November 2011 Archives

November Lilies by Annie MacDonald

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(In the Botanic Gardens, Sydney.)    

November Lilies! Sculptured, regal, gleaming,
   Each petalled chalice alabaster white,   
Gold pollen-dusted; melody is dreaming   
   Within your loveliness of carven light.

November Lilies! Etched 'gainst palms, low bending;
   And Kurrajong and River-oaks soft green;
Pale summer leaves of Peach and Plum are blending --   
   Adding their beauty to your lovely sheen.     

November Lilies! Butterflies are winging,
   Their lovely colours painting your white flow'rs;
Drowsy bees humming-birds their carols singing --
   Rich beauty pent in Sydney's garden bow'rs.

November Lilies! When in far East dwelling,
   Did your rich splendour to the gods belong?
And is the music your sweet scent is telling,
   Part of the morning star's harmonious song?

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 30 November 1935

Author: Annie MacDonald (1870-??), nee Lowe, was born in Kew in Victoria in 1870.  Beyond this nothing is known about this author.

Author reference site: Austlit

The Woman at the Washtub by Victor J. Daley

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The Woman at the Washtub,
   She works till fall of night;
With soap and suds and soda
   Her hands are wrinkled white.
Her diamonds are the sparkles
   The copper-fire supplies;
Her opals are the bubbles
   That from the suds arise.

The Woman at the Washtub
   Has lost the charm of youth;
Her hair is rough and homely,
   Her figure is uncouth;
Her temper is like thunder,
   With no one she agrees --
The children of the alley
   They cling around her knees.

The Woman at the Washtub,
   She too had her romance;
There was a time when lightly
   Her feet flew in the dance.
Her feet were silver swallows,
   Her lips were flowers of fire;
Then she was Bright and Early,
   The Blossom of Desire.

O Woman at the Washtub,
   And do you ever dream
Of all your days gone by in
   Your aureole of steam?
From birth till we are dying
   You wash our sordid duds,
O Woman of the Washtub!
   O Sister of the Suds!

One night I saw a vision
   That filled my soul with dread,
I saw a Woman washing
   The grave-clothes of the dead;
The dead were all the living,
   And dry were lakes and meres,
The Woman at the Washtub
   She washed them with her tears.

I saw a line with banners
   Hung forth in proud array --
The banners of all battles
   From Cam to judgment Day.
And they were stiff with slaughter
   And blood, from hem to hem,
And they were red with glory,
   And she was washing them.

"Who comes forth to the judgment,
   And who will doubt my plan?"
"I come forth to the judgment
   And for the Race of Man.
I rocked him in his cradle,
   I washed him for his tomb,
I claim his soul and body,
   And I will share his doom."

First published in The Bulletin, 29 November 1902;
and later in
Wine and Roses by Victor J. Daley, 1911;
The Worker, 23 April 1914;
The Register, 26 May 1925 and 26 June 1928;
Freedom on the Wallaby: Poems of the Australian People edited by Marjorie Pizer, 1953;
The New Oxford Book of Australian Verse edited by Les Murray, 1986;
Australian Verse: An Oxford Anthology edited by John Leonard, 1998;
An Australian Treasury of Popular Verse edited by Jim Haynes, 2002;
Our Country: Classic Australian Poetry: From the Colonial Ballads to Paterson & Lawson edited by Michael Cook, 2004;
Two Centuries of Australian Poetry edited by Kathrine Bell, 2007; and
The Puncher & Wattmann Anthology of Australian Poetry edited by John Leonard, 2009.

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library

See also.

The Late-Hours Shop Girl by Henry Halloran

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(On reading "Tam the Chapman," of Burns.)

As Nellie, faint and sick of heart,
Passed homeward from the glaring mart,
Where she from nine until eleven
Had toiled to keep her poor life even --
The clock, with clang morose and slow,
Had toll'd the hour some time ago  --
She slipped upon the drizzled way
And fell, and there half dead she lay;
She saw, at least she thought she saw,
With feelings both of love and awe,
A ghost, or angel, pale as she,
Which stood, as if for company,
And said to Nellie, "Will you come?
I'll find for you a better home.
No tyrant there my power may brave
The white slave there is not a slave,   
For my great Master finds for her
A home, beyond the sepulchre,
And gives her of those glorious things
Which shine not in the halls of kings.

First published in The Australian Town and Country Journal, 28 November 1885

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

When Horses are Saddled for Love by Will H. Ogilvie

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The saddle-slaves of Love are we
   Who mount by sun and moon,
No matter what the season be
   So long as it be soon!
The golden and the gray light
   Have seen the girth-straps drawn
For Love that rules the daylight,
   The dark and dusk and dawn.

What hoof beat on the gravel!
   What haste with Love to be!
What snatching at the snaffle!
   What reefing, head to knee!
Now faster still and faster --
   The white Moon laughs above --
She knows we have no master
   Except the Lord of Love.

The low road keeps the river,
   The high road skirts the hill ---
No road so short but ever
   We find a shorter still;
And if the floods run blindly
   Where Love, not Life, 's the loss,
Dame Fortune treats us kindly
   And holds our hands across.

The bush-Wind blows to meet us
   As though she understands,
The hop-bush holds to greet us
   A hundred clasping hands;
There's not a bird but sings us
   A welcome in the grove,
They know 'tis Love that brings us ---
   And all the world loves Love!

Be skies alight or leaden
   Long miles bring no regret,
And if the white spurs redden
   Our horses soon forget:
So toss the bars, my beauty,
   And cream the reins with foam ;
It's ten moon-miles to duty,
   And ten more dawn-miles home!

Gleam lights in the verandah,
   Flash lamps across the lawn;
But soft the shadows yonder
   Where reins are tightly drawn.
Out there the dews are glistening;
   The leaves are scarcely stirred,
So close the Night-Wind's listening
   To every whispered word!

The moon she dips to morning,
   The lamps are burning low,
Our love belated scorning --
   "One kiss before I go!"
Now slowly through the starlight,
   Slow, slow, in dreams away,
Till eastward gleams the far light
   That leads the breaking Day.

First published in The Bulletin, 27 November 1897;
and later in
Fair Girls and Gray Horses: With Other Verses by Will H. Ogilvie, 1958

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

Nasturtiums by Ethel Davies

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One led me through a garden, wide and fair,  
   "Are not my roses beautiful?" she said;   
And so I praised them, delicately bred,
   And wisely tended with another's care.  

