Someborn of homely parentsFor ages settled down—The steady generationsOf village, farm, and town:And some of dusky fathersWho wandered since the flood—The fairest skin or darkestMight hold the roving blood—Some born of brutish peasants,And some of dainty peers,In poverty or plentyThey pass their early years;But, born in pride of purple,Or straw and squalid sin,In all the far world cornersThe wanderers are kin.A rover or a rebel,Conceived and born to roam,As babies they will toddleWith faces turned from home;They’ve fought beyond the vanguardWherever storm has raged,And home is but a prisonThey pace like lions caged.They smile and are not happy;They sing and are not gay;They weary, yet they wander;They love, and cannot stay;They marry, and are singleWho watch the roving star,For, by the family fireside,Oh, lonely mentheyare!They die of peace and quiet—The deadly ease of life;They die of home and comfort;Theylivein storm and strife;No poverty can tie them,Nor wealth nor place restrain—Girl, wife, or child might draw them,But they’ll be gone again!Across the glowing desert;Through naked trees and snow;Across the rolling prairiesThe skies have seen them go;They fought to where the oceanReceives the setting sun;—But where shall fight the roversWhen all the lands are won?They thirst on Greenland snowfields,On Never-Never sands;Where man is not to conquerThey conquer barren lands;They feel that most are cowards,That all depends on ‘nerve,’They lead who cannot follow,They rule who cannot serve.Across the plains and ranges,Away across the seas,On blue and green horizonsThey camp by twos and threes;They hold on stormy bordersOf states that trouble earthThe honour of the countryThat only gave them birth.Unlisted, uncommissioned,Untaught of any school,In far-away world cornersUnconquered tribes they rule;The lone hand and revolver—Sad eyes that never quail—The lone hand and the rifleThat win where armies fail.They slumber sound where murderAnd treachery are bare—The pluck of self-reliance,The pluck of past despair;Thin brown men in pyjamas—The thin brown wiry men!—The helmet and revolverThat lie beside the pen.Through drought and desolationThey won the way Out Back;The commonplace and selfishHave followed on their track;They conquer lands for others,For others find the gold,—But where shall go the roversWhen all the lands are old?A rover and a rebel—And so the worlds commence!Their hearts shall beat as wildlyTen generations hence;And when the world is crowded—’Tis signed and sealed by Fate—The roving blood will rise to makeThe countries desolate.
Someborn of homely parentsFor ages settled down—The steady generationsOf village, farm, and town:And some of dusky fathersWho wandered since the flood—The fairest skin or darkestMight hold the roving blood—Some born of brutish peasants,And some of dainty peers,In poverty or plentyThey pass their early years;But, born in pride of purple,Or straw and squalid sin,In all the far world cornersThe wanderers are kin.A rover or a rebel,Conceived and born to roam,As babies they will toddleWith faces turned from home;They’ve fought beyond the vanguardWherever storm has raged,And home is but a prisonThey pace like lions caged.They smile and are not happy;They sing and are not gay;They weary, yet they wander;They love, and cannot stay;They marry, and are singleWho watch the roving star,For, by the family fireside,Oh, lonely mentheyare!They die of peace and quiet—The deadly ease of life;They die of home and comfort;Theylivein storm and strife;No poverty can tie them,Nor wealth nor place restrain—Girl, wife, or child might draw them,But they’ll be gone again!Across the glowing desert;Through naked trees and snow;Across the rolling prairiesThe skies have seen them go;They fought to where the oceanReceives the setting sun;—But where shall fight the roversWhen all the lands are won?They thirst on Greenland snowfields,On Never-Never sands;Where man is not to conquerThey conquer barren lands;They feel that most are cowards,That all depends on ‘nerve,’They lead who cannot follow,They rule who cannot serve.Across the plains and ranges,Away across the seas,On blue and green horizonsThey camp by twos and threes;They hold on stormy bordersOf states that trouble earthThe honour of the countryThat only gave them birth.Unlisted, uncommissioned,Untaught of any school,In far-away world cornersUnconquered tribes they rule;The lone hand and revolver—Sad eyes that never quail—The lone hand and the rifleThat win where armies fail.They slumber sound where murderAnd treachery are bare—The pluck of self-reliance,The pluck of past despair;Thin brown men in pyjamas—The thin brown wiry men!—The helmet and revolverThat lie beside the pen.Through drought and desolationThey won the way Out Back;The commonplace and selfishHave followed on their track;They conquer lands for others,For others find the gold,—But where shall go the roversWhen all the lands are old?A rover and a rebel—And so the worlds commence!Their hearts shall beat as wildlyTen generations hence;And when the world is crowded—’Tis signed and sealed by Fate—The roving blood will rise to makeThe countries desolate.
Someborn of homely parentsFor ages settled down—The steady generationsOf village, farm, and town:And some of dusky fathersWho wandered since the flood—The fairest skin or darkestMight hold the roving blood—
Some born of brutish peasants,And some of dainty peers,In poverty or plentyThey pass their early years;But, born in pride of purple,Or straw and squalid sin,In all the far world cornersThe wanderers are kin.
A rover or a rebel,Conceived and born to roam,As babies they will toddleWith faces turned from home;They’ve fought beyond the vanguardWherever storm has raged,And home is but a prisonThey pace like lions caged.
They smile and are not happy;They sing and are not gay;They weary, yet they wander;They love, and cannot stay;They marry, and are singleWho watch the roving star,For, by the family fireside,Oh, lonely mentheyare!
They die of peace and quiet—The deadly ease of life;They die of home and comfort;Theylivein storm and strife;No poverty can tie them,Nor wealth nor place restrain—Girl, wife, or child might draw them,But they’ll be gone again!
Across the glowing desert;Through naked trees and snow;Across the rolling prairiesThe skies have seen them go;They fought to where the oceanReceives the setting sun;—But where shall fight the roversWhen all the lands are won?
They thirst on Greenland snowfields,On Never-Never sands;Where man is not to conquerThey conquer barren lands;They feel that most are cowards,That all depends on ‘nerve,’They lead who cannot follow,They rule who cannot serve.
Across the plains and ranges,Away across the seas,On blue and green horizonsThey camp by twos and threes;They hold on stormy bordersOf states that trouble earthThe honour of the countryThat only gave them birth.
Unlisted, uncommissioned,Untaught of any school,In far-away world cornersUnconquered tribes they rule;The lone hand and revolver—Sad eyes that never quail—The lone hand and the rifleThat win where armies fail.
They slumber sound where murderAnd treachery are bare—The pluck of self-reliance,The pluck of past despair;Thin brown men in pyjamas—The thin brown wiry men!—The helmet and revolverThat lie beside the pen.
Through drought and desolationThey won the way Out Back;The commonplace and selfishHave followed on their track;They conquer lands for others,For others find the gold,—But where shall go the roversWhen all the lands are old?
A rover and a rebel—And so the worlds commence!Their hearts shall beat as wildlyTen generations hence;And when the world is crowded—’Tis signed and sealed by Fate—The roving blood will rise to makeThe countries desolate.
Youmay roam the wide seas over, follow, meet, and cross the sun,Sail as far as ships can sail, and travel far as trains can run;You may ride and tramp wherever range or plain or sea expands,But the crowd has been before you, and you’ll not find ‘Foreign Lands;’For the Early Days are over,And no more the white-winged roverSinks the gale-worn coast of England bound for bays in Foreign Lands.Foreign Lands are in the distance dim and dream-like, faint and far,Long ago, and over yonder, where our boyhood fancies are,For the land is by the railway cramped as though with iron bands,And the steamship and the cable did away with Foreign Lands.Ah! the days of blue and gold!When the news was six months old—But the news was worth the telling in the days of Foreign Lands.Here we slave the dull years hopeless for the sake of Wool and Wheat—Here the homes of ugly Commerce—niggard farm and haggard street;Yet our mothers and our fathers won the life the heart demands—Less than fifty years gone over, we were born in Foreign Lands.When the gipsies stole the children still, in village tale and song,And the world was wide to travel, and the roving spirit strong;When they dreamed of South Sea Islands, summer seas and coral strands—Then the bravest hearts of England sailed away to Foreign Lands,‘Fitting foreign’—flood and field—Half the world and orders sealed—And the first and best of Europe went to fight in Foreign Lands.Canvas towers on the ocean—homeward bound and outward bound—Glint of topsails over islands—splash of anchors in the sound;Then they landed in the forests, took their strong lives in their hands,And they fought and toiled and conquered—making homes in Foreign Lands,Through the cold and through the drought—Further on and further out—Winning half the world for England in the wilds of Foreign Lands.Love and pride of life inspired them when the simple village heartsFollowed Master Will and Harry—gone abroad to ‘furrin parts’—By our townships and our cities, and across the desert sandsAre the graves of those who fought and died for us in Foreign Lands—Gave their young lives for our sake(Was it all a grand mistake?)Sons of Master Will and Harry born abroad in Foreign Lands!Ah, my girl, our lives are narrow, and in sordid days like these,I can hate the things that banished ‘Foreign Lands across the seas,’But with all the world before us, God above us—hearts and hands,I can sail the seas in fancy far away to Foreign Lands.
