[113][Illustration: Pointing East]
[115]A WISH—FOR SYDNEY-SIDE.I wishyou a happy New Year,O, faithful old mother of me!May it come with a smile, not a tear,Where Sydney looks out on thesea—On the wings of some wind, blowing free,Where the heads of Port Jackson risesheer—From the heart in my breastAnd the heart of the WestI wish you a happy New Year!While the hands of Luck’s jenny-wheel spinAnd Fortune is ever a-fret,From the voices of homeland and kin,Come the clearest of messages yet:And the nose of my dinghy is setFor the time the gods give me a win!And I waft you a line,Dear old mother of mine!While the hands of Luck’s jenny-wheel spin.[116]But, though Fortune be good or be ill!Though the guerdon be ashes or gold!When the crushing has gone to the millAnd the tale of life’s effort is told,Though the world be grown never so coldThere’s a heart that will beat for me still!And a prayer to fend,And a trust without end,And an old hand to cancel the bill.So I wish you a happy New Year,O, well-loved old mother of me!May it come with no trace of a tearWhen it trips from Eternity’s sea!Oh, for mine! and for thine! and for thee!With a love that is deep and sincere,From the heart in my breast,In the heart of the West,I wish you “A Happy New Year!”[117]AMONGST THE RICKS OF HAY.WhenWestern roads are rough and long,and days are hot and dry:When mulga branches cast no shadeagainst the brazen sky:I throw “Matilda” by the padand let my fancyplay—A-skipping o’er the fields once more,amongst the ricks of hay.Oh, here they come! there’s Joe and Dan!and May, and Kate, and Min.!The old swing gate flies open wideto let the rompers in:For I am friends with all the lot,and trusty chums are they,And all a-troop for hide-a-hoopamongst the ricks of hay.We mashers dress in father’spants—our sweethearts’ trilbiesbare—For we are jolly farmer’s kidswith hayseeds in our hair!And Joe Tresize takes after Kate,and I takes after May,And Dan and Min. like whirlies spinamongst the ricks of hay.[118]And when the rush and romp are o’erwe go in twos andtwos—And oh! the undermining artswe simple urchins use;And oh, the saucy tricks and waysof Kate, and Min., and May!While life’s begun and hearts are wonamongst the ricks of hay.Then safe behind the sheltering wingthese friendly ricks afford,We swear we’re “deep as deep” in love!we are “as true as Gord”!And linked together Jack and Jill,beneath the moonlight grey,With hearts ablaze, we spoon our waysamongst the ricks of hay.Alas! just then a startling voicethrough dream and mistland broke:“A dozen weary mulga milesto Jerry Hogan’s soak!”A fig for that! The miles fly pastto spryer steps andgay—I’ve spent a boyish hour or twoamongst the ricks of hay.[119]KILDEA’S FLOWER FARM.I livewhere the shade is,And rusted Life’s bladeis—The sand-drifts from HadesHave tarnished each charm:But, sober or shicker,My heart-pulse beats quickerWhenever I think ofKildea’s flower farm!’Twas not the green sward, orThe spangled disorderAlong the path borderThat led to their gate;Nor mazes and mazesOf heartsease and daisies,That blossomed so earlyAnd lingered so late:It was not the ringingOf crimson bellsswinging—It was not the singingOf elves in thecorn—Nor fairy beds, ladenWith rose-wreaths from Aidenn,That smiled like a child, inThe face of the morn![120]Ah, the roses so bloomyThat held me and drewme—The thrill that shot through me,’Neath blue skies orgrey—The fear that oppressed me,The hope that caressed me,All dwelt ’neath the bonnetOf Katy Kildea!With callous years flying,And Youth’s fountains drying,One memory undyingLives always attuned:And, if plucked from its setting,Forgot and forgetting,The best of my beingWould flow through the wound!I live where the shadeis—And rusted Life’s bladeis—The sand-drifts from HadesHave tarnished its charm:But, sober or shicker,My heart-pulse beats quickerWhenever I think ofKildea’s flower farm.