Classic Poem

A day of peace and innocence,
A glorious sun and sky,
And, just above my picket fence,
" Black Bonnets " passing by
In knitted gloves and faded dress
Without a spot or smirch,
Her worn face lit with peacefulness —
Old " Granny " goes to church.

They called it " Service " long ago,
When her old eyes were strong;
But now they're dim, because, we know,
Her service lasted long.
By flowing creeks the bushman loves,
By stockyard, hut and pen,
The withered hands in those black gloves
Have done the work of men.

Her hair is richly white like milk —
Tho' long ago 'twas fair —
And glossy is the old black silk
She keeps for " chapel wear " ;
Her bonnet, of a bygone style
That passes not away,
She may have had a weary while
Or bought but yesterday.

The road is rather rough and steep —
She takes it with a will,
For, since she hushed " her first " to sleep,
Her way has been up hill.
I feel inclined to bare my pate,
(A sinful one, alas!)
Whene'er I see, above the gate,
Her old black bonnet pass.

For she has known the cold and heat
And dangers of the track,
And fought bush fires to save the wheat
And little home Out Back.
Long, lonely weeks of fear she knew,
The men folk all way;
And she has faced bushrangers too,
And wild blacks in her day.

Her grim old faith is firm as when —
The Great Flood rising round —
She dragged the children to the roof
And saw their father drowned.
And for her loved ones and her dead
She'll not have far to search;
'Twas only yesterday she said
She " sees them all in church. "

The eager children — large and small —
Upon their ways have gone,
Ere " Mother " passes, last of all,
To put her apron on.
Black bonnets of the days gone by,
Black bonnets of the Past!
The mother love that cannot die;
The one love that will last!