Youmay roam the wide seas over, follow, meet, and cross the sun,Sail as far as ships can sail, and travel far as trains can run;You may ride and tramp wherever range or plain or sea expands,But the crowd has been before you, and you’ll not find ‘Foreign Lands;’For the Early Days are over,And no more the white-winged roverSinks the gale-worn coast of England bound for bays in Foreign Lands.Foreign Lands are in the distance dim and dream-like, faint and far,Long ago, and over yonder, where our boyhood fancies are,For the land is by the railway cramped as though with iron bands,And the steamship and the cable did away with Foreign Lands.Ah! the days of blue and gold!When the news was six months old—But the news was worth the telling in the days of Foreign Lands.Here we slave the dull years hopeless for the sake of Wool and Wheat—Here the homes of ugly Commerce—niggard farm and haggard street;Yet our mothers and our fathers won the life the heart demands—Less than fifty years gone over, we were born in Foreign Lands.When the gipsies stole the children still, in village tale and song,And the world was wide to travel, and the roving spirit strong;When they dreamed of South Sea Islands, summer seas and coral strands—Then the bravest hearts of England sailed away to Foreign Lands,‘Fitting foreign’—flood and field—Half the world and orders sealed—And the first and best of Europe went to fight in Foreign Lands.Canvas towers on the ocean—homeward bound and outward bound—Glint of topsails over islands—splash of anchors in the sound;Then they landed in the forests, took their strong lives in their hands,And they fought and toiled and conquered—making homes in Foreign Lands,Through the cold and through the drought—Further on and further out—Winning half the world for England in the wilds of Foreign Lands.Love and pride of life inspired them when the simple village heartsFollowed Master Will and Harry—gone abroad to ‘furrin parts’—By our townships and our cities, and across the desert sandsAre the graves of those who fought and died for us in Foreign Lands—Gave their young lives for our sake(Was it all a grand mistake?)Sons of Master Will and Harry born abroad in Foreign Lands!Ah, my girl, our lives are narrow, and in sordid days like these,I can hate the things that banished ‘Foreign Lands across the seas,’But with all the world before us, God above us—hearts and hands,I can sail the seas in fancy far away to Foreign Lands.
Youmay roam the wide seas over, follow, meet, and cross the sun,Sail as far as ships can sail, and travel far as trains can run;You may ride and tramp wherever range or plain or sea expands,But the crowd has been before you, and you’ll not find ‘Foreign Lands;’For the Early Days are over,And no more the white-winged roverSinks the gale-worn coast of England bound for bays in Foreign Lands.
Foreign Lands are in the distance dim and dream-like, faint and far,Long ago, and over yonder, where our boyhood fancies are,For the land is by the railway cramped as though with iron bands,And the steamship and the cable did away with Foreign Lands.Ah! the days of blue and gold!When the news was six months old—But the news was worth the telling in the days of Foreign Lands.
Here we slave the dull years hopeless for the sake of Wool and Wheat—Here the homes of ugly Commerce—niggard farm and haggard street;Yet our mothers and our fathers won the life the heart demands—Less than fifty years gone over, we were born in Foreign Lands.
When the gipsies stole the children still, in village tale and song,And the world was wide to travel, and the roving spirit strong;When they dreamed of South Sea Islands, summer seas and coral strands—Then the bravest hearts of England sailed away to Foreign Lands,‘Fitting foreign’—flood and field—Half the world and orders sealed—And the first and best of Europe went to fight in Foreign Lands.
Canvas towers on the ocean—homeward bound and outward bound—Glint of topsails over islands—splash of anchors in the sound;Then they landed in the forests, took their strong lives in their hands,And they fought and toiled and conquered—making homes in Foreign Lands,Through the cold and through the drought—Further on and further out—Winning half the world for England in the wilds of Foreign Lands.
Love and pride of life inspired them when the simple village heartsFollowed Master Will and Harry—gone abroad to ‘furrin parts’—
By our townships and our cities, and across the desert sandsAre the graves of those who fought and died for us in Foreign Lands—Gave their young lives for our sake(Was it all a grand mistake?)Sons of Master Will and Harry born abroad in Foreign Lands!
Ah, my girl, our lives are narrow, and in sordid days like these,I can hate the things that banished ‘Foreign Lands across the seas,’But with all the world before us, God above us—hearts and hands,I can sail the seas in fancy far away to Foreign Lands.
Jim Duffwas a ‘native,’ as wild as could be;A stealer and duffer of cattle was he,But back in his youth he had stolen a pearl—Or a diamond rather—the heart of a girl;She served with a squatter who lived on the plain,And the name of the girl it was Mary Lemaine.’Twas a drear, rainy day and the twilight was done,When four mounted troopers rode up to the run.They spoke to the squatter: he asked them all in.The homestead was small and the walls they were thin;And in the next room, with a cold in her head,Our Mary was sewing on buttons—in bed.She heard a few words, but those words were enough—The troopers were all on the track of Jim Duff.The super, his rival, was planning a trapTo capture the scamp in Maginnis’s Gap.‘I’ve warned him before, and I’ll do it again;—I’llsave him to-night,’ whispered Mary Lemaine.No petticoat job—there was no time to waste,The suit she was mending she slipped on in haste,And five minutes later they gathered in force,But Mary was off, on the squatter’s best horse;With your hand on your heart, just to deaden the pain,Ride hard to the ranges, brave Mary Lemaine!She rode by the ridges all sullen and strange,And far up long gullies that ran through the range,Till the rain cleared away, and the tears in her eyesCaught the beams of the moon from Maginnis’s Rise.A fire in the depths of the gums she espied—‘Who’s there?’ shouted Jim. ‘It is Mary!’ she cried.Next morning the sun rose in splendour again,And two loving sinners rode out on the plain;And baffled, and angry, and hungry and damp,The four mounted troopers rode back to the camp.But they hushed up the business—the reason is plain,They all had been ‘soft’ on fair Mary Lemaine.The squatter got back all he lost from his mob,And old Sergeant Kennedy winked at the job;Jim Duff keeps a shanty far out in the west,And the sundowners call it the ‘Bushranger’s Rest.’But the bushranger lives a respectable life,And the law never troubles Jim Duff or his wife.
Jim Duffwas a ‘native,’ as wild as could be;A stealer and duffer of cattle was he,But back in his youth he had stolen a pearl—Or a diamond rather—the heart of a girl;She served with a squatter who lived on the plain,And the name of the girl it was Mary Lemaine.’Twas a drear, rainy day and the twilight was done,When four mounted troopers rode up to the run.They spoke to the squatter: he asked them all in.The homestead was small and the walls they were thin;And in the next room, with a cold in her head,Our Mary was sewing on buttons—in bed.She heard a few words, but those words were enough—The troopers were all on the track of Jim Duff.The super, his rival, was planning a trapTo capture the scamp in Maginnis’s Gap.‘I’ve warned him before, and I’ll do it again;—I’llsave him to-night,’ whispered Mary Lemaine.No petticoat job—there was no time to waste,The suit she was mending she slipped on in haste,And five minutes later they gathered in force,But Mary was off, on the squatter’s best horse;With your hand on your heart, just to deaden the pain,Ride hard to the ranges, brave Mary Lemaine!She rode by the ridges all sullen and strange,And far up long gullies that ran through the range,Till the rain cleared away, and the tears in her eyesCaught the beams of the moon from Maginnis’s Rise.A fire in the depths of the gums she espied—‘Who’s there?’ shouted Jim. ‘It is Mary!’ she cried.Next morning the sun rose in splendour again,And two loving sinners rode out on the plain;And baffled, and angry, and hungry and damp,The four mounted troopers rode back to the camp.But they hushed up the business—the reason is plain,They all had been ‘soft’ on fair Mary Lemaine.The squatter got back all he lost from his mob,And old Sergeant Kennedy winked at the job;Jim Duff keeps a shanty far out in the west,And the sundowners call it the ‘Bushranger’s Rest.’But the bushranger lives a respectable life,And the law never troubles Jim Duff or his wife.
Jim Duffwas a ‘native,’ as wild as could be;A stealer and duffer of cattle was he,But back in his youth he had stolen a pearl—Or a diamond rather—the heart of a girl;She served with a squatter who lived on the plain,And the name of the girl it was Mary Lemaine.
’Twas a drear, rainy day and the twilight was done,When four mounted troopers rode up to the run.They spoke to the squatter: he asked them all in.The homestead was small and the walls they were thin;And in the next room, with a cold in her head,Our Mary was sewing on buttons—in bed.