I love nasturtiums best, with thready hearts,  
   And flamy petals brave as poverty    
Decked out in hope, for in my memory  
   There is a picture, solaces and smarts --  

A little barefoot girl, upon her knees,    
   Pondering nasturtiums by a ragged fence.  
I hear again the childish confidence,
   That whispered reverently. "God planted these!"   
   
First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 26 November 1932

Author: Ethel Davies (1897-??) was born in Oxfordshire, England and was a founding member of the Western Australia branch of the fellowship of Australian Writers in 1938.  Other than this, nothing is known about the author.

Author reference site: Austlit 

Bell-Birds by Henry Kendall

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By channels of coolness the echoes are calling,
And down the dim gorges I hear the creek falling:
It lives in the mountain where moss and the sedges
Touch with their beauty the banks and the ledges.
Through breaks of the cedar and sycamore bowers
Struggles the light that is love to the flowers;
And, softer than slumber, and sweeter than singing,
The notes of the bell-birds are running and ringing.

The silver-voiced bell birds, the darlings of daytime!
They sing in September their songs of the May-time;
When shadows wax strong, and the thunder bolts hurtle,
They hide with their fear in the leaves of the myrtle;
When rain and the sunbeams shine mingled together,
They start up like fairies that follow fair weather;
And straightway the hues of their feathers unfolden
Are the green and the purple, the blue and the golden.

October, the maiden of bright yellow tresses,
Loiters for love in these cool wildernesses;
Loiters, knee-deep, in the grasses, to listen,
Where dripping rocks gleam and the leafy pools glisten:
Then is the time when the water-moons splendid
Break with their gold, and are scattered or blended
Over the creeks, till the woodlands have warning
Of songs of the bell-bird and wings of the Morning.

Welcome as waters unkissed by the summers
Are the voices of bell-birds to the thirsty far-comers.
When fiery December sets foot in the forest,
And the need of the wayfarer presses the sorest,
Pent in the ridges for ever and ever
The bell-birds direct him to spring and to river,
With ring and with ripple, like runnels who torrents
Are toned by the pebbles and the leaves in the currents.

Often I sit, looking back to a childhood,
Mixt with the sights and the sounds of the wildwood,
Longing for power and the sweetness to fashion,
Lyrics with beats like the heart-beats of Passion; -
Songs interwoven of lights and of laughters
Borrowed from bell-birds in far forest-rafters;
So I might keep in the city and alleys
The beauty and strength of the deep mountain valleys:
Charming to slumber the pain of my losses
With glimpses of creeks and a vision of mosses.

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 25 November 1867;
and later in
Leaves from Australian Forests by Henry Kendall, 1869;
Colonial Monthly: An Australian Magazine, May 1869;
A Century of Australian Song edited by Douglas Sladen, 1888;
The Oxford Book of Australian Verse edited by Walter Murdoch, 1918;
Selections from Australian Poets edited by Bertram Stevens, 1925;
Selected Poems of Henry Kendall edited by T. Inglis Moore, 1957;
From the Ballads to Brennan edited by T. Inglis Moore, 1964;
The Penguin Book of Australian Verse edited by Harry P. Heseltine, 1972;
Australia Fair: Poems and Paintings edited Douglas Stewart, 1974;
A Treasury of Australian Poetry, 1982;
Cross-Country: A Book of Australian Verse edited by John Barnes, 1984;
The Illustrated Treasury of Australian Verse edited by Beatrice Davis, 1984;
My Country: Australian Poetry and Short Stories, Two Hundred Years edited by Leonie Kramer, 1985;
The New Oxford Book of Australian Verse edited by Les Murray, 1986;
Favourite Australian Poems, 1987;
The Macmillan Anthology of Australian Literature edited by Ken L. Goodwin and Alan Lawson, 1990;
A Treasury of Bush Verse by G.A. Wilkes, 1991;
The Penguin Book of 19th Century Australian Literature edited by Michael Ackland, 1993;
Henry Kendall: Poetry, Prose and Selected Correspondence edited by Michael Ackland, 1993;
An Anthology of Australian Literature edited by Ch'oe Chin-yong and Dynthia Van Den Driesen, 1995;
Classic Australian Verse edited Maggie Pinkney, 2001;
Our Country: Classic Australian Verse: From the Colonial Ballads to Paterson & Lawson edited by Michael Cook, 2004;
Two Centuries of Australian Poetry edited by Kathrine Bell, 2007;
100 Australian Poems You Need to Know edited by Jamie Grant, 2008;
The Penguin Anthology of Australian Poetry edited by John Kinsella, 2009; and
Macquarie PEN Anthology of Australian Literature edited by Nicholas Jose, Kerryn Goldsworthy, Anita Heiss, David McCooey, Peter Minter, Nicole Moore and Elizabeth Webby, 2009.

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library

See also.

Andy's Return by Henry Lawson

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With pannikins all rusty,
   And billy bent and black,
And clothes all torn and dusty,
   That scarcely hide his back;
With sun crack'd saddle-leather,
   And knotted greenhide rein,
And face burn'd brown with weather,
   Our Andy's home again!

His unkempt hair is faded
   Through sleeping in the wet;
He's looking old and jaded;
   But he is hearty yet.
With eyes sunk in their sockets,
   But merry as of yore;
With big cheques in his pockets,
   Our Andy's home once more!   

With tales of flood and famine,
   On distant northern tracts,
And shady yarns, "baal gammon!"
   Of dealings with the blacks;   
From where the skies hang lazy
   Above the northern plain
From regions dim and hazy  
   Our Andy's home again!

Old Uncle's bright and cheerful;
   He wears a smiling face.
And Aunty's never tearful
   Now Andy's round the place.
Old " Blucher " barks for gladness;
   He broke his rusty chain,  
And leapt in joyous madness
   When Andy came again.

His toil is nearly over;
   He'll soon enjoy his gains.
Not long he'll be a drover,
   And cross the lonely plains.
We'll happy be for ever
   When he'll no longer roam,
But by some deep, cool river  
   Will make us all a home.

First published in The Australian Town and Country Journal, 24 November 1888, and again in the same newspaper on 13 July 1889 and 25 November 1903;
and later in
The Dawn, 1 November 1902;
When I was King and Other Verses by Henry Lawson, 1905;
A Camp-Fire Yarn: Henry Lawson Complete Works 1885-1900 edited by Leonard Cronin, 1984;
Henry Lawson: An Illustrated Treasury compiled by Glenys Smith, 1985;
A Collection of Australian Bush Verse, 1989; and
Classic Australian Verse edited by Maggie Pinkney, 2001.