[121]HIS LETTER FROM W.A.Dear Kitty, I’ve just read the letter yousent—It was brought by the man from the store;And I’m writin’ straight back, as I lay in my tent,Sprawlin’ out at full length on the floor.But the pen ’ll scarce write for the thinkin’ ofyou—Oh, I’m sorry that ever I went!And I have to knock off every minute or two,Just to glance through the letter you sent.It is scarcely six months since I left Cooranbean,But seems longer than all of last year;And the moon ain’t so bright, and the grass ain’t so green,And the sky, somehow, isn’t so clear:Oh, I’d give all their towns, to the very last brick,And their mines, with the forchins they yield,Just to hear the old ripple of Cooranbean crick,And the rustle of corn in the field.There isn’t no “skirts” like the Cooranbean “skirts”!Or no boys like the Cooranbean boys!And there isn’t no parties for fellers and flirts,And there isn’t no dance at Mulroy’s![122]And there isn’t no chance for a couple to spinLike the wind acrost Cherrytree Plain!Where the best of the prizes were kisses towin—And ... there isn’t no Kitty M‘Lean.I can’t find no nuggets, and can’t see no charm,As I wander about in the street;And I long to be back once again on the farm,With the rabbits and rust in the wheat.Oh, then life would want neither a whip or aspur—With a “string,” and a trigger to pull,And just you at my side, and the possums astir,And the moon, our old moon! at thefull ...But if I am dull, and my letters are crook,It is certain that you should know why:For you’ll find Charley’s heart, if you’re carin’ to look,At the gate where he kissed you “Good-bye!”And say, if in a month, on the home-comin’ track,There is anyone’s eyes charnster skim,And they see a young chap with a “port” on hisback—That most likely, Dear Kit., ’ll be him.
I wishyou a happy New Year,O, faithful old mother of me!May it come with a smile, not a tear,Where Sydney looks out on thesea—On the wings of some wind, blowing free,Where the heads of Port Jackson risesheer—From the heart in my breastAnd the heart of the WestI wish you a happy New Year!While the hands of Luck’s jenny-wheel spinAnd Fortune is ever a-fret,From the voices of homeland and kin,Come the clearest of messages yet:And the nose of my dinghy is setFor the time the gods give me a win!And I waft you a line,Dear old mother of mine!While the hands of Luck’s jenny-wheel spin.[116]But, though Fortune be good or be ill!Though the guerdon be ashes or gold!When the crushing has gone to the millAnd the tale of life’s effort is told,Though the world be grown never so coldThere’s a heart that will beat for me still!And a prayer to fend,And a trust without end,And an old hand to cancel the bill.So I wish you a happy New Year,O, well-loved old mother of me!May it come with no trace of a tearWhen it trips from Eternity’s sea!Oh, for mine! and for thine! and for thee!With a love that is deep and sincere,From the heart in my breast,In the heart of the West,I wish you “A Happy New Year!”
I wishyou a happy New Year,O, faithful old mother of me!May it come with a smile, not a tear,Where Sydney looks out on thesea—On the wings of some wind, blowing free,Where the heads of Port Jackson risesheer—From the heart in my breastAnd the heart of the WestI wish you a happy New Year!While the hands of Luck’s jenny-wheel spinAnd Fortune is ever a-fret,From the voices of homeland and kin,Come the clearest of messages yet:And the nose of my dinghy is setFor the time the gods give me a win!And I waft you a line,Dear old mother of mine!While the hands of Luck’s jenny-wheel spin.[116]But, though Fortune be good or be ill!Though the guerdon be ashes or gold!When the crushing has gone to the millAnd the tale of life’s effort is told,Though the world be grown never so coldThere’s a heart that will beat for me still!And a prayer to fend,And a trust without end,And an old hand to cancel the bill.So I wish you a happy New Year,O, well-loved old mother of me!May it come with no trace of a tearWhen it trips from Eternity’s sea!Oh, for mine! and for thine! and for thee!With a love that is deep and sincere,From the heart in my breast,In the heart of the West,I wish you “A Happy New Year!”