She heard a few words, but those words were enough—The troopers were all on the track of Jim Duff.The super, his rival, was planning a trapTo capture the scamp in Maginnis’s Gap.‘I’ve warned him before, and I’ll do it again;—I’llsave him to-night,’ whispered Mary Lemaine.
No petticoat job—there was no time to waste,The suit she was mending she slipped on in haste,And five minutes later they gathered in force,But Mary was off, on the squatter’s best horse;With your hand on your heart, just to deaden the pain,Ride hard to the ranges, brave Mary Lemaine!
She rode by the ridges all sullen and strange,And far up long gullies that ran through the range,Till the rain cleared away, and the tears in her eyesCaught the beams of the moon from Maginnis’s Rise.A fire in the depths of the gums she espied—‘Who’s there?’ shouted Jim. ‘It is Mary!’ she cried.
Next morning the sun rose in splendour again,And two loving sinners rode out on the plain;And baffled, and angry, and hungry and damp,The four mounted troopers rode back to the camp.But they hushed up the business—the reason is plain,They all had been ‘soft’ on fair Mary Lemaine.
The squatter got back all he lost from his mob,And old Sergeant Kennedy winked at the job;Jim Duff keeps a shanty far out in the west,And the sundowners call it the ‘Bushranger’s Rest.’But the bushranger lives a respectable life,And the law never troubles Jim Duff or his wife.
Setme back for twenty summers—For I’m tired of cities now—Set my feet in red-soil furrowsAnd my hands upon the plough,With the two ‘Black Brothers’ trudgingOn the home stretch through the loam—While, along the grassy siding,Come the cattle grazing home.And I finish ploughing early,And I hurry home to tea—There’s my black suit on the stretcher,And a clean white shirt for me;There’s a dance at Rocky Rises,And, when all the fun is o’er,For a certain favoured partyThere’s a shake-down on the floor.You remember Mary Carey,Bushmen’s favourite at the Rise?With her sweet small freckled features,Red-gold hair, and kind grey eyes;Sister, daughter, to her mother,Mother, sister, to the rest—And of all my friends and kindred,Mary Carey loved me best.Far too shy, because she loved me,To be dancing oft with me;What cared I, because she loved me,If the world were there to see?But we lingered by the slip railsWhile the rest were riding home,Ere the hour before the dawning,Dimmed the great star-clustered dome.Small brown hands that spread the mattressWhile the old folk winked to seeHow she’d find an extra pillowAnd an extra sheet for me.For a moment shyly smiling,She would grant me one kiss more—Slip away and leave me happyBy the shake-down on the floor.Rock me hard in steerage cabins,Rock me soft in wide saloons,Lay me on the sand-hill lonelyUnder waning western moons;But wherever night may find meTill I rest for evermore—I will dream that I am happyOn the shake-down on the floor.Ah! she often watched at sunset—For her people told me so—Where I left her at the slip-railsMore than fifteen years ago.And she faded like a flower,And she died, as such girls do,While, away in Northern Queensland,Working hard, I never knew.And we suffer for our sorrows,And we suffer for our joys,From the old bush days when motherSpread the shake-down for the boys.But to cool the living fever,Comes a cold breath to my brow,And I feel that Mary’s spiritIs beside me, even now.
Setme back for twenty summers—For I’m tired of cities now—Set my feet in red-soil furrowsAnd my hands upon the plough,With the two ‘Black Brothers’ trudgingOn the home stretch through the loam—While, along the grassy siding,Come the cattle grazing home.And I finish ploughing early,And I hurry home to tea—There’s my black suit on the stretcher,And a clean white shirt for me;There’s a dance at Rocky Rises,And, when all the fun is o’er,For a certain favoured partyThere’s a shake-down on the floor.You remember Mary Carey,Bushmen’s favourite at the Rise?With her sweet small freckled features,Red-gold hair, and kind grey eyes;Sister, daughter, to her mother,Mother, sister, to the rest—And of all my friends and kindred,Mary Carey loved me best.Far too shy, because she loved me,To be dancing oft with me;What cared I, because she loved me,If the world were there to see?But we lingered by the slip railsWhile the rest were riding home,Ere the hour before the dawning,Dimmed the great star-clustered dome.Small brown hands that spread the mattressWhile the old folk winked to seeHow she’d find an extra pillowAnd an extra sheet for me.For a moment shyly smiling,She would grant me one kiss more—Slip away and leave me happyBy the shake-down on the floor.Rock me hard in steerage cabins,Rock me soft in wide saloons,Lay me on the sand-hill lonelyUnder waning western moons;But wherever night may find meTill I rest for evermore—I will dream that I am happyOn the shake-down on the floor.Ah! she often watched at sunset—For her people told me so—Where I left her at the slip-railsMore than fifteen years ago.And she faded like a flower,And she died, as such girls do,While, away in Northern Queensland,Working hard, I never knew.And we suffer for our sorrows,And we suffer for our joys,From the old bush days when motherSpread the shake-down for the boys.But to cool the living fever,Comes a cold breath to my brow,And I feel that Mary’s spiritIs beside me, even now.
Setme back for twenty summers—For I’m tired of cities now—Set my feet in red-soil furrowsAnd my hands upon the plough,With the two ‘Black Brothers’ trudgingOn the home stretch through the loam—While, along the grassy siding,Come the cattle grazing home.
And I finish ploughing early,And I hurry home to tea—There’s my black suit on the stretcher,And a clean white shirt for me;There’s a dance at Rocky Rises,And, when all the fun is o’er,For a certain favoured partyThere’s a shake-down on the floor.
You remember Mary Carey,Bushmen’s favourite at the Rise?With her sweet small freckled features,Red-gold hair, and kind grey eyes;Sister, daughter, to her mother,Mother, sister, to the rest—And of all my friends and kindred,Mary Carey loved me best.
Far too shy, because she loved me,To be dancing oft with me;What cared I, because she loved me,If the world were there to see?But we lingered by the slip railsWhile the rest were riding home,Ere the hour before the dawning,Dimmed the great star-clustered dome.
Small brown hands that spread the mattressWhile the old folk winked to seeHow she’d find an extra pillowAnd an extra sheet for me.For a moment shyly smiling,She would grant me one kiss more—Slip away and leave me happyBy the shake-down on the floor.
Rock me hard in steerage cabins,Rock me soft in wide saloons,Lay me on the sand-hill lonelyUnder waning western moons;But wherever night may find meTill I rest for evermore—I will dream that I am happyOn the shake-down on the floor.
Ah! she often watched at sunset—For her people told me so—Where I left her at the slip-railsMore than fifteen years ago.And she faded like a flower,And she died, as such girls do,While, away in Northern Queensland,Working hard, I never knew.
And we suffer for our sorrows,And we suffer for our joys,From the old bush days when motherSpread the shake-down for the boys.But to cool the living fever,Comes a cold breath to my brow,And I feel that Mary’s spiritIs beside me, even now.
Tenmiles down Reedy RiverA pool of water lies,And all the year it mirrorsThe changes in the skies,And in that pool’s broad bosomIs room for all the stars;Its bed of sand has driftedO’er countless rocky bars.Around the lower edgesThere waves a bed of reeds,Where water rats are hiddenAnd where the wild duck breeds;And grassy slopes rise gentlyTo ridges long and low,Where groves of wattle flourishAnd native bluebells grow.Beneath the granite ridgesThe eye may just discernWhere Rocky Creek emergesFrom deep green banks of fern;And standing tall between them,The grassy sheoaks coolThe hard, blue-tinted watersBefore they reach the pool.Ten miles down Reedy RiverOne Sunday afternoon,I rode with Mary CampbellTo that broad bright lagoon;We left our horses grazingTill shadows climbed the peak,And strolled beneath the sheoaksOn the banks of Rocky Creek.Then home along the riverThat night we rode a race,And the moonlight lent a gloryTo Mary Campbell’s face;And I pleaded for my futureAll thro’ that moonlight ride,Until our weary horsesDrew closer side by side.Ten miles from Ryan’s crossingAnd five below the peak,I built a little homesteadOn the banks of Rocky Creek;I cleared the land and fenced itAnd ploughed the rich red loam,And my first crop was goldenWhen I brought Mary home.. . . . . . . . . .Now still down Reedy RiverThe grassy sheoaks sigh,And the waterholes still mirrorThe pictures in the sky;And over all for everGo sun and moon and stars,While the golden sand is driftingAcross the rocky bars;But of the hut I buildedThere are no traces now.And many rains have levelledThe furrows of the plough;And my bright days are olden,For the twisted branches waveAnd the wattle blossoms goldenOn the hill by Mary’s grave.