Note: this poem is a sequel to Andy's Gone With Cattle, published here on 13 October 2011.

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library, The Poetry of Henry Lawson website

See also.

The Olive Tree by Ivy Moore

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A Grecian line of beauty dwells
   Within the slender olive tree;
Its grace a dryad's form excels,
   So lithe and silvery and free.
The rhythmic murmur of the wind,
   Stirs music from the argent leaves;
Whilst the wild birds, undisciplined,
   Have built their nests beneath the eaves.
Neath such a tree Ulysses slept,
   Artemis sped at break of day;
The timid Daphne hid and wept,
   Within its sheltering branches gray.
Alone by day, when moonlight shines,
   To light the dark of night's domain;
Comes, with his forehead crowned with vines,
   The old god Pan, to pipes' refrain.
Then on the carpet of green moss,
   They dance in joy from night till morn;
And nymphs and satyrs lightly toss
   Ripe olives from the branches torn!  

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 23 November 1935;
and later in
Australian Violets by Ivy Moore, 1937.

Author reference sites: Austlit

See also.

The Emigrant to His Wife by Henry Parkes

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I remember days all glowing, love,
   With sunshine and delight,  
When the tide of life was flowing, love,
   With many a sail in sight.
I remember evermore, love,   
   That long-ago of ours,      
When the sands along the shore, love,  
   Were strewed with shells and flowers.

What a nest of flowers that cottage was,
   The Severn's flow beside,
Where, to see my rose, I used to pass
   At morn and eventide:
Oh ! thou little then didst dream, love,
   That other loving eyes
Than thy white-hair'd sire's did beam, love,
   On all thy reveries.

And I could have watched for ever, love,
   Methinks, in secret so,
If the spoiler's hand had never, love,
   There scattered death and woe!   
And I think I see thee yet, love,
   As 'midst thy garden flowers,
When the sun seemed loth to set, love,
   And leave thy happy bowers.

I remember, I remember, love,
   One later Autumn eve,
When the leaves of chill September, love,
   Had changed like things that grieve,
How I saw thee sit and mourn, love,
   Where sat thy sire before,
With the crape about thee worn, love,
   Which told he was no more.

And my heart found voice in sorrow, then,
  Thy comforter to be;  
And it sought no garb to borrow, then,
   For true love's sympathy.
Soon unfeeling strangers came, love,
   Who bade thee thence begone;
And thy beauty and fair name, love,
   Were left to thee alone.

Then I woo'd and won thee for my bride,
   Nor did more fondly vow,
When we left the winding Severn's side,
   To love, than I do now.
In the city's depths we dwelt, love,  
   Till half life's sands were run;
And fair children round us knelt, love,
  'Twas joy to gaze upon.

Still the memory of those early days
   Came fresh, and at all hours,  
How I used to steal unknown to gaze  
   On thee among thy flowers!
And misfortunes came at last, love,  
   Which fell like tempest rain:
But the sunlight of the past, love,
   Broke through the clouds again.

Thou didst cling to me the fonder, love,    
   Alone on ruin's brink,
When the storm had burst asunder, love,
   Poor Friendship's frailer link.
I remembered 'mid the blast, love,
   Which rushed o'erwhelming on,
Other days of light long passed, love!  
   And blest thee, faithful one!

When I rose up from affliction's bed,
   Hope beckoned o'er the sea,
And how cheerfully the word was said --
   That thou would'st go with me.
As we watched the levelling shore, love,
   From 'mid the waves' unrest,
To behold it never more, love,
   No murmur 'scaped thy breast.

I remembered, on the billow rude,
   The happy Severn's side,
By our little daughter's pillow rude,
   Even in the night she died:
As they lowered her dust unurned, love,
   Down in the restless sea,
To my brain that light returned, love,
   That blessed memory.

I remember days all glowing, love,
   With sunshine and delight;  
Now the sea is round us flowing, love,
   Nor land nor sail in sight.
I'll remember evermore, love,
   Beneath a milder sun,
All those happy days of yore, love,
   Mine own beloved one!  

First published in The Empire, 22 November 1853;
and later in
Murmurs of the Stream by Henry Parkes, 1857.

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library

See also.

The Rose Tree by Ella McFadyen

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We wandered where the tail ferns fringed and filled from bank to bank
   The amber-watered, creek, and stooped, Narcissus-like, to wed
Their shadows, and the lillyplllies, berry-laden, drank
   The stream, and on the fallen trunks the fungus blossomed red.            

We followed from the stagnant creek, by narrow cattle path,
   Where scarlet peas and tangled vines their tendrils interlace.
And found the tumbled stones that marked a long-deserted hearth,  
   A rose tree spread its thorny arms in vacant, sad embrace.

More faithful than the other works that long-stilled hand had raised,
   More constant in its long neglect, the rose that lingered there,
And may be lips, and laughing lips, its early bloom had praised,
   And one who reeks not now had judged its fragrant burden fair.

The dying splendor of the sky illum'ed the darkened range,
   Where rustling spirits of the night among the shadows roam.
We left it with its untold tale, its tragedy of change --
   The rose amid the stones that once had borne the name of Home!  

First published in The Australian Town and Country Journal, 21 November 1906

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.

Solitary by Emily Bulcock

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Man's spirit dwells within a desert place.
   He strives in vain to voice his soul's deep speech;
Stretching frail hands across dividing space ---
   No handclasp comes, no intimate answers reach.

Must even Love that chasm fail to span?
   Must passion's rarest moments teach but this,   
That utterly alone the Soul of Man
   Finds no real fusion even in lovers' kiss?     

"Come closer love --- so near I may not feel
   The sundering chasm, which all our love defies.
Next moment may the shuddering Gulf reveal.
   O love with subtle witcheries bind my eyes!"

Nay, wistful mortal, doomed from your strange birth    
   To hopeless quest beneath an alien sky ---   
Heir of the Heavens ye shall not find on earth
   The ultimate answer to your yearning cry.

First published in The Courier-Mail, 20 November 1937

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

The Shearers' Cook by W. T. Goodge

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Now, shearers' cooks, as shearers know,
Are very seldom wont to blow;
But when I took to dabbing tar
And "picking-up" on Blaringar,
The cook, when "barbers" came at morn
To get a snack, would say, with scorn:
   "Tea on the left,
   Coffee on the right,
Brownie on the bunk, and blast yez!"