I wishyou a happy New Year,O, faithful old mother of me!May it come with a smile, not a tear,Where Sydney looks out on thesea—On the wings of some wind, blowing free,Where the heads of Port Jackson risesheer—From the heart in my breastAnd the heart of the WestI wish you a happy New Year!
I wishyou a happy New Year,
O, faithful old mother of me!
May it come with a smile, not a tear,
Where Sydney looks out on thesea—
On the wings of some wind, blowing free,
Where the heads of Port Jackson risesheer—
From the heart in my breast
And the heart of the West
I wish you a happy New Year!
While the hands of Luck’s jenny-wheel spinAnd Fortune is ever a-fret,From the voices of homeland and kin,Come the clearest of messages yet:And the nose of my dinghy is setFor the time the gods give me a win!And I waft you a line,Dear old mother of mine!While the hands of Luck’s jenny-wheel spin.
While the hands of Luck’s jenny-wheel spin
And Fortune is ever a-fret,
From the voices of homeland and kin,
Come the clearest of messages yet:
And the nose of my dinghy is set
For the time the gods give me a win!
And I waft you a line,
Dear old mother of mine!
While the hands of Luck’s jenny-wheel spin.
[116]But, though Fortune be good or be ill!Though the guerdon be ashes or gold!When the crushing has gone to the millAnd the tale of life’s effort is told,Though the world be grown never so coldThere’s a heart that will beat for me still!And a prayer to fend,And a trust without end,And an old hand to cancel the bill.
[116]But, though Fortune be good or be ill!
Though the guerdon be ashes or gold!
When the crushing has gone to the mill
And the tale of life’s effort is told,
Though the world be grown never so cold
There’s a heart that will beat for me still!
And a prayer to fend,
And a trust without end,
And an old hand to cancel the bill.
So I wish you a happy New Year,O, well-loved old mother of me!May it come with no trace of a tearWhen it trips from Eternity’s sea!Oh, for mine! and for thine! and for thee!With a love that is deep and sincere,From the heart in my breast,In the heart of the West,I wish you “A Happy New Year!”
So I wish you a happy New Year,
O, well-loved old mother of me!
May it come with no trace of a tear
When it trips from Eternity’s sea!
Oh, for mine! and for thine! and for thee!
With a love that is deep and sincere,
From the heart in my breast,
In the heart of the West,
I wish you “A Happy New Year!”
WhenWestern roads are rough and long,and days are hot and dry:When mulga branches cast no shadeagainst the brazen sky:I throw “Matilda” by the padand let my fancyplay—A-skipping o’er the fields once more,amongst the ricks of hay.Oh, here they come! there’s Joe and Dan!and May, and Kate, and Min.!The old swing gate flies open wideto let the rompers in:For I am friends with all the lot,and trusty chums are they,And all a-troop for hide-a-hoopamongst the ricks of hay.We mashers dress in father’spants—our sweethearts’ trilbiesbare—For we are jolly farmer’s kidswith hayseeds in our hair!And Joe Tresize takes after Kate,and I takes after May,And Dan and Min. like whirlies spinamongst the ricks of hay.[118]And when the rush and romp are o’erwe go in twos andtwos—And oh! the undermining artswe simple urchins use;And oh, the saucy tricks and waysof Kate, and Min., and May!While life’s begun and hearts are wonamongst the ricks of hay.Then safe behind the sheltering wingthese friendly ricks afford,We swear we’re “deep as deep” in love!we are “as true as Gord”!And linked together Jack and Jill,beneath the moonlight grey,With hearts ablaze, we spoon our waysamongst the ricks of hay.Alas! just then a startling voicethrough dream and mistland broke:“A dozen weary mulga milesto Jerry Hogan’s soak!”A fig for that! The miles fly pastto spryer steps andgay—I’ve spent a boyish hour or twoamongst the ricks of hay.
