesterday.Oh, I’d bless them and I’d cheer them, could I wander off and hear themBoom the head-lights of the coming day that sweep the hills amain,For I’d know the tocsin sounding of a fuller hope abounding,Could I hear them hail the dawning once again.To no age in all the story of the bearded years and hoaryWould I yield the future’s promise in the mould of progress cast;Still, a fading fancy lingers, while the touch of gentle fingersMoves aside the sombre curtain that was drawn across the past.Come the fairy visions winging, come the laughter and the singing,But the shadows fall around me and the echo dies in pain;Yet I’d feel the wings that bore me when the world was all before me,Could I hear the kookaburras once again.

May a fading fancy hover round a gladness that is over?

May a dreamer in the silence rake the ashes of the past?

So a spirit might awaken in the best the years have taken,

And the love that left him lonely might be with him at the last.

While he searches in the by-ways, shall his heart forget the highways

Where the sunburnt arms are toiling in the sunshine and the rain,

Where the simple things and lowly make their lives sublime and holy,

And the kookaburras chorus once again?

There’s a little house a-peeping o’er the swaying and the sweepingOf the wheat that nods and ripples as the breezes skim its top;And the days of pioneering in the ringing and the clearingSee the first-born of their labours in the house behind the crop.There the fallow land is showing where the box and pine were growing,And a sweet hope gilds the future with the colour of the grain;Gentle visions softly tripping in the ploughing and the stripping,While the kookaburras chorus once again.

There’s a little house a-peeping o’er the swaying and the sweeping

Of the wheat that nods and ripples as the breezes skim its top;

And the days of pioneering in the ringing and the clearing

See the first-born of their labours in the house behind the crop.

There the fallow land is showing where the box and pine were growing,

And a sweet hope gilds the future with the colour of the grain;

Gentle visions softly tripping in the ploughing and the stripping,

While the kookaburras chorus once again.

Let a dying fancy hover round the glories that are over;Lift a song to sing the present—to the hopeless hope impart—For above the past’s bewailing, golden-writ but unavailing,Is the simple little ditty that can cheer a drooping heart.Lift it high for all to hear it. In the Helper’s love endear it,And my ageing heart shall hasten to applaud the sweet refrain;Yes, I’d feel the pulses stirring to the splendid truth recurring,Could I hear the kookaburras once again.

Let a dying fancy hover round the glories that are over;

Lift a song to sing the present—to the hopeless hope impart—

For above the past’s bewailing, golden-writ but unavailing,

Is the simple little ditty that can cheer a drooping heart.

Lift it high for all to hear it. In the Helper’s love endear it,

And my ageing heart shall hasten to applaud the sweet refrain;

Yes, I’d feel the pulses stirring to the splendid truth recurring,

Could I hear the kookaburras once again.

Could I hear them as I heard them when the joy of living spurred them,When the world was clean and wholesome and they laughed the gloom away,All the fatal fiction scorning that the canvas of the morningIs but splashed with faded colours from the brush of yesterday.Oh, I’d bless them and I’d cheer them, could I wander off and hear themBoom the head-lights of the coming day that sweep the hills amain,For I’d know the tocsin sounding of a fuller hope abounding,Could I hear them hail the dawning once again.

Could I hear them as I heard them when the joy of living spurred them,

When the world was clean and wholesome and they laughed the gloom away,

All the fatal fiction scorning that the canvas of the morning

Is but splashed with faded colours from the brush of yesterday.

Oh, I’d bless them and I’d cheer them, could I wander off and hear them

Boom the head-lights of the coming day that sweep the hills amain,

For I’d know the tocsin sounding of a fuller hope abounding,

Could I hear them hail the dawning once again.

To no age in all the story of the bearded years and hoaryWould I yield the future’s promise in the mould of progress cast;Still, a fading fancy lingers, while the touch of gentle fingersMoves aside the sombre curtain that was drawn across the past.Come the fairy visions winging, come the laughter and the singing,But the shadows fall around me and the echo dies in pain;Yet I’d feel the wings that bore me when the world was all before me,Could I hear the kookaburras once again.

To no age in all the story of the bearded years and hoary

Would I yield the future’s promise in the mould of progress cast;

Still, a fading fancy lingers, while the touch of gentle fingers

Moves aside the sombre curtain that was drawn across the past.

Come the fairy visions winging, come the laughter and the singing,

But the shadows fall around me and the echo dies in pain;

Yet I’d feel the wings that bore me when the world was all before me,

Could I hear the kookaburras once again.

COME, SING AUSTRALIAN SONGS TO ME!

Come, Little One, and sing to meA song our big wide land to bless,Around whose gentle parent-kneeWe’ve twined the flowers of kindliness.Your eyes are clear Australian blue,Your voice like soft bush breezes blown;Her sunshine steeps the heart of you,Your tresses are the wattle’s own.What, no Australian song, my child,No lay of love, no hymn of praise?And yet no mother ever smiledWith our dear country’s winsome ways:You sing the songs of all the earth,Of bower and bloom and bird and bee;And has the land that gave you birthNo haunting, native melody?Your poets’ eager pens awakeThe world-old themes of love and youth.The pulse of life, the joy, the ache,The pregnant line of earnest truth;They dress you these in native guise,And interweave with loving handThe freshness of your rain-washed skies,The colours of your sunlit land.What, no Australian song, my dear?And yet I’ve heard the cottage ringWith notes the world would pause to hear,When at their work your sisters sing.They sing the songs of all the earth,Of tender sky, and dimpling sea,But all their strains have not the worthOf one Australian song, for me.I’ve heard the harp the breezes playAmong the wilding wilga-trees;I’ve swept my world of care awayWhen bush birds lift their melodies;I’ve seen the paddocks all ablazeWhen spring in golden glory comes,The purple hills of summer days,The autumn ochres through the gums;I’ve seen the bright folk riding inO’er blooms that deck the clovered plain,And neath the trees, when moonbeams spinTheir silver-dappled counterpane.What, no Australian song, my pet?No patriot note on native horn,To bind the hearts in kindness met,And link the leal Australian-born?Yet every exile, wandering loneOur happy careless homes among,May live the best his heart has knownWhene’er his country’s songs are sung.You sing the songs of all the earth,Of alien flower and alien tree:But no one, in my grief or mirth,Will sing Australian songs to me.You sing of every land but mine,Where life is lilting neath the sun.Still all its spirit seems ashineIn you, my little laughing one.Your eyes are clear Australian blue,Your face is towards the future set:The bounding, gladsome heart of youIs hers—and only hers, my pet.Ah, Little One, what dreams would riseIf, nestled here upon my knee,You’d flash those soft Australian eyes,And sing your country’s songs to me!