The "bunk" or slab was in the hut,
And on it "brownie" ready cut;
Two buckets o'er the fire would be -
One filled with coffee, one with tea;
And when the chaps came filing in
The cook would say, with mirthless grin:
    "Tea on the left,
    Coffee on the right,
Brownie on the bunk, and blast yez!"

Peculiar man, this shearers' cook,
And had a very ugly look.
To me - a new-chum rouseabout,
Said he, one day when all were out:
"There's nothing in this world, my lad,
That's worth your worry, good or bad;
   Grief on the left,
   Sorrow on the right,
Trouble on the bunk, but blast it!"

First published in The Bulletin, 19 November 1898

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Poetry Library

See also.

Kissing Point Road by Ruth M. Bedford

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Down Kissing Point Road where we wandered to-day
The Spring has been lately and given away
Largesse of violets, purple and pale,
And orchids like butterflies, delicate frail,
         Or shiny, brown bees
         And, more lovely than these,
The clear crimson tips of the gum-trees that glowed
Like flames in the bush beside Kissing Point Road.

In the gardens we passed there were roses run mad,
Such vigorous joy in the sunlight they had;
They romped and they rioted, poured like a flood
Of blossoms, foam-white, bright as gold, red as blood.
         There were sheets of white daisies,
         A creeper that raises
A great, leafy banner, a curtain of green,
And tall red snapdragons of soldierly mien.

And Polly was happy, and my heart sang, too,
With the birds that were singing the whole long day through;
In the bush were such splendors, such secrets half-told,
Such wonders there were on the road where we strolled,
         For ever beholding
         Fresh beauty unfolding;
And if I kissed Polly and Polly kissed me,
There was no one on Kissing Point Road that could see.

First published in The Bulletin, 18 November 1915

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

After the Bushfires by Zora Cross

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Where yesterday the hills were primrose pink
With Christmas bush, and flannel flowers waved fair,
And the glad gums were mottled, and the air
All a bright sheen from glass-green leaves aprink
With rosy tips, and birdlings stayed to wink
A jewelled eye new-born to their full share
Of Life's delights expectant everywhere,
Colour is crucified to the creek's brink.
Stark desolation with wild eyes looks back
On many a trapped wild creature that has swooned
'Mid ash and trees levelled to the burnt loam.
Singed of all grass the brown earth lies charred black;
And where the gully gapes like a great wound
A blind wren mourns her little lost bush home.

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 17 November 1936

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Old Qld Poetry

See also.

Father's Pipe by Edward S. Sorenson

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There's times when things are lively in
   The hut on Farrell's Flat,
When father's bluchers make a din,
   His language scares the cat;
When e'en the dog slinks off and hides,
   Lest he should get a swipe;
But peace, the sweetest peace, abides
   When father fills his pipe.

Occasions come when mischief plays
   (As mischief always will)
Some pranks that make red-letter days,
   And leave a bill to fill:  
And then the imps of Farrell's Flat
   Are designated "tripe,"
And lie as low as any rat
   Till father lights his pipe.

The "Pipe of Peace" is aptly named,
   It soothes his troubled brow;
The rampant spirit's quickly tamed,
   And calm succeeds the row;
And rebel imps, in hiding, know
   That then the time is ripe,
And one by one their faces show
   While father smokes his pipe.

We really love that old dudeen,
   It's saved our hides so oft,
And Dad looks far more pleasant soon
   Through whiffs that curl aloft;
Besides, he's entertaining then,
   He earns a yarner's stripe;
And so we cluster round him when
   He sits behind his pipe.

First published in The Australian Town and Country Journal, 16 November 1904;
and later in
Melbourne Punch, 12 December 1911.

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

Australian Poets #31 - Mabel Forrest

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mabel_forrest.jpg

Mabel Forrest (1872-1935)

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

Song be Delicate by John Shaw Neilson

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Let your song be delicate.
   The skies declare
No war --- the eyes of lovers
   Wake everywhere.

Let your voice be delicate.
   How faint a thing
Is Love, little Love crying
   Under the Spring.

Let your song be delicate.
   The flowers can hear:
Too well they know the tremble,
   Of the hollow year.

Let your voice be delicate.
   The bees are home:
All their day's love is sunken
   Safe in the comb.

Let your song be delicate.
   Sing no loud hymn:
Death is abroad ... oh, the black season!
   The deep --- the dim!

First published in The Bookfellow, 15 November 1913;
and later in
Poetry in Australia 1923;
An Australasian Anthology: Australian and New Zealand Poems edited by Percival Serle, R. H. Croll and Frank Wilmot, 1927;
Collected Poems of John Shaw Neilson by John Shaw Neilson, 1934;
A Book of Australian Verse edited by Judith Wright, 1956;
From the Ballads to Brennan edited by T. Inglis Moore, 1964;
The Penguin Book of Australian Verse edited by Harry Heseltine, 1972;
The Golden Apples of the Sun: Twentieth Century Australian Poetry edited by Chris Wallace-Crabb, 1980;
Green Days and Cherries: the early verses of Shaw Neilson edited by Hugh Anderson and Leslie James Blake, 1981;
Cross-Country: A Book of Australian Verse edited by John Barnes, 1984;
The Illustrated Treasury of Australian Verse edited by Beatrice Davis, 1984;
My Country: Australian poetry and Short Stories, Two Hundred Years edited by Leonie Kramer, 1985;
Two Centuries of Australian Poetry edited by Mark O'Connor, 1988;
John Shaw Neilson: Poetry, Autobiography and Correspondence edited by Cliff Hanna, 1991;
The Oxford Book of Australian Love Poems edited by Jennifer Strauss, 1993;
Selected Poems edited by Robert Gray, 1993;
A Return to Poetry 2000, edited by Michael Duffy, 2000;
Our Country: Classic Australian Poetry: From the Colonial Ballads to Paterson & Lawson edited by Michael Cook, 2004;
Hell and After: Four Early English Language Poets of Australia edited by Les Murray, 2005;
Southerly, Vol. 68, No.3, 2008; and
100 Australian Poems of Love and Loss edited by Jamie Grant, 2011.

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library

See also.

The Song of the Pen by Allan F. Wilson

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Like my friend the Sword, I am fond of a drink,
   And am intimate with the bottle,
But the tipple is never red blood, but ink,
   Wherewith I moisten my throttle.
That the Sword is a mighty power I know,
   Yet methinks I am more than its match.
For that which requires from the Sword a blow
   I do with a quiet scratch.