Tenmiles down Reedy RiverA pool of water lies,And all the year it mirrorsThe changes in the skies,And in that pool’s broad bosomIs room for all the stars;Its bed of sand has driftedO’er countless rocky bars.Around the lower edgesThere waves a bed of reeds,Where water rats are hiddenAnd where the wild duck breeds;And grassy slopes rise gentlyTo ridges long and low,Where groves of wattle flourishAnd native bluebells grow.Beneath the granite ridgesThe eye may just discernWhere Rocky Creek emergesFrom deep green banks of fern;And standing tall between them,The grassy sheoaks coolThe hard, blue-tinted watersBefore they reach the pool.Ten miles down Reedy RiverOne Sunday afternoon,I rode with Mary CampbellTo that broad bright lagoon;We left our horses grazingTill shadows climbed the peak,And strolled beneath the sheoaksOn the banks of Rocky Creek.Then home along the riverThat night we rode a race,And the moonlight lent a gloryTo Mary Campbell’s face;And I pleaded for my futureAll thro’ that moonlight ride,Until our weary horsesDrew closer side by side.Ten miles from Ryan’s crossingAnd five below the peak,I built a little homesteadOn the banks of Rocky Creek;I cleared the land and fenced itAnd ploughed the rich red loam,And my first crop was goldenWhen I brought Mary home.. . . . . . . . . .Now still down Reedy RiverThe grassy sheoaks sigh,And the waterholes still mirrorThe pictures in the sky;And over all for everGo sun and moon and stars,While the golden sand is driftingAcross the rocky bars;But of the hut I buildedThere are no traces now.And many rains have levelledThe furrows of the plough;And my bright days are olden,For the twisted branches waveAnd the wattle blossoms goldenOn the hill by Mary’s grave.
Tenmiles down Reedy RiverA pool of water lies,And all the year it mirrorsThe changes in the skies,And in that pool’s broad bosomIs room for all the stars;Its bed of sand has driftedO’er countless rocky bars.
Around the lower edgesThere waves a bed of reeds,Where water rats are hiddenAnd where the wild duck breeds;And grassy slopes rise gentlyTo ridges long and low,Where groves of wattle flourishAnd native bluebells grow.
Beneath the granite ridgesThe eye may just discernWhere Rocky Creek emergesFrom deep green banks of fern;And standing tall between them,The grassy sheoaks coolThe hard, blue-tinted watersBefore they reach the pool.
Ten miles down Reedy RiverOne Sunday afternoon,I rode with Mary CampbellTo that broad bright lagoon;We left our horses grazingTill shadows climbed the peak,And strolled beneath the sheoaksOn the banks of Rocky Creek.
Then home along the riverThat night we rode a race,And the moonlight lent a gloryTo Mary Campbell’s face;And I pleaded for my futureAll thro’ that moonlight ride,Until our weary horsesDrew closer side by side.
Ten miles from Ryan’s crossingAnd five below the peak,I built a little homesteadOn the banks of Rocky Creek;I cleared the land and fenced itAnd ploughed the rich red loam,And my first crop was goldenWhen I brought Mary home.. . . . . . . . . .Now still down Reedy RiverThe grassy sheoaks sigh,And the waterholes still mirrorThe pictures in the sky;And over all for everGo sun and moon and stars,While the golden sand is driftingAcross the rocky bars;
But of the hut I buildedThere are no traces now.And many rains have levelledThe furrows of the plough;And my bright days are olden,For the twisted branches waveAnd the wattle blossoms goldenOn the hill by Mary’s grave.
Therising moon on the peaks was blendingHer silver light with the sunset glow,When a swagman came as the day was endingAlong a path that he seemed to know.But all the fences were gone or going—The hand of ruin was everywhere;The creek unchecked in its course was flowing,For none of the old clay dam was there.Here Time had been with his swiftest changes,And husbandry had westward flown;The cattle tracks in the rugged rangesWere long ago with the scrub o’ergrown.It must have needed long years to softenThe road, that as hard as rock had been;The mountain path he had trod so oftenLay hidden now with a carpet green.He thought at times from the mountain coursesHe heard the sound of a bullock bell,The distant gallop of stockmen’s horses,The stockwhip’s crack that he knew so well:But these were sounds of his memory only,And they were gone from the flat and hill,For when he listened the place was lonely,The range was dumb and the bush was still.The swagman paused by the gap and faltered,For down the gully he feared to go,The scene in memory never altered—The scene before him had altered so.But hope is strong, and his heart grew bolder,And over his sorrows he raised his head,He turned his swag to the other shoulder,And plodded on with a firmer tread.Ah, hope is always the keenest hearer,And fancies much when assailed by fear;The swagman thought, as the farm drew nearer,He heard the sounds that he used to hear.His weary heart for a moment bounded,For a moment brief he forgot his dread;For plainly still in his memory soundedThe welcome bark of a dog long dead.A few steps more and his face grew ghostly,Then white as death in the twilight grey;Deserted wholly, and ruined mostly,The Old Selection before him lay.Like startled spectres that paused and listened,The few white posts of the stockyard stood;And seemed to move as the moonlight glistenedAnd paled again on the whitened wood.And thus he came, from a life long banishedTo other lands, and of peace bereft,To find the farm and the homestead vanished,And only the old stone chimney left.The field his father had cleared and gardenedWas overgrown with saplings now;The rain had set and the drought had hardenedThe furrows made by a vanished plough.And this, and this was the longed-for havenWhere he might rest from a life of woe;He read a name on the mantel graven—The name was his ere he stained it so.‘And so remorse on my care encroaches—I have not suffered enough,’ he said;‘That name is pregnant with deep reproaches—The past won’t bury dishonoured dead!’Ah, now he knew it was long years after,And felt how swiftly a long year speeds;The hardwood post and the beam and rafterHad rotted long in the tangled weeds.He found that time had for years been sowingThe coarse wild scrub on the homestead path,And saw young trees by the chimney growing,And mountain ferns on the wide stone hearth.He wildly thought of the evil coursesThat brought disgrace on his father’s name;The escort robbed, and the stolen horses,The felon’s dock with its lasting shame.‘Ah, God! Ah, God! is there then no pardon?’He cried in a voice that was strained and hoarse;He fell on the weeds that were once a garden,And sobbed aloud in his great remorse.But grief must end, and his heart ceased achingWhen pitying sleep to his eye-lids crept,And home and friends who were lost in waking,They all came back while the stockman slept.And when he woke on the empty morrow,The pain at his heart was a deadened pain;And bravely bearing his load of sorrow,He wandered back to the world again.
Therising moon on the peaks was blendingHer silver light with the sunset glow,When a swagman came as the day was endingAlong a path that he seemed to know.But all the fences were gone or going—The hand of ruin was everywhere;The creek unchecked in its course was flowing,For none of the old clay dam was there.Here Time had been with his swiftest changes,And husbandry had westward flown;The cattle tracks in the rugged rangesWere long ago with the scrub o’ergrown.It must have needed long years to softenThe road, that as hard as rock had been;The mountain path he had trod so oftenLay hidden now with a carpet green.He thought at times from the mountain coursesHe heard the sound of a bullock bell,The distant gallop of stockmen’s horses,The stockwhip’s crack that he knew so well:But these were sounds of his memory only,And they were gone from the flat and hill,For when he listened the place was lonely,The range was dumb and the bush was still.The swagman paused by the gap and faltered,For down the gully he feared to go,The scene in memory never altered—The scene before him had altered so.But hope is strong, and his heart grew bolder,And over his sorrows he raised his head,He turned his swag to the other shoulder,And plodded on with a firmer tread.Ah, hope is always the keenest hearer,And fancies much when assailed by fear;The swagman thought, as the farm drew nearer,He heard the sounds that he used to hear.His weary heart for a moment bounded,For a moment brief he forgot his dread;For plainly still in his memory soundedThe welcome bark of a dog long dead.A few steps more and his face grew ghostly,Then white as death in the twilight grey;Deserted wholly, and ruined mostly,The Old Selection before him lay.Like startled spectres that paused and listened,The few white posts of the stockyard stood;And seemed to move as the moonlight glistenedAnd paled again on the whitened wood.And thus he came, from a life long banishedTo other lands, and of peace bereft,To find the farm and the homestead vanished,And only the old stone chimney left.The field his father had cleared and gardenedWas overgrown with saplings now;The rain had set and the drought had hardenedThe furrows made by a vanished plough.And this, and this was the longed-for havenWhere he might rest from a life of woe;He read a name on the mantel graven—The name was his ere he stained it so.‘And so remorse on my care encroaches—I have not suffered enough,’ he said;‘That name is pregnant with deep reproaches—The past won’t bury dishonoured dead!’Ah, now he knew it was long years after,And felt how swiftly a long year speeds;The hardwood post and the beam and rafterHad rotted long in the tangled weeds.He found that time had for years been sowingThe coarse wild scrub on the homestead path,And saw young trees by the chimney growing,And mountain ferns on the wide stone hearth.He wildly thought of the evil coursesThat brought disgrace on his father’s name;The escort robbed, and the stolen horses,The felon’s dock with its lasting shame.‘Ah, God! Ah, God! is there then no pardon?’He cried in a voice that was strained and hoarse;He fell on the weeds that were once a garden,And sobbed aloud in his great remorse.But grief must end, and his heart ceased achingWhen pitying sleep to his eye-lids crept,And home and friends who were lost in waking,They all came back while the stockman slept.And when he woke on the empty morrow,The pain at his heart was a deadened pain;And bravely bearing his load of sorrow,He wandered back to the world again.
