The Brown Old River by Will Lawson

There's a river to the nor'ard,
   And a breeze across a bay,
And the breeze is on my forehead,
   Though I'm scores of leagues away.
There is mud there, black and clinging,
   When the tide is half or low,
But I hear the river singing
   River-songs I used to know;
And 'tis calling me, that river --
I can see the ripples shiver
On its breast, and see the quiver
   Of the moon deep down below.

There's a river, and I hear it
   Telling stories to the breeze,
And I'm longing to go near it
   O'er the weary, plunging seas.
When you swing around Cape Moreton,
   Where the silver sandbanks are,
Where the rollers trip and shorten
   Ere they sprawl across the bar;
Then you'll see the river streaming
As I see it now, day-dreaming,
And the Pile Light's lazy gleaming,
   Like an earth-attracted star.

There's a river, and it's muddy,
   But its banks are always green,
And its dark-brown stream is ruddy
   In the sunset's bronzelike sheen.
And 'tis always softly singing
   To fond favored ones like me,
As it takes its course a-swinging
   To the bay that woos the sea,
With a greeting to the bridges
And the mud-banks' rosy ridges
Where the rusty, ugly dredges
   Clank and clatter noisily.

There's a river, haunt of dreamers,
   Black and silver 'neath the moon,
Where the yellow-lighted steamers
   Thrub and hum an ocean-tune.
I can hear the rollers sprawling
   As they stumble o'er the bar,
And I hear the river calling,
   Calling, calling, faint and far.
I can see the moonbeams shiver
On that muddy, brown old river,
And the Pile Light's sleepy quiver
   Like a tired and dozing star.

First published in The Bulletin, 14 July 1900

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.