That the Sword has travelled the wide world round
   I am quite prepared to own,
But let me ask has it ever found
   A spot where the Pen's unknown?
My faith! though the Sword in times past schooled
   The various breeds of men,
To-day the affairs of the world are ruled
   As much by the peaceful Pen.

Majestic indeed is the ship of steel
   As it ploughs the billowy seas,
But the sailor in charge of the steering wheel
   Can demolish it should he please.
Of the engine's strength we are often told
   With its ponderous driving gear,
But its giant forces are all controlled
   By the hand of the engineer.

I do not flash in the sun's bright ray,
   'Midst the shouting of armed men.
Yet none the less must the Sword give way
   To the mightier power of the Pen.
Yet which of us two has the greatest might
   Let men for themselves decide:
'Tis the role of the Sword to drive and smite,
   'Tis that of the Pen to guide.

First published in Melbourne Punch, 14 November 1907

Author: Allan Fullerton Wilson (1857-1917) was born in Glasgow, Scotland and arrived in Australia around 1861.  Wilson was educated in Geelong and Melbourne, and worked for his father before moving to rural Queensland and New South Wales to work on the land. He eventually returned to Geelong where he died in 1917.

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.

"The Bulletin" Stairs by E. J. Brady

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The Mecca of Bohemian men
Was Archibald's untidy den.
Firm-footed near the portals there
Uprose, as now, a spacious stair
That carried nearer to the sky
Their inky hopes in days forebye.

This ladder to Parnassus, they
Expectant climbed - as still one may.
Oft-times upon its steps appeared
The wiry brush of Daley's beard,
Of Henry Lawson's drooped moustache
Would upward glide and downward dash.

Betimes - a gem his pocket in -
Meandered upward Ronald Quinn,
Or Bayldon bore a sonnet new,
Or Broomfield occupied the view
Insistent, in a manner vain,
On making passes with his cane.

These might encounter on the way
The "Banjo" glum, or Hugh McCrae
Or Souter with a leering cat
Or Bedford in a Queensland hat;
And other penmen debonair
Familiar with that famous stair.

The Red Tressed Maiden, all aglow,
And Clancy of the Overflow
And Dad and Dave, in company
With Ginger Mick and Jock MacFee,
From time to time, in singles, pairs,
By hand or post went up those stairs!

Awaiting by McMahon's door
For silver, little, less, or more,
Met jesting genius to abuse
The landlords and the lending Jews.
Anon with cash in hand such drear
Considerations - drowned in beer -

Would pass as pass the clouds of morn;
And from their ready wits, reborn
As from a fount in Arcady,
Would flow fair dreams of Days-to-Be,
When, in this Southland, shore to shore,
Art was enthroned for evermore.

That noble vision yet I hold
More precious is than all the gold
That men have dug from southern earth.
In loyal hearts it had its birth;
In loyal minds it will become
A trumpet-note, a calling drum

To lead this nation onward, and
To glorify and grace the land.
And through that fellowship may ne'er,
As then it was, re-climb the Stair
Its voices echo down the years -
The voices of the pioneers!

First published in The Bulletin, 13 November 1946, and again in the same magazine on 1 February 1950.

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library

See also.

November by A.J. Rolfe

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      What a glory doth this world put on
      For him who with a fervent heart goes forth.
                                       Longfellow.


The waves of golden light spread in the East,
   Flooding the sky with glory; o'er the hills
The King of Day mounts slowly; and released
   From sleep, the world, refreshed from toils and ills,
Its round begins; fair Nature's lovely face
   Smiles on the glorious handiwork of God,
Teaching her willing votary to trace
   The Artist Hand in paths that few have trod.
The birds are caroling their joyous lay,
   The fragrance-breathing flowers lovingly
Send forth their grateful thanks; and far away
   The mountains lift their heads in ecstasy.
All Nature gladly shouts in one long strain
A long of love; and earth resounds again.

First published in The Queenslander, 12 November 1892;
and later in:
A Sheaf of Sonnets by A. J. Rolfe, 1892

Note: this poem in the eleventh in a sequence of poems that the author wrote about each month of the year.

Author reference sites: Austlit

See also.
I'm sittin' 'ere, Mick -- sittin' 'ere today,
   Feelin' arf glum, 'arf sorter -- reverent.
   Thinkin' strange, crooked thorts of 'ow they say:
   "The 'eads is bowed thro' all a continent";
An' wond'rin' -- wond'rin' in a kind of doubt
   If other coves is feelin' like I do,
Tryin' to figure wot it's all about,
   An' -- if it's meanin' anythin' to you.

Silence ....... The hour strikes soon thro' all the land
An' 'eads bend low.  Old, mate, give me your 'and.
      Silence -- for you, Mick, an' for blokes like you
      To mark the Day -- the Day you never knoo.


The Day you never knoo, nor we forget ....
   I can't tell why I'm sittin' 'ere this way,
Scrawlin' a message that you'll never get --
   Or will you?  I dunno.  It's 'ard to say.
P'raps you'll know all about it, where you are,
   An' think, "Ah well, they ain't too bad a lot."
An' tell them other digs, up on your star
   That now, or nevermore, they ain't fergot.

Silence ....... Not 'ere alone, Mick -- everywhere --
In city an' country 'eads are bare.
      An', in this room, it seems as if I knoo
      Some friend 'oo came -- Old cobber!  Is it you?


My 'eart is full, Mick ..... 'Struth! I ain't the bloke
   As well you know, to go all soft an' wet.
Fair's fair, lad.  Times I've known when you 'ave spoke
   Like you was tough an' 'ard as 'ell -- an' yet
Somethin' behind your bluff an' swagger bold
   Showed all them narsty sentiments was kid.
It was that thing inside yeh, lad, wot told.
   It made you go an' do the thing you did.

Silence ...... There's mothers, Mick, you never knoo
No mother.  But they're prayin' for you too.
      In every 'eart -- The Boys! The Boys are there,
      The Boys ...... That very name, lad, is a pray'r.


The Boys!  Old cobber, I can see 'em still:
   The drums are rollin' an' the sunlight gleams
On bay'nits.  Men are marchin' with a will
   On to the glory of their boy'ood's dreams.
Glory?  You never found it that, too much.
   But, lad, you stuck it -- stuck it with the rest,
An' if your bearin' 'ad no soulful touch,
   'Twas for OUR souls that you went marchin' -- West.

Silence ...... The children too, Mick -- little kids,
Are standin'.  Not becos their teacher bids:
      They've knoo no war; but they 'ave stopped their play
      Becos they know, they feel it is The Day.


