Home-Sick by Zora Cross

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Sydney, dear old companion,
   With your kind face to the sky,
With your spires and domes and columns
   By the waters cool and shy,
I have loved your light robes trailing,
Through the sea of beauty sailing,
   But to-night I want to cry.

There's a little northern steamer
   Going chugging from the bay;
There's a laughing line of water
   All along the Barrier way;
And it's calling me, and calling,
All its echoes softly falling
   Rich with spices of the spray.

There's a sleepy mob of cattle
   Coming slowly from the West;
And the horses of the drovers
   Seem hoof-dead from want of rest;
But my soul amid the gleaming
Of the happy sunlight's streaming
   Woos the bushland to my breast.

Oh, I want the clean, green Northland,
   Want the singing, swinging tread
Of the everlasting freedom
   Where the sun and air are wed!
Oh, I want the rivers sweeping
And the sleepy sea winds creeping
   Over palmy cape and head.

Sydney, dear old gay companion,
   Hemmed by walls from liberty,
Shut from meadow, farm, and station.
   And their wildness, loose and free!
Dear old mate with memories thronging,
You can understand the longing,
   You were once but scrub and sea.
First published in The Sydney Mail, 18 February 1920

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