Therising moon on the peaks was blendingHer silver light with the sunset glow,When a swagman came as the day was endingAlong a path that he seemed to know.But all the fences were gone or going—The hand of ruin was everywhere;The creek unchecked in its course was flowing,For none of the old clay dam was there.
Here Time had been with his swiftest changes,And husbandry had westward flown;The cattle tracks in the rugged rangesWere long ago with the scrub o’ergrown.It must have needed long years to softenThe road, that as hard as rock had been;The mountain path he had trod so oftenLay hidden now with a carpet green.
He thought at times from the mountain coursesHe heard the sound of a bullock bell,The distant gallop of stockmen’s horses,The stockwhip’s crack that he knew so well:But these were sounds of his memory only,And they were gone from the flat and hill,For when he listened the place was lonely,The range was dumb and the bush was still.
The swagman paused by the gap and faltered,For down the gully he feared to go,The scene in memory never altered—The scene before him had altered so.But hope is strong, and his heart grew bolder,And over his sorrows he raised his head,He turned his swag to the other shoulder,And plodded on with a firmer tread.
Ah, hope is always the keenest hearer,And fancies much when assailed by fear;The swagman thought, as the farm drew nearer,He heard the sounds that he used to hear.His weary heart for a moment bounded,For a moment brief he forgot his dread;For plainly still in his memory soundedThe welcome bark of a dog long dead.
A few steps more and his face grew ghostly,Then white as death in the twilight grey;Deserted wholly, and ruined mostly,The Old Selection before him lay.Like startled spectres that paused and listened,The few white posts of the stockyard stood;And seemed to move as the moonlight glistenedAnd paled again on the whitened wood.
And thus he came, from a life long banishedTo other lands, and of peace bereft,To find the farm and the homestead vanished,And only the old stone chimney left.The field his father had cleared and gardenedWas overgrown with saplings now;The rain had set and the drought had hardenedThe furrows made by a vanished plough.
And this, and this was the longed-for havenWhere he might rest from a life of woe;He read a name on the mantel graven—The name was his ere he stained it so.‘And so remorse on my care encroaches—I have not suffered enough,’ he said;‘That name is pregnant with deep reproaches—The past won’t bury dishonoured dead!’
Ah, now he knew it was long years after,And felt how swiftly a long year speeds;The hardwood post and the beam and rafterHad rotted long in the tangled weeds.He found that time had for years been sowingThe coarse wild scrub on the homestead path,And saw young trees by the chimney growing,And mountain ferns on the wide stone hearth.
He wildly thought of the evil coursesThat brought disgrace on his father’s name;The escort robbed, and the stolen horses,The felon’s dock with its lasting shame.‘Ah, God! Ah, God! is there then no pardon?’He cried in a voice that was strained and hoarse;He fell on the weeds that were once a garden,And sobbed aloud in his great remorse.
But grief must end, and his heart ceased achingWhen pitying sleep to his eye-lids crept,And home and friends who were lost in waking,They all came back while the stockman slept.And when he woke on the empty morrow,The pain at his heart was a deadened pain;And bravely bearing his load of sorrow,He wandered back to the world again.
Farback in the days when the blacks used to rambleIn long single file ’neath the evergreen tree,The wool-teams in season came down from Coonamble,And journeyed for weeks on their way to the sea.’Twas then that our hearts and our sinews were stronger,For those were the days when the bushman was bred.We journeyed on roads that were rougher and longerThan roads where the feet of our grandchildren tread.With mates who have gone to the great Never-Never,And mates whom I’ve not seen for many a day,I camped on the banks of the Cudgegong RiverAnd yarned at the fire by the old bullock-dray.I would summon them back from the far Riverina,From days that shall be from all others distinct,And sing to the sound of an old concertinaTheir rugged old songs where strange fancies were linked.We never were lonely, for, camping together,We yarned and we smoked the long evenings away,And little I cared for the signs of the weatherWhen snug in my hammock slung under the dray.We rose with the dawn, were it ever so chilly,When yokes and tarpaulins were covered with frost,And toasted the bacon and boiled the black billy,Where high on the camp-fire the branches were tossed.On flats where the air was suggestive of ’possums,And homesteads and fences were hinting of change,We saw the faint glimmer of appletree blossoms,And far in the distance the blue of the range;And here in the rain, there was small use in floggingThe poor, tortured bullocks that tugged at the load,When down to the axles the waggons were boggingAnd traffic was making a marsh of the road.’Twas hard on the beasts on the terrible pinches,Where two teams of bullocks were yoked to a load,And tugging and slipping, and moving by inches,Half-way to the summit they clung to the road.And then, when the last of the pinches was bested,(You’ll surely not say that a glass was a sin?)The bullocks lay down ’neath the gum trees and rested—The bullockies steered for the bar of the inn.Then slowly we crawled by the trees that kept tallyOf miles that were passed on the long journey down.We saw the wild beauty of Capertee Valley,As slowly we rounded the base of the Crown.But, ah! the poor bullocks were cruelly goadedWhile climbing the hills from the flats and the vales;’Twas here that the teams were so often unloadedThat all knew the meaning of ‘counting your bales.’And, oh! but the best-paying load that I carriedWas one to the run where my sweetheart was nurse.We courted awhile, and agreed to get married,And couple our futures for better or worse.And as my old feet grew too weary to drag onThe miles of rough metal they met by the way,My eldest grew up and I gave him the waggon—He’s plodding along by the bullocks to-day.
Farback in the days when the blacks used to rambleIn long single file ’neath the evergreen tree,The wool-teams in season came down from Coonamble,And journeyed for weeks on their way to the sea.’Twas then that our hearts and our sinews were stronger,For those were the days when the bushman was bred.We journeyed on roads that were rougher and longerThan roads where the feet of our grandchildren tread.With mates who have gone to the great Never-Never,And mates whom I’ve not seen for many a day,I camped on the banks of the Cudgegong RiverAnd yarned at the fire by the old bullock-dray.I would summon them back from the far Riverina,From days that shall be from all others distinct,And sing to the sound of an old concertinaTheir rugged old songs where strange fancies were linked.We never were lonely, for, camping together,We yarned and we smoked the long evenings away,And little I cared for the signs of the weatherWhen snug in my hammock slung under the dray.We rose with the dawn, were it ever so chilly,When yokes and tarpaulins were covered with frost,And toasted the bacon and boiled the black billy,Where high on the camp-fire the branches were tossed.On flats where the air was suggestive of ’possums,And homesteads and fences were hinting of change,We saw the faint glimmer of appletree blossoms,And far in the distance the blue of the range;And here in the rain, there was small use in floggingThe poor, tortured bullocks that tugged at the load,When down to the axles the waggons were boggingAnd traffic was making a marsh of the road.’Twas hard on the beasts on the terrible pinches,Where two teams of bullocks were yoked to a load,And tugging and slipping, and moving by inches,Half-way to the summit they clung to the road.And then, when the last of the pinches was bested,(You’ll surely not say that a glass was a sin?)The bullocks lay down ’neath the gum trees and rested—The bullockies steered for the bar of the inn.Then slowly we crawled by the trees that kept tallyOf miles that were passed on the long journey down.We saw the wild beauty of Capertee Valley,As slowly we rounded the base of the Crown.But, ah! the poor bullocks were cruelly goadedWhile climbing the hills from the flats and the vales;’Twas here that the teams were so often unloadedThat all knew the meaning of ‘counting your bales.’And, oh! but the best-paying load that I carriedWas one to the run where my sweetheart was nurse.We courted awhile, and agreed to get married,And couple our futures for better or worse.And as my old feet grew too weary to drag onThe miles of rough metal they met by the way,My eldest grew up and I gave him the waggon—He’s plodding along by the bullocks to-day.
Farback in the days when the blacks used to rambleIn long single file ’neath the evergreen tree,The wool-teams in season came down from Coonamble,And journeyed for weeks on their way to the sea.’Twas then that our hearts and our sinews were stronger,For those were the days when the bushman was bred.We journeyed on roads that were rougher and longerThan roads where the feet of our grandchildren tread.
With mates who have gone to the great Never-Never,And mates whom I’ve not seen for many a day,I camped on the banks of the Cudgegong RiverAnd yarned at the fire by the old bullock-dray.I would summon them back from the far Riverina,From days that shall be from all others distinct,And sing to the sound of an old concertinaTheir rugged old songs where strange fancies were linked.