So may it be thro' all the comin' years.
  But sorrow's gone, lad.  It's not that we know.
The sobbin's passed, 'ole cobber, an' the tears.
   An' well we un'erstand you'd 'ave it so.
But somethin's deeper far than that 'as come,
   Somethin' a mind can't get within its bounds,
Somethin' I can't explain.  A man is dumb
   When 'e thinks .... Listen!  'Ear the bugles sound!

Silence!
      *                    *
      *                    *
      *                    *


Well, Mick, ole cock, I dunno why I've wrote,
   It's just to ease a thing inside wot says
"Sit down, you sloppy coot, an' write a note
   To that old cobber of the olden days.
'E'll know -- for sure 'e'll know."  So lad, it's done,
   Work's waitin', an' a man can't get in wrong;
Our goal is still ahead.  But yours is won:
   That's the one thing we know, lad, so -- So long!

Silence ...... It's over, Mick; so there you are.
I know you're 'appy up there on yer star,
      Believe us lad, that star shall never fall
      While one is left to say "Gawd keep 'em all!"


First published
in The Herald, 11 November 1927

Author reference sites: C.J. Dennis, Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library

See also.

The Evening Scene by Charles Harpur

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Here, by the brook, at eve to meet
   Idalia promised me --
But even, with her zephyrs sweet,
   Is here, and where is she!
And naught are sweetest airs that fall
Around me, if beyond my call
Be my sweet love -- my all in all.

The flowers beneath -- the clouds above --
   Imbibe a deeper glow;
The shadows of each ancient grove
   To giant phantoms grow:
But nature's blushes charm not, thine,
Idalia, absent -- nor seem fine
Her shadows while thus lone is mine.

A thousand songsters 'tune their throats
   Along the gleaming brook;
In every air their music floats,
   From every bough is shook:
But if her happy voice I hear
Not mingled, to my anxious ear
No song is sweet, no music dear.

The sun sinks - and, in pairs or lone,
   All birds that far must go,
The crane and eagle, voyage on,
   The plover and the crow:
So, love, upon thy wonted wing,
To her wild bower beside the spring
The lingering Idalia bring.

Now first from heaven's dim dome, one star
   Looks down with eye of gold;
First o'er the eastern clouds afar
   The lady moon behold:
And, kindred sight! enwreathed with blooms,
Snatched, passing, from the fragrant brooms,
My bright, my chaste Idalia comes.

First published in The Australasian Chronicle, 10 November 1842;
and later in
The Poetical Works of Charles Harpur edited by Elizabeth Perkins, 1984.

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library

See also.

Australian Poets #30 - Louise Mack

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louise_mack.jpg

Marie Louise Hamilton Mack (1870-1935)

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

Doom by Christopher Brennan

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Dead night, unholy quiet, doom, and weird
Are heavy on its roof,
The palace-keep that prosperous Evil rear'd
Defiant, heaven-proof.

Founded in fraud, mortar'd with blood, and clamp'd
With clutching iron hands,
It frown'd down right, its flaunted scutcheon ramp'd
Above the abject lands.

And now, the sentinels have left that gate
Nor bar protects, nor pin,
But high and wide the portal yawns, till Fate
And Judgment enter in.

A groaning trembles thro' the massive vaults,
A muttering down the halls,
As closer still the impending thunder halts
Nor yet the levin falls.

A panic whispering round the galleries
Runs twittering: then the hush,
And in the dimmest nooks divining eyes
See blackness throng and crush.

Palsied, with fix'd and writhen face, high Sin
Stares from the shrouded throne
With glassy eyes whose gaze is turn'd within
-- Where at the last are known

Ate and Ruin, each Erinys-shape
Dire, ineluctable,
From whom nor death nor madness brings escape
-- And least, the House of Hell.

This is their doom, deserv'd, complete and due,
That they themselves must know
Whose witless hand it was that overthrew
With self-inflicted blow

Their monstrous dream; to know their own the sword
That smote them from the skies,
That stretch'd in dust the Dagon they adored,
And shatter'd their emprise;

Their own the skill that most industrious built
This pit of their despair
Star-high, smooth-rounded, baffling, where their guilt
Must find eternal lair.

The enginery they wrought, whose maw they fed
With fume and fire of hate,
To break his house above their neighbour's head,
Hath left theirs desolate.

And Evil knows at last, all overtoil'd,
The law whereby it must,
By self stupidity and dulness foil'd,
Still labour for the Just.

This is their punishment: there is no worse;
What have they left to dread
Who reck not of the living orphan's curse,
The slow wrath of the dead?

Tho' for a while, lest from the festering lie
Our air drink poison-shade,
The scavengers of Justice yet must ply
Their stern and simple trade,

(For sword and rope are hungry, axe and block
Demand their grim repast,
Whereof who would defraud them, shakes the rock
On which his house stands fast)

Our vengeance now is full: what else must fall
Can add no best, no worst;
The cup is brimm'd whence they have drunken gall,
Where we have slaked our thirst.

Our vengeance is complete, deserv'd, and won,
And sevenfold seventyfold
The retribution on the guilty one
Is levied, summ'd, and told.

We that have suffer'd with the suffering right --
For all our doubts and fears,
For all our anguish in the muttering night,
For all our blood and tears,

For dread and for dismay, and that foul rape
Man's spirit but scarce withstood
When from the Pit, in our usurped shape,
The Abominable was spew'd --

Lo, their cold agony and icy sweat,
Their self-damnation known!
Let justice come: What need we vengeance yet?
Its wreaking was their own.

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 9 November 1918;
and later in
The Cairns Post, 25 November 1918;
A Chant of Doom and Other Verses by Christopher Brennan, 1918; and
The Verse of Christopher Brennan edited by A. R. Chisholm, 1960.

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library

See also.

The Ship Home by Stephen J. Spano

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(Printed in a reckless moment because of the staff's inability to decide what it is about.)

How ships are built into Australian Homes!
   No timber of the ship is there,
No iron, copper, cordage, naught of sail,
   Yet the ship is there.
Some Harpley, Sovereign of the Seas, Red Jacket.
Some Lightning, painted green with straight cut-water,
Or Marco Polo or Great Britain.

The old folks hear the murmur of the shell,
They leave the Chalk Cliffs and England's gardens,
Its dewy meadows, humid roses,
Its choked-up London; yet, perchanee, most dear
'Ampstead, 'Ammmersmith, 'Ackney, 'Ighgate,
'Olborn, 'Olloway, 'Ounslow,
The Cockney and the Cockneyess in the blood.