WhenWestern roads are rough and long,and days are hot and dry:When mulga branches cast no shadeagainst the brazen sky:I throw “Matilda” by the padand let my fancyplay—A-skipping o’er the fields once more,amongst the ricks of hay.Oh, here they come! there’s Joe and Dan!and May, and Kate, and Min.!The old swing gate flies open wideto let the rompers in:For I am friends with all the lot,and trusty chums are they,And all a-troop for hide-a-hoopamongst the ricks of hay.We mashers dress in father’spants—our sweethearts’ trilbiesbare—For we are jolly farmer’s kidswith hayseeds in our hair!And Joe Tresize takes after Kate,and I takes after May,And Dan and Min. like whirlies spinamongst the ricks of hay.[118]And when the rush and romp are o’erwe go in twos andtwos—And oh! the undermining artswe simple urchins use;And oh, the saucy tricks and waysof Kate, and Min., and May!While life’s begun and hearts are wonamongst the ricks of hay.Then safe behind the sheltering wingthese friendly ricks afford,We swear we’re “deep as deep” in love!we are “as true as Gord”!And linked together Jack and Jill,beneath the moonlight grey,With hearts ablaze, we spoon our waysamongst the ricks of hay.Alas! just then a startling voicethrough dream and mistland broke:“A dozen weary mulga milesto Jerry Hogan’s soak!”A fig for that! The miles fly pastto spryer steps andgay—I’ve spent a boyish hour or twoamongst the ricks of hay.
WhenWestern roads are rough and long,and days are hot and dry:When mulga branches cast no shadeagainst the brazen sky:I throw “Matilda” by the padand let my fancyplay—A-skipping o’er the fields once more,amongst the ricks of hay.
WhenWestern roads are rough and long,
and days are hot and dry:
When mulga branches cast no shade
against the brazen sky:
I throw “Matilda” by the pad
and let my fancyplay—
A-skipping o’er the fields once more,
amongst the ricks of hay.
Oh, here they come! there’s Joe and Dan!and May, and Kate, and Min.!The old swing gate flies open wideto let the rompers in:For I am friends with all the lot,and trusty chums are they,And all a-troop for hide-a-hoopamongst the ricks of hay.
Oh, here they come! there’s Joe and Dan!
and May, and Kate, and Min.!
The old swing gate flies open wide
to let the rompers in:
For I am friends with all the lot,
and trusty chums are they,
And all a-troop for hide-a-hoop
amongst the ricks of hay.
We mashers dress in father’spants—our sweethearts’ trilbiesbare—For we are jolly farmer’s kidswith hayseeds in our hair!And Joe Tresize takes after Kate,and I takes after May,And Dan and Min. like whirlies spinamongst the ricks of hay.
We mashers dress in father’spants—
our sweethearts’ trilbiesbare—
For we are jolly farmer’s kids
with hayseeds in our hair!
And Joe Tresize takes after Kate,
and I takes after May,
And Dan and Min. like whirlies spin
amongst the ricks of hay.
[118]And when the rush and romp are o’erwe go in twos andtwos—And oh! the undermining artswe simple urchins use;And oh, the saucy tricks and waysof Kate, and Min., and May!While life’s begun and hearts are wonamongst the ricks of hay.
[118]And when the rush and romp are o’er
we go in twos andtwos—
And oh! the undermining arts
we simple urchins use;
And oh, the saucy tricks and ways
of Kate, and Min., and May!
While life’s begun and hearts are won
amongst the ricks of hay.
Then safe behind the sheltering wingthese friendly ricks afford,We swear we’re “deep as deep” in love!we are “as true as Gord”!And linked together Jack and Jill,beneath the moonlight grey,With hearts ablaze, we spoon our waysamongst the ricks of hay.
Then safe behind the sheltering wing
these friendly ricks afford,
We swear we’re “deep as deep” in love!
we are “as true as Gord”!
And linked together Jack and Jill,
beneath the moonlight grey,
With hearts ablaze, we spoon our ways
amongst the ricks of hay.
Alas! just then a startling voicethrough dream and mistland broke:“A dozen weary mulga milesto Jerry Hogan’s soak!”A fig for that! The miles fly pastto spryer steps andgay—I’ve spent a boyish hour or twoamongst the ricks of hay.
