Classic Poem

I remember, when I was a nipper,
The dust of the coach coming in,
And the sound in the wheat of the stripper
Like grandfather reaping his chin.
And way back of the reaper and binder
And the stripper of ages gone by,
The old folk will need no reminder
Of the reaping hook, " cradle " and scythe.

I remember the tents in the saplings
And the mullock heaps piled by the holes;
I remember the clack of the windlass
And the run of the rope on the boles,
The rush, and the scenes on the goldfields
By better men pictured and told,
And the desolate, desolate old fields —
And the red flags of Payable Gold.

I remember the " Nil Desperandum "
And our claim on Canadian Creek;
I remember the drives in the spring-cart
Out there at the end of the week.
I remember the old mate MacCulloch
Cry " Peter! yer bairnies are come, "
And my father, in moleskins and mullock,
Drawn up from his shift to come home.

I remember the long cruel battle
With drought and the squatter and pride,
And the passing of mobs of " store cattle "
And the cry " Keep your b — — dogs inside! " ...
... I remember the nights I came riding
Down gullies in darkness and wet —
I remember a grave on the siding:
Does someone look after it yet?

And the drovers go out to their droving,
With hack and with packhorse and all,
And the young fellows go to their roving
When they hear from the North-West the call.
And selectors go out to the shearing
From the hills in the drought burning brown —
For a cheque for the fencing and clearing —
And I still see the wool teams come down.

I remember the run of good seasons,
The love of a hobble-de-hoy,
And the great joy, for grandest of reasons,
When the best girl picked out her best boy.
(And the slab-and-bark school and the fall-outs
And make-ups of seasons before,
And the tiffs going home and the call-outs:
" I won't be yer sweetheart no more! " )

I notice the cowyards have vanished,
No signs of the paddocks remain;
I notice the scrub that we banished
Growing up round the old place again.
Ah! strange to the district were those vines
That Granny brought over the hill;
But I notice the ivy and rose vines
Are shielding the old homestead still.

O the vine-purpled hills of old Mudgee,
Where the clear willowed river goes down!
O the great granite peaks where we hunted,
And the dear old historical town!
O the farms and the orchards and vineyards,
And the glorious district and day!
But they came like a gift from a woman:
We take it and throw it away.

For the glamour of cities was o'er us,
The mystery hiding a hell —
The resistless Unknown was before us,
Dear Lord! I have learnt it too well!
So we drifted our selfish directions —
O sons of the Bushland beware! —
How far are the dear old selections
From the sins of dark London Square.