It was a tender-pinioned little thing,
The song I made.
I said: "Go spread your silver-silken wing,
Fly to the kindly editor and sing,
All unafraid,
And home again some store of treasure bring."
Swiftly it sped upon its happy way
Down the sweet wind;
It left its little perch at peep of day,
Three weeks in Sydney town it made its stay.
"With thanks declined"
It fluttered home to say.
I sent it out upon another flight,
But it came back;
No editor was gladdened at the sight,
Nor bade it sing for the dull world's delight;
It learned the knack
Of boomeranging home again all right.
Now strive all fowls against my bird in vain,
It bears the palm;
Home-seeking pigeons with despair are slain
What time the editor hath read my strain
And said one damn,
For swift as light my song is back again.
First published in The Bulletin, 16 September 1909