Come, Little One, and sing to meA song our big wide land to bless,Around whose gentle parent-kneeWe’ve twined the flowers of kindliness.

Come, Little One, and sing to me

A song our big wide land to bless,

Around whose gentle parent-knee

We’ve twined the flowers of kindliness.

Your eyes are clear Australian blue,Your voice like soft bush breezes blown;Her sunshine steeps the heart of you,Your tresses are the wattle’s own.

Your eyes are clear Australian blue,

Your voice like soft bush breezes blown;

Her sunshine steeps the heart of you,

Your tresses are the wattle’s own.

What, no Australian song, my child,No lay of love, no hymn of praise?And yet no mother ever smiledWith our dear country’s winsome ways:

What, no Australian song, my child,

No lay of love, no hymn of praise?

And yet no mother ever smiled

With our dear country’s winsome ways:

You sing the songs of all the earth,Of bower and bloom and bird and bee;And has the land that gave you birthNo haunting, native melody?

You sing the songs of all the earth,

Of bower and bloom and bird and bee;

And has the land that gave you birth

No haunting, native melody?

Your poets’ eager pens awakeThe world-old themes of love and youth.The pulse of life, the joy, the ache,The pregnant line of earnest truth;

Your poets’ eager pens awake

The world-old themes of love and youth.

The pulse of life, the joy, the ache,

The pregnant line of earnest truth;

They dress you these in native guise,And interweave with loving handThe freshness of your rain-washed skies,The colours of your sunlit land.

They dress you these in native guise,

And interweave with loving hand

The freshness of your rain-washed skies,

The colours of your sunlit land.

What, no Australian song, my dear?And yet I’ve heard the cottage ringWith notes the world would pause to hear,When at their work your sisters sing.

What, no Australian song, my dear?

And yet I’ve heard the cottage ring

With notes the world would pause to hear,

When at their work your sisters sing.

They sing the songs of all the earth,Of tender sky, and dimpling sea,But all their strains have not the worthOf one Australian song, for me.

They sing the songs of all the earth,

Of tender sky, and dimpling sea,

But all their strains have not the worth

Of one Australian song, for me.

I’ve heard the harp the breezes playAmong the wilding wilga-trees;I’ve swept my world of care awayWhen bush birds lift their melodies;

I’ve heard the harp the breezes play

Among the wilding wilga-trees;

I’ve swept my world of care away

When bush birds lift their melodies;

I’ve seen the paddocks all ablazeWhen spring in golden glory comes,The purple hills of summer days,The autumn ochres through the gums;

I’ve seen the paddocks all ablaze

When spring in golden glory comes,

The purple hills of summer days,

The autumn ochres through the gums;

I’ve seen the bright folk riding inO’er blooms that deck the clovered plain,And neath the trees, when moonbeams spinTheir silver-dappled counterpane.

I’ve seen the bright folk riding in

O’er blooms that deck the clovered plain,

And neath the trees, when moonbeams spin

Their silver-dappled counterpane.

What, no Australian song, my pet?No patriot note on native horn,To bind the hearts in kindness met,And link the leal Australian-born?

What, no Australian song, my pet?

No patriot note on native horn,

To bind the hearts in kindness met,

And link the leal Australian-born?

Yet every exile, wandering loneOur happy careless homes among,May live the best his heart has knownWhene’er his country’s songs are sung.

Yet every exile, wandering lone

Our happy careless homes among,

May live the best his heart has known

Whene’er his country’s songs are sung.

You sing the songs of all the earth,Of alien flower and alien tree:But no one, in my grief or mirth,Will sing Australian songs to me.

You sing the songs of all the earth,

Of alien flower and alien tree:

But no one, in my grief or mirth,

Will sing Australian songs to me.

You sing of every land but mine,Where life is lilting neath the sun.Still all its spirit seems ashineIn you, my little laughing one.

You sing of every land but mine,

Where life is lilting neath the sun.

Still all its spirit seems ashine

In you, my little laughing one.

Your eyes are clear Australian blue,Your face is towards the future set:The bounding, gladsome heart of youIs hers—and only hers, my pet.

Your eyes are clear Australian blue,

Your face is towards the future set:

The bounding, gladsome heart of you

Is hers—and only hers, my pet.

Ah, Little One, what dreams would riseIf, nestled here upon my knee,You’d flash those soft Australian eyes,And sing your country’s songs to me!

Ah, Little One, what dreams would rise

If, nestled here upon my knee,

You’d flash those soft Australian eyes,

And sing your country’s songs to me!

THE END

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur.Book name and author have been added to the original book cover. The resulting cover is placed in the public domain.

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur.

Book name and author have been added to the original book cover. The resulting cover is placed in the public domain.

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