We never were lonely, for, camping together,We yarned and we smoked the long evenings away,And little I cared for the signs of the weatherWhen snug in my hammock slung under the dray.We rose with the dawn, were it ever so chilly,When yokes and tarpaulins were covered with frost,And toasted the bacon and boiled the black billy,Where high on the camp-fire the branches were tossed.
On flats where the air was suggestive of ’possums,And homesteads and fences were hinting of change,We saw the faint glimmer of appletree blossoms,And far in the distance the blue of the range;And here in the rain, there was small use in floggingThe poor, tortured bullocks that tugged at the load,When down to the axles the waggons were boggingAnd traffic was making a marsh of the road.
’Twas hard on the beasts on the terrible pinches,Where two teams of bullocks were yoked to a load,And tugging and slipping, and moving by inches,Half-way to the summit they clung to the road.And then, when the last of the pinches was bested,(You’ll surely not say that a glass was a sin?)The bullocks lay down ’neath the gum trees and rested—The bullockies steered for the bar of the inn.
Then slowly we crawled by the trees that kept tallyOf miles that were passed on the long journey down.We saw the wild beauty of Capertee Valley,As slowly we rounded the base of the Crown.But, ah! the poor bullocks were cruelly goadedWhile climbing the hills from the flats and the vales;’Twas here that the teams were so often unloadedThat all knew the meaning of ‘counting your bales.’
And, oh! but the best-paying load that I carriedWas one to the run where my sweetheart was nurse.We courted awhile, and agreed to get married,And couple our futures for better or worse.And as my old feet grew too weary to drag onThe miles of rough metal they met by the way,My eldest grew up and I gave him the waggon—He’s plodding along by the bullocks to-day.
Firelighted, on the table a meal for sleepy men,A lantern in the stable, a jingle now and then;The mail coach looming darkly by light of moon and star,The growl of sleepy voices—a candle in the bar;A stumble in the passage of folk with wits abroad;A swear-word from a bedroom—the shout of ‘All aboard!’‘Tchk-tchk! Git-up!’ ‘Hold fast, there!’ and down the range we go;Five hundred miles of scattered camps will watch for Cobb and Co.Old coaching towns already ‘decaying for their sins,’Uncounted ‘Half-Way Houses,’ and scores of ‘Ten Mile Inns;’The riders from the stations by lonely granite peaks;The black-boy for the shepherds on sheep and cattle creeks;The roaring camps of Gulgong, and many a ‘Digger’s Rest;’The diggers on the Lachlan; the huts of Furthest West;Some twenty thousand exiles who sailed for weal or woe;The bravest hearts of twenty lands will wait for Cobb and Co.The morning star has vanished, the frost and fog are gone,In one of those grand mornings which but on mountains dawn;A flask of friendly whisky—each other’s hopes we share—And throw our top-coats open to drink the mountain air.The roads are rare to travel, and life seems all complete;The grind of wheels on gravel, the trot of horses’ feet,The trot, trot, trot and canter, as down the spur we go—The green sweeps to horizons blue that call for Cobb and Co.We take a bright girl actress through western dust and damps,To bear the home-world message, and sing for sinful camps,To wake the hearts and break them, wild hearts that hope and ache—(Ah! when she thinks of those days her own must nearly break!)Five miles this side the gold-field, a loud, triumphant shout:Five hundred cheering diggers have snatched the horses out:With ‘Auld Lang Syne’ in chorus through roaring camps they go—That cheer for her, and cheer for Home, and cheer for Cobb and Co.Three lamps above the ridges and gorges dark and deep,A flash on sandstone cuttings where sheer the sidings sweep,A flash on shrouded waggons, on water ghastly white;Weird bush and scattered remnants of ‘rushes in the night;’Across the swollen river a flash beyond the ford:Ride hard to warn the driver! He’s drunk or mad, good Lord!’But on the bank to westward a broad, triumphant glow—A hundred miles shall see to-night the lights of Cobb and Co.!Swift scramble up the siding where teams climb inch by inch;Pause, bird-like, on the summit—then breakneck down the pinchPast haunted half-way houses—where convicts made the bricks—Scrub-yards and new bark shanties, we dash with five and six—By clear, ridge-country rivers, and gaps where tracks run high,Where waits the lonely horseman, cut clear against the sky;Through stringy-bark and blue-gum, and box and pine we go;New camps are stretching ’cross the plains the routes of Cobb and Co.. . . . . . . . . .Throw down the reins, old driver—there’s no one left to shout;The ruined inn’s survivor must take the horses out.A poor old coach hereafter!—we’re lost to all such things—No bursts of songs or laughter shall shake your leathern springsWhen creeping in unnoticed by railway sidings drear,Or left in yards for lumber, decaying with the year—Oh, who’ll think how in those days when distant fields were broadYou raced across the Lachlan side with twenty-five on board.Not all the ships that sail away since Roaring Days are done—Not all the boats that steam from port, nor all the trains that run,Shall take such hopes and loyal hearts—for men shall never knowSuch days as when the Royal Mail was run by Cobb and Co.The ‘greyhounds’ race across the sea, the ‘special’ cleaves the haze,But these seem dull and slow to me compared with Roaring Days!The eyes that watched are dim with age, and souls are weak and slow,The hearts are dust or hardened now that broke for Cobb and Co.
Firelighted, on the table a meal for sleepy men,A lantern in the stable, a jingle now and then;The mail coach looming darkly by light of moon and star,The growl of sleepy voices—a candle in the bar;A stumble in the passage of folk with wits abroad;A swear-word from a bedroom—the shout of ‘All aboard!’‘Tchk-tchk! Git-up!’ ‘Hold fast, there!’ and down the range we go;Five hundred miles of scattered camps will watch for Cobb and Co.Old coaching towns already ‘decaying for their sins,’Uncounted ‘Half-Way Houses,’ and scores of ‘Ten Mile Inns;’The riders from the stations by lonely granite peaks;The black-boy for the shepherds on sheep and cattle creeks;The roaring camps of Gulgong, and many a ‘Digger’s Rest;’The diggers on the Lachlan; the huts of Furthest West;Some twenty thousand exiles who sailed for weal or woe;The bravest hearts of twenty lands will wait for Cobb and Co.The morning star has vanished, the frost and fog are gone,In one of those grand mornings which but on mountains dawn;A flask of friendly whisky—each other’s hopes we share—And throw our top-coats open to drink the mountain air.The roads are rare to travel, and life seems all complete;The grind of wheels on gravel, the trot of horses’ feet,The trot, trot, trot and canter, as down the spur we go—The green sweeps to horizons blue that call for Cobb and Co.We take a bright girl actress through western dust and damps,To bear the home-world message, and sing for sinful camps,To wake the hearts and break them, wild hearts that hope and ache—(Ah! when she thinks of those days her own must nearly break!)Five miles this side the gold-field, a loud, triumphant shout:Five hundred cheering diggers have snatched the horses out:With ‘Auld Lang Syne’ in chorus through roaring camps they go—That cheer for her, and cheer for Home, and cheer for Cobb and Co.Three lamps above the ridges and gorges dark and deep,A flash on sandstone cuttings where sheer the sidings sweep,A flash on shrouded waggons, on water ghastly white;Weird bush and scattered remnants of ‘rushes in the night;’Across the swollen river a flash beyond the ford:Ride hard to warn the driver! He’s drunk or mad, good Lord!’But on the bank to westward a broad, triumphant glow—A hundred miles shall see to-night the lights of Cobb and Co.!Swift scramble up the siding where teams climb inch by inch;Pause, bird-like, on the summit—then breakneck down the pinchPast haunted half-way houses—where convicts made the bricks—Scrub-yards and new bark shanties, we dash with five and six—By clear, ridge-country rivers, and gaps where tracks run high,Where waits the lonely horseman, cut clear against the sky;Through stringy-bark and blue-gum, and box and pine we go;New camps are stretching ’cross the plains the routes of Cobb and Co.. . . . . . . . . .Throw down the reins, old driver—there’s no one left to shout;The ruined inn’s survivor must take the horses out.A poor old coach hereafter!—we’re lost to all such things—No bursts of songs or laughter shall shake your leathern springsWhen creeping in unnoticed by railway sidings drear,Or left in yards for lumber, decaying with the year—Oh, who’ll think how in those days when distant fields were broadYou raced across the Lachlan side with twenty-five on board.Not all the ships that sail away since Roaring Days are done—Not all the boats that steam from port, nor all the trains that run,Shall take such hopes and loyal hearts—for men shall never knowSuch days as when the Royal Mail was run by Cobb and Co.The ‘greyhounds’ race across the sea, the ‘special’ cleaves the haze,But these seem dull and slow to me compared with Roaring Days!The eyes that watched are dim with age, and souls are weak and slow,The hearts are dust or hardened now that broke for Cobb and Co.
