Classic Poem

Seen plainly from O'Brien's Hill,
That stands by our old home,
Mount Buckaroo is standing still,
And likewise old Mount Frome;
Lowe's Peak and all its hills are ranged
Just as in memory,
And Granite Ridge is little changed
As far as I can see.

The creek that I can ne'er forget
Its destiny fulfils,
The glow of sunrise purples yet
Along the Mudgee hills;
The flats and sidings seem to lie
Unchanged by Mudgee town,
And with the same old song and sigh
The Cudgegong goes down.

The little town is just as fair
As when I steered the plough —
(The same old sign-boards seem to need
The same re-touching now);
And though the gigs have mostly left
The spring-cart in the lurch,
The same old sort of country folk
Go driving in to church.

The German farmers seem the same
About Eurunderee,
And others careless as of yore —
Except for two or three.
The people are, as ever, kind,
And old and young are dear;
But, tell me, Spirit of the Past!
What change is written here?

I gaze upon an old mate's face
And hear an old mate's voice,
And cannot realize 'tis one
Of my old school-mate's boys!
I look into a fair girl's eyes
And half expect a sign —
'Tis but the youngest daughter of
A school sweetheart of mine.

I meet an old mate growing grey,
And sorrow thrills me through,
Because I cannot recollect
That I am greying too.
We see not with the young folks' eyes,
Nor hear with young folks' ears;
We never seem to realize
We're getting on in years.

See yonder line of bleaching posts —
A panel here and there —
(By moonlight seen, like passing ghosts
That seem to pause and stare)
'Twas there I thought a fence should be:
I did not seem to know —
It was a fence that I put up
Some thirty years ago.

See yonder ruin in the pines
(The wonder 'tis they grew),
'Tis blackened, warped and gone to wreck
As empty houses do.
A neighbour's house — a good man's house —
Though he found little joy —
It was a house my father built,
(I helped him as a boy).

Behind me to the eastward lie,
While sunset's fading fast,
The darkened haunts of tragedy —
Weird Gullies of the Past:
The waste-heaps, ghostly in the Bush,
Of that wild rush for gold
Remind me that I've " seen the Days " ,
That I am growing old.

I'm lonely on O'Brien's Hill,
Though friendship waits all round:
The dead and lost are calling still —
The children make no sound.
The light that lies on Mudgee Hills
Before the sunset dies
Is just above the very spot
Where my fair sister lies.

Would my sad heart have now been light?
Would none for me have grieved?
Ah! would my life have different been
Had Henrietta lived? —
A sister's influence and her tears,
A brother's stubborn pride! —
She's dead these eight and thirty years —
'Tis very well she died.

But moonlight on a cottage shines
To banish maudlin tears,
O'ergrown with grape and ivy vines
Through those neglected years,
It stands as good, of stout hardwood,
As it stood in the past —
My father built it for a home
And built the place to last!

And I'll go slave to win it back —
I'll make a garden fair —
I'll hold it for my father's sake
And meet my children there,
And here amongst the folks I knew
And never yet could doubt
We'll live like our brave fathers through
Good seasons, and through drought.