Alas! just then a startling voice
through dream and mistland broke:
“A dozen weary mulga miles
to Jerry Hogan’s soak!”
A fig for that! The miles fly past
to spryer steps andgay—
I’ve spent a boyish hour or two
amongst the ricks of hay.
I livewhere the shade is,And rusted Life’s bladeis—The sand-drifts from HadesHave tarnished each charm:But, sober or shicker,My heart-pulse beats quickerWhenever I think ofKildea’s flower farm!’Twas not the green sward, orThe spangled disorderAlong the path borderThat led to their gate;Nor mazes and mazesOf heartsease and daisies,That blossomed so earlyAnd lingered so late:It was not the ringingOf crimson bellsswinging—It was not the singingOf elves in thecorn—Nor fairy beds, ladenWith rose-wreaths from Aidenn,That smiled like a child, inThe face of the morn![120]Ah, the roses so bloomyThat held me and drewme—The thrill that shot through me,’Neath blue skies orgrey—The fear that oppressed me,The hope that caressed me,All dwelt ’neath the bonnetOf Katy Kildea!With callous years flying,And Youth’s fountains drying,One memory undyingLives always attuned:And, if plucked from its setting,Forgot and forgetting,The best of my beingWould flow through the wound!I live where the shadeis—And rusted Life’s bladeis—The sand-drifts from HadesHave tarnished its charm:But, sober or shicker,My heart-pulse beats quickerWhenever I think ofKildea’s flower farm.
I livewhere the shade is,And rusted Life’s bladeis—The sand-drifts from HadesHave tarnished each charm:But, sober or shicker,My heart-pulse beats quickerWhenever I think ofKildea’s flower farm!’Twas not the green sward, orThe spangled disorderAlong the path borderThat led to their gate;Nor mazes and mazesOf heartsease and daisies,That blossomed so earlyAnd lingered so late:It was not the ringingOf crimson bellsswinging—It was not the singingOf elves in thecorn—Nor fairy beds, ladenWith rose-wreaths from Aidenn,That smiled like a child, inThe face of the morn![120]Ah, the roses so bloomyThat held me and drewme—The thrill that shot through me,’Neath blue skies orgrey—The fear that oppressed me,The hope that caressed me,All dwelt ’neath the bonnetOf Katy Kildea!With callous years flying,And Youth’s fountains drying,One memory undyingLives always attuned:And, if plucked from its setting,Forgot and forgetting,The best of my beingWould flow through the wound!I live where the shadeis—And rusted Life’s bladeis—The sand-drifts from HadesHave tarnished its charm:But, sober or shicker,My heart-pulse beats quickerWhenever I think ofKildea’s flower farm.
I livewhere the shade is,And rusted Life’s bladeis—The sand-drifts from HadesHave tarnished each charm:But, sober or shicker,My heart-pulse beats quickerWhenever I think ofKildea’s flower farm!
I livewhere the shade is,
And rusted Life’s bladeis—
The sand-drifts from Hades
Have tarnished each charm:
But, sober or shicker,
My heart-pulse beats quicker
Whenever I think of
Kildea’s flower farm!
’Twas not the green sward, orThe spangled disorderAlong the path borderThat led to their gate;Nor mazes and mazesOf heartsease and daisies,That blossomed so earlyAnd lingered so late:
’Twas not the green sward, or
The spangled disorder
Along the path border
That led to their gate;
Nor mazes and mazes
Of heartsease and daisies,
That blossomed so early
And lingered so late:
It was not the ringingOf crimson bellsswinging—It was not the singingOf elves in thecorn—Nor fairy beds, ladenWith rose-wreaths from Aidenn,That smiled like a child, inThe face of the morn!
It was not the ringing
Of crimson bellsswinging—
It was not the singing
Of elves in thecorn—
Nor fairy beds, laden
With rose-wreaths from Aidenn,
That smiled like a child, in
The face of the morn!
[120]Ah, the roses so bloomyThat held me and drewme—The thrill that shot through me,’Neath blue skies orgrey—The fear that oppressed me,The hope that caressed me,All dwelt ’neath the bonnetOf Katy Kildea!