Firelighted, on the table a meal for sleepy men,A lantern in the stable, a jingle now and then;The mail coach looming darkly by light of moon and star,The growl of sleepy voices—a candle in the bar;A stumble in the passage of folk with wits abroad;A swear-word from a bedroom—the shout of ‘All aboard!’‘Tchk-tchk! Git-up!’ ‘Hold fast, there!’ and down the range we go;Five hundred miles of scattered camps will watch for Cobb and Co.
Old coaching towns already ‘decaying for their sins,’Uncounted ‘Half-Way Houses,’ and scores of ‘Ten Mile Inns;’The riders from the stations by lonely granite peaks;The black-boy for the shepherds on sheep and cattle creeks;The roaring camps of Gulgong, and many a ‘Digger’s Rest;’The diggers on the Lachlan; the huts of Furthest West;Some twenty thousand exiles who sailed for weal or woe;The bravest hearts of twenty lands will wait for Cobb and Co.
The morning star has vanished, the frost and fog are gone,In one of those grand mornings which but on mountains dawn;A flask of friendly whisky—each other’s hopes we share—And throw our top-coats open to drink the mountain air.The roads are rare to travel, and life seems all complete;The grind of wheels on gravel, the trot of horses’ feet,The trot, trot, trot and canter, as down the spur we go—The green sweeps to horizons blue that call for Cobb and Co.
We take a bright girl actress through western dust and damps,To bear the home-world message, and sing for sinful camps,To wake the hearts and break them, wild hearts that hope and ache—(Ah! when she thinks of those days her own must nearly break!)Five miles this side the gold-field, a loud, triumphant shout:Five hundred cheering diggers have snatched the horses out:With ‘Auld Lang Syne’ in chorus through roaring camps they go—That cheer for her, and cheer for Home, and cheer for Cobb and Co.
Three lamps above the ridges and gorges dark and deep,A flash on sandstone cuttings where sheer the sidings sweep,A flash on shrouded waggons, on water ghastly white;Weird bush and scattered remnants of ‘rushes in the night;’Across the swollen river a flash beyond the ford:Ride hard to warn the driver! He’s drunk or mad, good Lord!’But on the bank to westward a broad, triumphant glow—A hundred miles shall see to-night the lights of Cobb and Co.!
Swift scramble up the siding where teams climb inch by inch;Pause, bird-like, on the summit—then breakneck down the pinchPast haunted half-way houses—where convicts made the bricks—Scrub-yards and new bark shanties, we dash with five and six—By clear, ridge-country rivers, and gaps where tracks run high,Where waits the lonely horseman, cut clear against the sky;Through stringy-bark and blue-gum, and box and pine we go;New camps are stretching ’cross the plains the routes of Cobb and Co.. . . . . . . . . .Throw down the reins, old driver—there’s no one left to shout;The ruined inn’s survivor must take the horses out.A poor old coach hereafter!—we’re lost to all such things—No bursts of songs or laughter shall shake your leathern springsWhen creeping in unnoticed by railway sidings drear,Or left in yards for lumber, decaying with the year—Oh, who’ll think how in those days when distant fields were broadYou raced across the Lachlan side with twenty-five on board.
Not all the ships that sail away since Roaring Days are done—Not all the boats that steam from port, nor all the trains that run,Shall take such hopes and loyal hearts—for men shall never knowSuch days as when the Royal Mail was run by Cobb and Co.The ‘greyhounds’ race across the sea, the ‘special’ cleaves the haze,But these seem dull and slow to me compared with Roaring Days!The eyes that watched are dim with age, and souls are weak and slow,The hearts are dust or hardened now that broke for Cobb and Co.
Thefuture was dark and the past was deadAs they gazed on the sea once more—But a nation was born when the immigrants said‘Good-bye!’ as they stepped ashore!In their loneliness they were parted thusBecause of the work to do,A wild wide land to be won for usBy hearts and hands so few.The darkest land ’neath a blue sky’s dome,And the widest waste on earth;The strangest scenes and the least like homeIn the lands of our fathers’ birth;The loneliest land in the wide world then,And away on the furthest seas,A land most barren of life for men—And they won it by twos and threes!With God, or a dog, to watch, they sleptBy the camp-fires’ ghastly glow,Where the scrubs were dark as the blacks that creptWith ‘nulla’ and spear held low;Death was hidden amongst the trees,And bare on the glaring sandThey fought and perished by twos and threes—And that’s how they won the land!It was two that failed by the dry creek bed,While one reeled on alone—The dust of Australia’s greatest deadWith the dust of the desert blown!Gaunt cheek-bones cracking the parchment skinThat scorched in the blazing sun,Black lips that broke in a ghastly grin—And that’s how the land was won!Starvation and toil on the tracks they went,And death by the lonely way;The childbirth under the tilt or tent,The childbirth under the dray!The childbirth out in the desolate hutWith a half-wild gin for nurse—That’s how the first were born to bearThe brunt of the first man’s curse!They toiled and they fought through the shame of it—Through wilderness, flood, and drought;They worked, in the struggles of early days,Their sons’ salvation out.The white girl-wife in the hut alone,The men on the boundless run,The miseries suffered, unvoiced, unknown—And that’s how the land was won.No armchair rest for the old folk then—But, ruined by blight and drought,They blazed the tracks to the camps againIn the big scrubs further out.The worn haft, wet with a father’s sweat,Gripped hard by the eldest son,The boy’s back formed to the hump of toil—And that’s how the land was won!And beyond Up Country, beyond Out Back,And the rainless belt, they ride,The currency lad and the ne’er-do-weelAnd the black sheep, side by side;In wheeling horizons of endless hazeThat disk through the Great North-west,They ride for ever by twos and by threes—And that’s how they win the rest.
Thefuture was dark and the past was deadAs they gazed on the sea once more—But a nation was born when the immigrants said‘Good-bye!’ as they stepped ashore!In their loneliness they were parted thusBecause of the work to do,A wild wide land to be won for usBy hearts and hands so few.The darkest land ’neath a blue sky’s dome,And the widest waste on earth;The strangest scenes and the least like homeIn the lands of our fathers’ birth;The loneliest land in the wide world then,And away on the furthest seas,A land most barren of life for men—And they won it by twos and threes!With God, or a dog, to watch, they sleptBy the camp-fires’ ghastly glow,Where the scrubs were dark as the blacks that creptWith ‘nulla’ and spear held low;Death was hidden amongst the trees,And bare on the glaring sandThey fought and perished by twos and threes—And that’s how they won the land!It was two that failed by the dry creek bed,While one reeled on alone—The dust of Australia’s greatest deadWith the dust of the desert blown!Gaunt cheek-bones cracking the parchment skinThat scorched in the blazing sun,Black lips that broke in a ghastly grin—And that’s how the land was won!Starvation and toil on the tracks they went,And death by the lonely way;The childbirth under the tilt or tent,The childbirth under the dray!The childbirth out in the desolate hutWith a half-wild gin for nurse—That’s how the first were born to bearThe brunt of the first man’s curse!They toiled and they fought through the shame of it—Through wilderness, flood, and drought;They worked, in the struggles of early days,Their sons’ salvation out.The white girl-wife in the hut alone,The men on the boundless run,The miseries suffered, unvoiced, unknown—And that’s how the land was won.No armchair rest for the old folk then—But, ruined by blight and drought,They blazed the tracks to the camps againIn the big scrubs further out.The worn haft, wet with a father’s sweat,Gripped hard by the eldest son,The boy’s back formed to the hump of toil—And that’s how the land was won!And beyond Up Country, beyond Out Back,And the rainless belt, they ride,The currency lad and the ne’er-do-weelAnd the black sheep, side by side;In wheeling horizons of endless hazeThat disk through the Great North-west,They ride for ever by twos and by threes—And that’s how they win the rest.
Thefuture was dark and the past was deadAs they gazed on the sea once more—But a nation was born when the immigrants said‘Good-bye!’ as they stepped ashore!In their loneliness they were parted thusBecause of the work to do,A wild wide land to be won for usBy hearts and hands so few.
The darkest land ’neath a blue sky’s dome,And the widest waste on earth;The strangest scenes and the least like homeIn the lands of our fathers’ birth;The loneliest land in the wide world then,And away on the furthest seas,A land most barren of life for men—And they won it by twos and threes!
With God, or a dog, to watch, they sleptBy the camp-fires’ ghastly glow,Where the scrubs were dark as the blacks that creptWith ‘nulla’ and spear held low;Death was hidden amongst the trees,And bare on the glaring sandThey fought and perished by twos and threes—And that’s how they won the land!
It was two that failed by the dry creek bed,While one reeled on alone—The dust of Australia’s greatest deadWith the dust of the desert blown!Gaunt cheek-bones cracking the parchment skinThat scorched in the blazing sun,Black lips that broke in a ghastly grin—And that’s how the land was won!
