The young gales hatch below the Snares;
As fledglings wild, uncouth,
A fierce Antarctic dam prepares
Their flight of fear and ruth.
From icy nests on crags forlorn,
And bergs and glaciers bold,
They flutter forth, for aye to mourn
Their birthplace lorn and cold.
Full-pinioned, at the Tasman Sea,
They leave along the crests,
In shrieking, loud, witch revelry,
White feathers from their breasts.
They scream around the lonely isles
Like sad-voiced restless things
That sweep perforce the darkened miles
With strong, far-spreading wings.
From Wilson's up to cloud-capped Howe
Their giant playground lies,
When on each spray-drenched harbor brow
The "Stand-off" signal flies.
Then South of Gabo watch and ware
The shipmen as they go;
For o'er the hummocks, whitely bare,
The cutting sand-drifts blow;
And cruel rock-knives, hidden, wait
With edges sharp as steel,
Along a coast of Evil Fate,
Each doomed shore-driven keel.
Here lie the dead ships one by one;
Out here the surges croon
The Federal to her rest-place gone,
The sunken Ly-ee-moon.
Long kelp and seaweed, through the curl
Of combers all agleam,
The floating hair of some drowned girl
In waving tresses seem.
Here, graved beneath the golden sands
And iridescent shell,
Lost sailors out of distant lands,
Unsought, are sleeping well.
But South of Gabo, when those strong
And wayward winds are done,
'Tis all a deep, harmonious song
Of Sea and Land and Sun.
The little cutters spread their wings,
From Eden to Cape Schanck.
The coaster's rusty framework rings
The hymn of rod and crank.
The ketches, leaving in their wake
An odor of benzine,
With quick explosions noisy take
Their way across the green.
With wattle-bark and fish and maize,
From five to twenty tons,
The midget fleet goes down the bays,
And seaward, daring, runs.
With seasoned crews, of twos and threes,
To handle wheel and sheet,
Steal up and down the changing seas,
The fathers of our fleet.
Hard-fisted, lean Australians these
Who know the fickle bars,
The soundings and the mysteries
Of clouds and tides and stars.
When South of Gabo roars the brood
Of all the gales of Hell,
They --- long before --- for shelter stood
And anchored safe and well.
But here and there along the coast,
Sea-worn and salt with foam,
Old wreckage gives the brood to boast
Of ships that came not home.
Oh, South of Gabo --- where the Heel
Of All Australia stands,
Their hearts are like the tested steel,
And iron are their hands.
And South of Gabo --- where no ease
Of Capricorn they ken,
Is bred by rougher shores and seas,
A stronger race of men.
From South of Gabo yet may track
By sea-trail sternly forth,
The men who'll hurl Invasion back,
Defeated, from the North.
First published in The Bulletin, 21 October 1909;
and later in
Bells and Hobbles by E.J. Brady, 1911
Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library
See also.
As fledglings wild, uncouth,
A fierce Antarctic dam prepares
Their flight of fear and ruth.
From icy nests on crags forlorn,
And bergs and glaciers bold,
They flutter forth, for aye to mourn
Their birthplace lorn and cold.
Full-pinioned, at the Tasman Sea,
They leave along the crests,
In shrieking, loud, witch revelry,
White feathers from their breasts.
They scream around the lonely isles
Like sad-voiced restless things
That sweep perforce the darkened miles
With strong, far-spreading wings.
From Wilson's up to cloud-capped Howe
Their giant playground lies,
When on each spray-drenched harbor brow
The "Stand-off" signal flies.
Then South of Gabo watch and ware
The shipmen as they go;
For o'er the hummocks, whitely bare,
The cutting sand-drifts blow;
And cruel rock-knives, hidden, wait
With edges sharp as steel,
Along a coast of Evil Fate,
Each doomed shore-driven keel.
Here lie the dead ships one by one;
Out here the surges croon
The Federal to her rest-place gone,
The sunken Ly-ee-moon.
Long kelp and seaweed, through the curl
Of combers all agleam,
The floating hair of some drowned girl
In waving tresses seem.
Here, graved beneath the golden sands
And iridescent shell,
Lost sailors out of distant lands,
Unsought, are sleeping well.
But South of Gabo, when those strong
And wayward winds are done,
'Tis all a deep, harmonious song
Of Sea and Land and Sun.
The little cutters spread their wings,
From Eden to Cape Schanck.
The coaster's rusty framework rings
The hymn of rod and crank.
The ketches, leaving in their wake
An odor of benzine,
With quick explosions noisy take
Their way across the green.
With wattle-bark and fish and maize,
From five to twenty tons,
The midget fleet goes down the bays,
And seaward, daring, runs.
With seasoned crews, of twos and threes,
To handle wheel and sheet,
Steal up and down the changing seas,
The fathers of our fleet.
Hard-fisted, lean Australians these
Who know the fickle bars,
The soundings and the mysteries
Of clouds and tides and stars.
When South of Gabo roars the brood
Of all the gales of Hell,
They --- long before --- for shelter stood
And anchored safe and well.
But here and there along the coast,
Sea-worn and salt with foam,
Old wreckage gives the brood to boast
Of ships that came not home.
Oh, South of Gabo --- where the Heel
Of All Australia stands,
Their hearts are like the tested steel,
And iron are their hands.
And South of Gabo --- where no ease
Of Capricorn they ken,
Is bred by rougher shores and seas,
A stronger race of men.
From South of Gabo yet may track
By sea-trail sternly forth,
The men who'll hurl Invasion back,
Defeated, from the North.
First published in The Bulletin, 21 October 1909;
and later in
Bells and Hobbles by E.J. Brady, 1911
Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library
See also.