[120]Ah, the roses so bloomy
That held me and drewme—
The thrill that shot through me,
’Neath blue skies orgrey—
The fear that oppressed me,
The hope that caressed me,
All dwelt ’neath the bonnet
Of Katy Kildea!
With callous years flying,And Youth’s fountains drying,One memory undyingLives always attuned:And, if plucked from its setting,Forgot and forgetting,The best of my beingWould flow through the wound!
With callous years flying,
And Youth’s fountains drying,
One memory undying
Lives always attuned:
And, if plucked from its setting,
Forgot and forgetting,
The best of my being
Would flow through the wound!
I live where the shadeis—And rusted Life’s bladeis—The sand-drifts from HadesHave tarnished its charm:But, sober or shicker,My heart-pulse beats quickerWhenever I think ofKildea’s flower farm.
I live where the shadeis—
And rusted Life’s bladeis—
The sand-drifts from Hades
Have tarnished its charm:
But, sober or shicker,
My heart-pulse beats quicker
Whenever I think of
Kildea’s flower farm.
Dear Kitty, I’ve just read the letter yousent—It was brought by the man from the store;And I’m writin’ straight back, as I lay in my tent,Sprawlin’ out at full length on the floor.But the pen ’ll scarce write for the thinkin’ ofyou—Oh, I’m sorry that ever I went!And I have to knock off every minute or two,Just to glance through the letter you sent.It is scarcely six months since I left Cooranbean,But seems longer than all of last year;And the moon ain’t so bright, and the grass ain’t so green,And the sky, somehow, isn’t so clear:Oh, I’d give all their towns, to the very last brick,And their mines, with the forchins they yield,Just to hear the old ripple of Cooranbean crick,And the rustle of corn in the field.There isn’t no “skirts” like the Cooranbean “skirts”!Or no boys like the Cooranbean boys!And there isn’t no parties for fellers and flirts,And there isn’t no dance at Mulroy’s![122]And there isn’t no chance for a couple to spinLike the wind acrost Cherrytree Plain!Where the best of the prizes were kisses towin—And ... there isn’t no Kitty M‘Lean.I can’t find no nuggets, and can’t see no charm,As I wander about in the street;And I long to be back once again on the farm,With the rabbits and rust in the wheat.Oh, then life would want neither a whip or aspur—With a “string,” and a trigger to pull,And just you at my side, and the possums astir,And the moon, our old moon! at thefull ...But if I am dull, and my letters are crook,It is certain that you should know why:For you’ll find Charley’s heart, if you’re carin’ to look,At the gate where he kissed you “Good-bye!”And say, if in a month, on the home-comin’ track,There is anyone’s eyes charnster skim,And they see a young chap with a “port” on hisback—That most likely, Dear Kit., ’ll be him.
Dear Kitty, I’ve just read the letter yousent—It was brought by the man from the store;And I’m writin’ straight back, as I lay in my tent,Sprawlin’ out at full length on the floor.But the pen ’ll scarce write for the thinkin’ ofyou—Oh, I’m sorry that ever I went!And I have to knock off every minute or two,Just to glance through the letter you sent.It is scarcely six months since I left Cooranbean,But seems longer than all of last year;And the moon ain’t so bright, and the grass ain’t so green,And the sky, somehow, isn’t so clear:Oh, I’d give all their towns, to the very last brick,And their mines, with the forchins they yield,Just to hear the old ripple of Cooranbean crick,And the rustle of corn in the field.There isn’t no “skirts” like the Cooranbean “skirts”!Or no boys like the Cooranbean boys!And there isn’t no parties for fellers and flirts,And there isn’t no dance at Mulroy’s![122]And there isn’t no chance for a couple to spinLike the wind acrost Cherrytree Plain!Where the best of the prizes were kisses towin—And ... there isn’t no Kitty M‘Lean.I can’t find no nuggets, and can’t see no charm,As I wander about in the street;And I long to be back once again on the farm,With the rabbits and rust in the wheat.Oh, then life would want neither a whip or aspur—With a “string,” and a trigger to pull,And just you at my side, and the possums astir,And the moon, our old moon! at thefull ...But if I am dull, and my letters are crook,It is certain that you should know why:For you’ll find Charley’s heart, if you’re carin’ to look,At the gate where he kissed you “Good-bye!”And say, if in a month, on the home-comin’ track,There is anyone’s eyes charnster skim,And they see a young chap with a “port” on hisback—That most likely, Dear Kit., ’ll be him.
