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There are folk long dead； and our hearts would sicken
We would grieve for them with a bitter pain；
If the past could live and the dead could quicken；
We then might turn to that life again。
But on lonely nights we would hear them calling；
We should hear their steps on the pathways falling；
We should loathe the life with a hate appalling
In our lonely rides by the ridge and plain。
。 。 。 。 。
In the silent park is a scent of clover；
And the distant roar of the town is dead；
And I hear once more as the swans fly over
Their far…off clamour from overhead。
They are flying west； by their instinct guided；
And for man likewise is his fate decided；
And griefs apportioned and joys divided
By a mighty power with a purpose dread。
The Travelling Post Office
The roving breezes come and go； the reed beds sweep and sway；
The sleepy river murmurs low； and loiters on its way；
It is the land of lots o' time along the Castlereagh。
。 。 。 。 。
The old man's son had left the farm； he found it dull and slow；
He drifted to the great North…west where all the rovers go。
〃He's gone so long；〃 the old man said； 〃he's dropped right out of mind；
But if you'd write a line to him I'd take it very kind；
He's shearing here and fencing there； a kind of waif and stray；
He's droving now with Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh。
The sheep are travelling for the grass； and travelling very slow；
They may be at Mundooran now； or past the Overflow；
Or tramping down the black soil flats across by Waddiwong；
But all those little country towns would send the letter wrong；
The mailman； if he's extra tired； would pass them in his sleep；
It's safest to address the note to ‘Care of Conroy's sheep'；
For five and twenty thousand head can scarcely go astray；
You write to ‘Care of Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh'。〃
。 。 。 。 。
By rock and ridge and riverside the western mail has gone；
Across the great Blue Mountain Range to take that letter on。
A moment on the topmost grade while open fire doors glare；
She pauses like a living thing to breathe the mountain air；
Then launches down the other side across the plains away
To bear that note to 〃Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh〃。
And now by coach and mailman's bag it goes from town to town；
And Conroy's Gap and Conroy's Creek have marked it 〃further down〃。
Beneath a sky of deepest blue where never cloud abides；
A speck upon the waste of plain the lonely mailman rides。
Where fierce hot winds have set the pine and myall boughs asweep
He hails the shearers passing by for news of Conroy's sheep。
By big lagoons where wildfowl play and crested pigeons flock；
By camp fires where the drovers ride around their restless stock；
And past the teamster toiling down to fetch the wool away
My letter chases Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh。
The Old Australian Ways
The London lights are far abeam
Behind a bank of cloud；
Along the shore the gaslights gleam；
The gale is piping loud；
And down the Channel； groping blind；
We drive her through the haze
Towards the land we left behind
The good old land of 〃never mind〃；
And old Australian ways。
The narrow ways of English folk
Are not for such as we；
They bear the long…accustomed yoke
Of staid conservancy：
But all our roads are new and strange；
And through our blood there runs
The vagabonding love of change
That drove us westward of the range
And westward of the suns。
The city folk go to and fro
Behind a prison's bars；
They never feel the breezes blow
And never see the stars；
They never hear in blossomed trees
The music low and sweet
Of wild birds making melodies；
Nor catch the little laughing breeze
That whispers in the wheat。
Our fathers came of roving stock
That could not fixed abide：
And we have followed field and flock
Since e'er we learnt to ride；
By miner's camp and shearing shed；
In land of heat and drought；
We followed where our fortunes led；
With fortune always on ahead
And always further out。
The wind is in the barley…grass；
The wattles are in bloom；
The breezes greet us as they pass
With honey…sweet perfume；
The parrakeets go screaming by
With flash of golden wing；
And from the swamp the wild…ducks cry
Their long…drawn note of revelry；
Rejoicing at the Spring。
So throw the weary pen aside
And let the papers rest；
For we must saddle up and ride
Towards the blue hill's breast；
And we must travel far and fast
Across their rugged maze；
To find the Spring of Youth at last；
And call back from the buried past
The old Australian ways。
When Clancy took the drover's track
In years of long ago；
He drifted to the outer back
Beyond the Overflow；
By rolling plain and rocky shelf；
With stockwhip in his hand；
He reached at last； oh lucky elf！
The Town of Come…and…help…yourself
In Rough…and…ready Land。
And if it be that you would know
The tracks he used to ride；
Then you must saddle up and go
Beyond the Queensland side
Beyond the reach of rule or law；
To ride the long day through；
In Nature's homestead filled with awe：
You then might see what Clancy saw
And know what Clancy knew。
By the Grey Gulf…Water
Far to the Northward there lies a land；
A wonderful land that the winds blow over；
And none may fathom nor understand
The charm it holds for the restless rover；
A great grey chaos a land half made；
Where endless space is and no life stirreth；
And the soul of a man will recoil afraid
From the sphinx…like visage that Nature weareth。
But old Dame Nature； though scornful； craves
Her dole of death and her share of slaughter；
Many indeed are the nameless graves
Where her victims sleep by the Grey Gulf…water。
Slowly and slowly those grey streams glide；
Drifting along with a languid motion；
Lapping the reed…beds on either side；
Wending their way to the Northern Ocean。
Grey are the plains where the emus pass
Silent and slow； with their staid demeanour；
Over the dead men's graves the grass
Maybe is waving a trifle greener。
Down in the world where men toil and spin
Dame Nature smiles as man's hand has taught her；
Only the dead men her smiles can win
In the great lone land by the Grey Gulf…water。
For the strength of man is an insect's strength
In the face of that mighty plain and river；
And the life of a man is a moment's length
To the life of the stream that will run for ever。
And so it cometh they take no part
In small…world worries； each hardy rover
Rideth abroad and is light of heart；
With the plains around and the blue sky over。
And up in the heavens the brown lark sings
The songs that the strange wild land has taught her；
Full of thanksgiving her sweet song rings
And I wish I were back by the Grey Gulf…wat