Ah yus! the ship slid with them adown Thames.
Farewell Gravesemd, Deptlord, Wool'ich, Chattum;
No more will good old Grinnidge greet our eyes
Unless we come back with a pot o' gold.

But buck up, laeses! buck up, sturdy lads!
Slavery shall no more rattle chains;
No more touching hats to Lord Nozoo;
Right away past the blowy Nore;
Shiver my timbers and hitch my britches up,
The sea! the sea! The broad and open sea!
The rolling fresh and ever free ---
Australia is the land for me.

Dadl lights another pipe;
He courses in his thoughts o'er Biscay's Bay,
Past Teneriffe and Cape of Storms,
With waves up twenty feet.

We had the pluck to come.
At last fair Adelaide loomed in the haze --
All yellow dusty with a rare hot wind
That fanned our faces in the Bay.
Fruit comes aboard, Australia's peaches ---
Rosy-cheek rascals, and blushily delicious.

Yet on to Melbourne through the rushing Rip,
And here we are in Canvas Town,
Sighing like Israelites for Egypt's fleshpots,
But through the quagmire the way must be ahead,
Like Australia with its Federation.

Sinking holes for gold at Ballarat,
A whilom forest overrun with tents.
Fighting then in Melbourne for a bit of land.
Lord Nozoo here too!
Striking out into the bush, and well-nigh eating bark.
But planting down a Home.

First published in The Bulletin, 8 November 1906;
and later in
Freedom on the Wallaby: Poems of the Australian People edited by Majorie Pizer, 1953.

Author: nothing is known about the writer of this poem.

Author reference site: Austlit

Harbour Lights by Louise Mack

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Do you remember, happily,
   How we watched the harbour lights,
Fascinated with their beauty,
   Spell-bound in the perfumed nights?

Gleaming from the moonlit hill,
   Yellow lights like tigers' eyes,
Reflecting in the waters still
   Drowning 'neath the breezes sighs.

While far on high the Pleiads lean,
   Twinkling to our mortal stars,
Stars of ruby, and emerald green,
   From anchor'd ships in the harbour bar.

Ships that dream in sleeping bays,
   Barges that creep from shore to shore,
Musing on secret ocean ways
   And pale sands where the breakers roar.

O, lovely silent harbour lights,
   From dusk to dawn you flame and gleam,
Burning jewels for the sombre night,
   Enraptured in some love-long dream.

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 7 November 1925

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also

Truth by Mabel Forrest

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Beloved! And if this bitter thing must be,
Look up to God --- then turn in faith to me,
And let there be bare truth twixt me and thee.
Let there be truth; the lie has ceased to be ---
The lie of love, that was so sweet to me,
The gracious mask that hid reality.

Beloved! Remember all it might have been   
Had both hearts meant what only one can mean --
Had we both known what only one has seen.
Let there be truth --- unvarnished, curt, and keen.
Skies are but blue, and meadows only green ---
Ah God! That still the lie had been!

First published in The Queenslander, 6 November 1897

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.  

Galloping Horses by C. J. Dennis

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Oh, this is the week when no rhymster may rhyme
On the joy of the bush or the ills of the time,
   Nor pour out his soul in delectable rhythm
   Of women and wine and the lure they have with 'em,
Nor pen philosophic if foolish discourses,
Because of the fury of galloping horses.

Galloping, galloping thro' the refrain --
The lure and the lilt of it beat on the brain.
   Strive as you may for Arcadian Themes,
   The silks and the saddles will weave thro' your dreams.
Surging, and urging the visions aside
For a lyrical lay of equestrian pride,
   For the roar of the race and the call of the courses,
   And galloping, galloping, galloping horses.

This is the week for the apotheosis
Of Horse in his glory, from tail to proboscis.
   That curious quadrupled, proud and aloof,
   That holds all the land under thrall of his hoof.
All creeds and conditions, all factions and forces,
All, all must give way to the galloping horses.

Galloping, galloping -- sinner and saint
March to the metre, releasing restraint.
   If it isn't the Cup it's the Oaks or the Steeple
   That wraps in its magic the minds of the people.
Whether they seek it for profit or pleasure,
They all, willy-nilly, must dance to the measure.
   The mood of the moment in all men endorses
   The glamorous game and the galloping horses --
Galloping horses -- jockeys and courses --
They gallop, we gallop with galloping horses.

First published in The Herald, 5 November 1932;
and later in
Random Verse by C. J. Dennis, 1952.

Author reference sites: C.J. Dennis, Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library

See also.

The River's Up at Bourke by Gilrooney (R.J. Cassidy)

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The Darling at Bourke is 16ft. above summer level, and still rising.---News item from Outback.

The squatters down its winding course
   Will watch the rising flood,
And Optimism's tingling force
   Is surging through their blood.
For should the stream its volume lack
   To bear the golden bales,
The wool that counts for all Outback
   Will miss the London sales!

The woodmen and the watermen,
   And all the old brigade,
Will seek the Trickle once again --
   The Trickle that is Trade!
The lonely swagmen in the bends
   The whalers' tracks will shirk,
And claim the skippers as their friends,
   For Bourke is always --- Bourke!

The message of a thousand miles
  Is in that yellow mud,
Symbolical of Nature's smiles
   (The Fortune of the Flood!).
The crazy little river craft
   Will waken from their sleep,
And, like Titanic imps of Graft,
   Go threshing down the deep!

Once more the eagle, high above
   Against the vault of blue,
Will see the sailor-men make love
   To Jenny Jamberoo!
And Hebe of the River's Arms
   (Who long since smiled for me)
Will show once more her olden charms ---
   Red lips and lingerie!

For Jack he is a sailor, though
   The heaving deep he sails
Is where the Northern Waters flow
   Through Sunset New South Wales!
The same old voices call to him,
   The name old passions leap
As where the flattened fishes swim
   A hundred fathoms deep!

For I have waited for the Rise
   And idled in the bars
Of Bourke --- and heard the bo'sun's lies
   Beneath the Desert Stars!
And I have waited for the wire
   From sleepy Walgett town:
"The Barwon and the McIntyre
   In flood are coming down."

The coach goes rocking through the dust --
   Its old romance is dead
(Its driver never paints "a bust"
   A thousand miles ahead!);
For all the waters of the North
   Shall take the cargoes South,
And, like lorn lovers, hasten forth
   To kiss the Harbor's mouth!