Dear Kitty, I’ve just read the letter yousent—It was brought by the man from the store;And I’m writin’ straight back, as I lay in my tent,Sprawlin’ out at full length on the floor.But the pen ’ll scarce write for the thinkin’ ofyou—Oh, I’m sorry that ever I went!And I have to knock off every minute or two,Just to glance through the letter you sent.
Dear Kitty, I’ve just read the letter yousent—
It was brought by the man from the store;
And I’m writin’ straight back, as I lay in my tent,
Sprawlin’ out at full length on the floor.
But the pen ’ll scarce write for the thinkin’ ofyou—
Oh, I’m sorry that ever I went!
And I have to knock off every minute or two,
Just to glance through the letter you sent.
It is scarcely six months since I left Cooranbean,But seems longer than all of last year;And the moon ain’t so bright, and the grass ain’t so green,And the sky, somehow, isn’t so clear:Oh, I’d give all their towns, to the very last brick,And their mines, with the forchins they yield,Just to hear the old ripple of Cooranbean crick,And the rustle of corn in the field.
It is scarcely six months since I left Cooranbean,
But seems longer than all of last year;
And the moon ain’t so bright, and the grass ain’t so green,
And the sky, somehow, isn’t so clear:
Oh, I’d give all their towns, to the very last brick,
And their mines, with the forchins they yield,
Just to hear the old ripple of Cooranbean crick,
And the rustle of corn in the field.
There isn’t no “skirts” like the Cooranbean “skirts”!Or no boys like the Cooranbean boys!And there isn’t no parties for fellers and flirts,And there isn’t no dance at Mulroy’s![122]And there isn’t no chance for a couple to spinLike the wind acrost Cherrytree Plain!Where the best of the prizes were kisses towin—And ... there isn’t no Kitty M‘Lean.
There isn’t no “skirts” like the Cooranbean “skirts”!
Or no boys like the Cooranbean boys!
And there isn’t no parties for fellers and flirts,
And there isn’t no dance at Mulroy’s!
[122]And there isn’t no chance for a couple to spin
Like the wind acrost Cherrytree Plain!
Where the best of the prizes were kisses towin—
And ... there isn’t no Kitty M‘Lean.
I can’t find no nuggets, and can’t see no charm,As I wander about in the street;And I long to be back once again on the farm,With the rabbits and rust in the wheat.Oh, then life would want neither a whip or aspur—With a “string,” and a trigger to pull,And just you at my side, and the possums astir,And the moon, our old moon! at thefull ...
I can’t find no nuggets, and can’t see no charm,
As I wander about in the street;
And I long to be back once again on the farm,
With the rabbits and rust in the wheat.
Oh, then life would want neither a whip or aspur—
With a “string,” and a trigger to pull,
And just you at my side, and the possums astir,
And the moon, our old moon! at thefull ...
But if I am dull, and my letters are crook,It is certain that you should know why:For you’ll find Charley’s heart, if you’re carin’ to look,At the gate where he kissed you “Good-bye!”And say, if in a month, on the home-comin’ track,There is anyone’s eyes charnster skim,And they see a young chap with a “port” on hisback—That most likely, Dear Kit., ’ll be him.
But if I am dull, and my letters are crook,
It is certain that you should know why:
For you’ll find Charley’s heart, if you’re carin’ to look,
At the gate where he kissed you “Good-bye!”
And say, if in a month, on the home-comin’ track,
There is anyone’s eyes charnster skim,
And they see a young chap with a “port” on hisback—
That most likely, Dear Kit., ’ll be him.