Starvation and toil on the tracks they went,And death by the lonely way;The childbirth under the tilt or tent,The childbirth under the dray!The childbirth out in the desolate hutWith a half-wild gin for nurse—That’s how the first were born to bearThe brunt of the first man’s curse!
They toiled and they fought through the shame of it—Through wilderness, flood, and drought;They worked, in the struggles of early days,Their sons’ salvation out.The white girl-wife in the hut alone,The men on the boundless run,The miseries suffered, unvoiced, unknown—And that’s how the land was won.
No armchair rest for the old folk then—But, ruined by blight and drought,They blazed the tracks to the camps againIn the big scrubs further out.The worn haft, wet with a father’s sweat,Gripped hard by the eldest son,The boy’s back formed to the hump of toil—And that’s how the land was won!
And beyond Up Country, beyond Out Back,And the rainless belt, they ride,The currency lad and the ne’er-do-weelAnd the black sheep, side by side;In wheeling horizons of endless hazeThat disk through the Great North-west,They ride for ever by twos and by threes—And that’s how they win the rest.
Whenhe’s over a rough and unpopular shed,With the sins of the bank and the men on his head;When he musn’t look black or indulge in a grin,And thirty or forty men hate him like Sin—I am moved to admit—when the total is scored—That it’s just a bit off for the Boss-of-the-board.I have battled a lot,But my dream’s never soaredTo the lonely position of Boss-of-the-board.’Twas a black-listed shed down the Darling: the BossWas a small man to see—though a big man to cross—We had nought to complain of—except what we thought,And the Boss didn’t boss any more than he ought;But the Union was booming, and Brotherhood soared,So we hated like poison the Boss-of-the-board.We could tolerate ‘hands’—We respected the cook;But the name of a Boss was a blot in our book.He’d a row with Big Duggan—a rough sort of Jim—Or, rather, Jim Duggan was ‘laying for’ him!His hate of Injustice and Greed was so deepThat his shearing grew rough—and he ill-used the sheep.And I fancied that Duggan his manliness lower’dWhen he took off his shirt to the Boss-of-the-board,For the Boss was ten stone,And the shearer full-grown,And he might have, they said, let the crawler alone.Though some of us there wished the fight to the strong,Yet we knew in our hearts that the shearer was wrong.And the crawler was plucky, it can’t be denied,For he had to fight Freedom and Justice beside,But he came up so gamely, as often as floored,That a blackleg stood up for the Boss-of-the-board!And the fight was a sight,And we pondered that night—‘It’s surprising how some of those blacklegs can fight!’Next day at the office, when sadly the wreckOf Jim Duggan came up like a lamb for his cheque,Said the Boss, ‘Don’t be childish! It’s all past and gone;I am short of good shearers. You’dbetterstay on.’And we fancied Jim Dugganourdignity lower’dWhen he stopped to oblige a damned Boss-of-the-board.We said nothing to Jim,For a joke might be grim,And the subject, we saw, was distasteful to him.The Boss just went on as he’d done from the first,And he favoured Big Duggan no more than the worst;And when we’d cut out and the steamer came down—With the hawkers and spielers—to take us to town,And we’d all got aboard, ’twas Jim Duggan, good Lord!Who yelled for three cheers for the Boss-of-the-board.’Twas a bit off, no doubt—And with Freedom about—But a lot is forgot when a shed is cut out.With Freedom of Contract maintained in his shed,And the curse of the Children of Light on his head,He’s apt to long sadly for sweetheart or wife,And his views be inclined to the dark side of life.The Truth must be spread and the Cause must be shored—But it’s just a bit rough on the Boss-of-the-board.I am all for the Right,But perhaps (out of sight)As a son or a husband or father he’s white.
Whenhe’s over a rough and unpopular shed,With the sins of the bank and the men on his head;When he musn’t look black or indulge in a grin,And thirty or forty men hate him like Sin—I am moved to admit—when the total is scored—That it’s just a bit off for the Boss-of-the-board.I have battled a lot,But my dream’s never soaredTo the lonely position of Boss-of-the-board.’Twas a black-listed shed down the Darling: the BossWas a small man to see—though a big man to cross—We had nought to complain of—except what we thought,And the Boss didn’t boss any more than he ought;But the Union was booming, and Brotherhood soared,So we hated like poison the Boss-of-the-board.We could tolerate ‘hands’—We respected the cook;But the name of a Boss was a blot in our book.He’d a row with Big Duggan—a rough sort of Jim—Or, rather, Jim Duggan was ‘laying for’ him!His hate of Injustice and Greed was so deepThat his shearing grew rough—and he ill-used the sheep.And I fancied that Duggan his manliness lower’dWhen he took off his shirt to the Boss-of-the-board,For the Boss was ten stone,And the shearer full-grown,And he might have, they said, let the crawler alone.Though some of us there wished the fight to the strong,Yet we knew in our hearts that the shearer was wrong.And the crawler was plucky, it can’t be denied,For he had to fight Freedom and Justice beside,But he came up so gamely, as often as floored,That a blackleg stood up for the Boss-of-the-board!And the fight was a sight,And we pondered that night—‘It’s surprising how some of those blacklegs can fight!’Next day at the office, when sadly the wreckOf Jim Duggan came up like a lamb for his cheque,Said the Boss, ‘Don’t be childish! It’s all past and gone;I am short of good shearers. You’dbetterstay on.’And we fancied Jim Dugganourdignity lower’dWhen he stopped to oblige a damned Boss-of-the-board.We said nothing to Jim,For a joke might be grim,And the subject, we saw, was distasteful to him.The Boss just went on as he’d done from the first,And he favoured Big Duggan no more than the worst;And when we’d cut out and the steamer came down—With the hawkers and spielers—to take us to town,And we’d all got aboard, ’twas Jim Duggan, good Lord!Who yelled for three cheers for the Boss-of-the-board.’Twas a bit off, no doubt—And with Freedom about—But a lot is forgot when a shed is cut out.With Freedom of Contract maintained in his shed,And the curse of the Children of Light on his head,He’s apt to long sadly for sweetheart or wife,And his views be inclined to the dark side of life.The Truth must be spread and the Cause must be shored—But it’s just a bit rough on the Boss-of-the-board.I am all for the Right,But perhaps (out of sight)As a son or a husband or father he’s white.
Whenhe’s over a rough and unpopular shed,With the sins of the bank and the men on his head;When he musn’t look black or indulge in a grin,And thirty or forty men hate him like Sin—I am moved to admit—when the total is scored—That it’s just a bit off for the Boss-of-the-board.I have battled a lot,But my dream’s never soaredTo the lonely position of Boss-of-the-board.
’Twas a black-listed shed down the Darling: the BossWas a small man to see—though a big man to cross—We had nought to complain of—except what we thought,And the Boss didn’t boss any more than he ought;But the Union was booming, and Brotherhood soared,So we hated like poison the Boss-of-the-board.We could tolerate ‘hands’—We respected the cook;But the name of a Boss was a blot in our book.
He’d a row with Big Duggan—a rough sort of Jim—Or, rather, Jim Duggan was ‘laying for’ him!His hate of Injustice and Greed was so deepThat his shearing grew rough—and he ill-used the sheep.And I fancied that Duggan his manliness lower’dWhen he took off his shirt to the Boss-of-the-board,For the Boss was ten stone,And the shearer full-grown,And he might have, they said, let the crawler alone.
Though some of us there wished the fight to the strong,Yet we knew in our hearts that the shearer was wrong.And the crawler was plucky, it can’t be denied,For he had to fight Freedom and Justice beside,But he came up so gamely, as often as floored,That a blackleg stood up for the Boss-of-the-board!And the fight was a sight,And we pondered that night—‘It’s surprising how some of those blacklegs can fight!’
Next day at the office, when sadly the wreckOf Jim Duggan came up like a lamb for his cheque,Said the Boss, ‘Don’t be childish! It’s all past and gone;I am short of good shearers. You’dbetterstay on.’And we fancied Jim Dugganourdignity lower’dWhen he stopped to oblige a damned Boss-of-the-board.We said nothing to Jim,For a joke might be grim,And the subject, we saw, was distasteful to him.
The Boss just went on as he’d done from the first,And he favoured Big Duggan no more than the worst;And when we’d cut out and the steamer came down—With the hawkers and spielers—to take us to town,And we’d all got aboard, ’twas Jim Duggan, good Lord!Who yelled for three cheers for the Boss-of-the-board.’Twas a bit off, no doubt—And with Freedom about—But a lot is forgot when a shed is cut out.
With Freedom of Contract maintained in his shed,And the curse of the Children of Light on his head,He’s apt to long sadly for sweetheart or wife,And his views be inclined to the dark side of life.The Truth must be spread and the Cause must be shored—But it’s just a bit rough on the Boss-of-the-board.I am all for the Right,But perhaps (out of sight)As a son or a husband or father he’s white.