I wish that I could tread the decks
   And hear the captain swear
At eerie hypothetic wrecks,
   That ancient mariner!
I feel inclined to leave my den
   And sail in quest of work --
For all the sirens call me when
   The River's Up at Bourke!

First published in The Bulletin, 4 November 1909

Author: Robert John Cassidy (1880-1948) was born in Coolac in New South Wales, and was, for a time, editor of the Broken Hill newspaper Sport.  He wrote one novel and published the bulk of his poetry in The Bulletin. He died in 1948. 

Author reference site: Austlit
Fitzgerald's Creek! Is this Australia,
   This ferny dell, close-shaded from the sun,
   And brown rill rippling over mossy stone,
Beguiling the far-wandered Yorkshireman
Into a dream of fairy vales which ran
   To meet the Tees? Yes, you will see anon
   Charred trunks of eucalypti fallen on
Its bed, and supplejacks cyclopean, 
   Binding huge tree to tree with strength of mesh
   No Afric elephant could tear apart,
While up the bank, in their spring glory fresh,
   The blue lobelia with its yellow heart
And waratah with flame-hued, royal crown
Proclaim the scenery Australia's own.

First published in Australian Town and Country Journal, 3 November 1883

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

Song of the Wheat by A. B. "Banjo" Paterson

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We have sung the song of the droving days,
   Of the march of the travelling sheep;
By silent stages and lonely ways
   Thin, white battalions creep.
But the man who now by the land would thrive
   Must his spurs to a plough-share beat.
Is there ever a man in the world alive
   To sing the song of the Wheat!

It's west by south of the Great Divide
   The grim grey plains run out,
Where the old flock-masters lived and died
   In a ceaseless fight with drought.
Weary with waiting and hope deferred
   They were ready to own defeat,
Till at last they heard the master-word --
   And the master-word was Wheat.

Yarran and Myall and Box and Pine --
   'Twas axe and fire for all;
They scarce could tarry to blaze the line
   Or wait for the trees to fall,
Ere the team was yoked, and the gates flung wide,
   And the dust of the horses' feet
Rose up like a pillar of smoke to guide
   The wonderful march of Wheat.

Furrow by furrow, and fold by fold,
   The soil is turned on the plain;
Better than silver and better than gold
   Is the surface-mine of the grain;
Better than cattle and better than sheep
   In the fight with drought and heat;
For a streak of stubbornness, wide and deep,
   Lies hid in a grain of Wheat.

When the stock is swept by the hand of fate,
   Deep down in his bed of clay
The brave brown Wheat will lie and wait
   For the resurrection day:
Lie hid while the whole world thinks him dead;
   But the Spring-rain, soft and sweet,
Will over the steaming paddocks spread
   The first green flush of the Wheat.

Green and amber and gold it grows
   When the sun sinks late in the West;
And the breeze sweeps over the rippling rows
   Where the quail and the skylark nest.
Mountain or river or shining star,
   There's never a sight can beat --
Away to the sky-line stretching far --
   A sea of the ripening Wheat.

When the burning harvest sun sinks low,
   And the shadows stretch on the plain,
The roaring strippers come and go
   Like ships on a sea of grain;
Till the lurching, groaning waggons bear
   Their tale of the load complete.
Of the world's great work he has done his share
   Who has gathered a crop of wheat.

Princes and Potentates and Czars,
   They travel in regal state,
But old King Wheat has a thousand cars
   For his trip to the water-gate;
And his thousand steamships breast the tide
   And plough thro' the wind and sleet
To the lands where the teeming millions bide
   That say: "Thank God for Wheat!"

First published in The Lone Hand, 2 November 1914;
and later in
Saltbush Bill, J.P., and Other Verses by A.B. Paterson, 1917;
Selections from the Australian Poets edited by Bertram Stevens,1925;
The Collected Verse of A.B. Paterson by A.B. Paterson, 1982;
Song of the Pen, A.B. (Banjo) Paterson: Complete Works 1901-1941 edited by Rosamund Campbell and Philippa Harvie, 1983;
Banjo Paterson's Poems of the Bush by A.B. Paterson, 1987;
The Banjo's Best-Loved Poems edited by Rosamund Campbell and Philippa Harvie, 1989;
A Vision Splendid: The Complete Poetry of A.B. 'Banjo' Paterson by A.B. Paterson, 1990;
A.B. 'Banjo' Paterson: Bush Ballads, Poems, Stories and Journalism edited by Clement Semmler, 1992;
Selected Poems: A. B. Paterson compiled by Les Murray, 1992;
The Collected Verse of Banjo Paterson edited by Clement Semmler, 1993; and
An Australian Treasury of Popular Verse edited by Jim Haynes, 2002.

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library

See also.

Good-Bye by Ada Cambridge

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Good-bye! -- 'tis like a churchyard bell -- good-bye!
   Poor weeping eyes! Poor head, bowed down with woe!
   Kiss me again, dear love, before you go.
Ah, me, how fast the precious moments fly!
            Good-bye! Good-bye!

We are like mourners when they stand and cry
   At open grave in wintry wind and rain.
   Yes, it is death. But you shall rise again --
Your sun return to this benighted sky.
            Good-bye! Good-bye!

The great physician, Time, shall pacify
   This parting anguish with another friend.
   Your heart is broken now, but it will mend.
Though it is death, yet still you will not die.
            Good-bye! Good-bye!

Dear heart! dear eyes! dear tongue that cannot lie!
   Your love is true, your grief is deep and sore;
   But love will pass, then you will grieve no more.
New love will come. Your tears will soon be dry!
            Good-bye! Good-bye!

First published in The Bulletin, 1 November 1906;
and later in
An Anthology of Australian Verse edited by Bertram Stevens, 1907;
The Golden Treasury of Australian Verse edited by Bertram Stevens, 1909;
A Treasury of Colonial Poetry, 1982;
Unspoken Thoughts by Ada Cambrdige, 1988; and
100 Australian Poems of Love and Loss edited by Jamie Grant, 2011.

Author: Ada Cambridge (1844-1926) was born in Norfolk, England and arrived in Australia in 1870.  By that time was she had married a curate, George Cross, and was already published.  The couple lived and worked in rural Victoria, and in 1873 Cambridge began writing to supplement the family income. She published 26 novels during her lifetime along with 3 collections of her poetry.  She and her husband returned to England in 1909, but Cambridge returned to Victoria after her husband died in 1917. She died in Elsternwick in 1926.

Author reference sites:
Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library

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