Classic Poem

Let us sing in careless measures of the days of long ago,
Like the trot-trot-trot of horses in the times of Cobb and Co.
When the sun was on the branches, and the frost was on the grass,
And the passengers sniffed breakfast as they came through Aaron's Pass,
And the water in the gullies glimmered up like darkened glass.

Let us make er piece er po'try outer our old sinful 'ead,
For the sake of Youth long vanished, for the sake of things long dead;
When the bark hut was " the homestead " , and all things were most uncouth,
When the bags that lined the skillion were the tapestry of Truth
In the fairyland of Childhood and the distant homes of Youth.

There's a township on the skyline, and our fathers knew it well,
For its pubs were half-way houses on the roads to Bourke and Hell,
(Hay and Hell — or Eldorado — or the place you have in mind) —
It has two pubs and a shanty, and a store of every kind,
And it also has a blacksmith's and a wheelwright's shop combined.

There are no " kids " , save when Bummer Smith can get outside " a few "
With old Jones the harness-mender, who's the local bootsmith, too.
But on work-days, in fine weather, to a school along the line,
Go some twenty ancient people, aged from fourteen up to nine
On old spring-carts, shaky sulkies, and on scenery equine.

'Tis a town of class-distinctions, swift descents, and sudden turns.
One hotel is called the Shamrock, one is called the Robert Burns;
Jock McPherson keeps the Shamrock, and he's doing fairly well,
While a son of old Pat Ryan keeps the Robert Burns Hotel.
Old Pat Ryan (Saynior) kept it when the place was mostly scrub,
And in spite of Scottish settlers, it is known as " Ryan's Pub " .

The Hotel is for " officials " and the tourist, sad and lone;
It is all tone and no tucker, while the " Pub " has got no tone.
It has tucker for the traveller, and tobacco on the shelf —
Ryan's cook looks after these things, independent of " Himself " !
No outsiders go to Ryan's, save lost souls in search of beer,
Or a party politician when election-time is near.

I might add, our worthy landlords dream of days of long ago,
Of the gold-rush and Bushrangers, and the lights of Cobb and Co.,
But they don't ; the world has altered since the old Bush Inns, no doubt,
Daily bread and daily shouter are the things they dream about;
Or that blanky booze consignment that has somehow gone astray,
And should have been at the station by the mail-train yesterday.

Just four years ago, a dozen bushmen from the Wild and Wide
Rode in to the little township with their girls, who rode astride;
Some were reared in German districts, where the Prussian got a chance;
So they took the train to Sydney, and they sailed to fight for France.
And you'll see the Roll of Honour, for adjacent lands and scrub,
In the parlour of the Shamrock, and the bar of Ryan's Pub.