We wrote and sang of a bush we never
Had known in youth in the Western land;
Of the dear old homes by the shining river,
The deep, clear creeks and the hills so grand.
The grass waved high on the flat and siding,
The wild flowers bloomed on the banks so fair,
And younger sons from the North came riding
To vine-clad homes in the gardens there.
We wrote and sangand the Lord knows best
Oh, those dear old songs of the fairy West!
We dreamed and sang of the bustling mother;
The brick-floored kitchen we saw so clear,
The pranks and jokes of the youngest brother,
The evening songs of our sisters dear.
The old man dozed in the chimney corner,
Or smoked and blinked at the cheerful blaze,
Or yarned with a cronyold Jack Horner
Whod known him back in the Digging Days.
We worked and sangand the Lord knows best
Oh, those dear old homes of the fairy West!
By tracks that ran neath the granite ridges
The children played on their way from school
By the fairy dells and the sapling bridges,
And stole a swim in the willowed pool.
And home they flocked with their ceaseless chatter,
Till, happy and tired, and washed and fed
(The wash came afterit doesnt matter)
They said their prayers and they went to bed.
We worked and dreamedand the Lord knows best
Oh, those dear old ways of the fairy West!
We rose at daylight, refreshed and hearty,
And drank our tea while the children slept;
We worked with the zest of a camping party,
While the morning breeze through the gum-trees crept.
We worked till the signal of Breakfast ready!
And ate our fill of the good lands best;
And Jimmy and Mary, and Nell and Teddy,
And all the children were washed and dressed.
Oh, those grand old farms of pleasure and rest
In the fairy tales of the Golden West!
Twas a land overflowing with milk and honey,
And eggs and bacon and butter and beer.
We came to Sydney, with whips of money,
To see the world about twice a year.
The girls got married to rich young farmers,
And did no work save to populate;
And we had the pick of the city charmers
And took our brides to the country straight.
We dreamed and sangand the Lord knows best
Oh, those dear old dreams of the fairy West!
I dreamed last night of those days long vanished,
And buried in bitterness out of sight;
The scene was gone and the folk were banished,
And this is the vision I saw last night
It may be false and it may be real;
It may be wrong and it may be right
A sort of set-off to the grand ideal:
Well call it A Vision of Sandy Blight.
We dreamed and sangand you know the rest
The Sandy Blight in the Wondrous West.
The daylight comes to the skillion winder,
A hole with never a breath of air;
And never a pane of glass to hinder
The reek from the pig-sty adjacent there.
The skillion cowers in the daybreak ghostly,
Criminal-like, as skillions do;
It is fashioned of bark and bagging mostly
And furnished with bark and bagging, too.
Swiftlytoo swiftlythe light comes creeping
Round the corners, cobweb-immeshed,
To the dusty bunk where the boys lie sleeping,
Gummy-eyed, dirty and unrefreshed.
Huddled like monkeys (Im tired of coining
Rhyme to brighten this cheerful lay)
A bang on the slabs of the room adjoining:
Git up! Are yer gaunter lay there all day?
Three hides of bones in the yard are bailed up
(We called em kyows when my heart was young),
A pitiful calling where calves are railed up,
A stifling cloud from the powdered dung.
A dusty and sleepy head is boring
Into the flank of each dusty cow
Milk, dust and burrs in the buckets pouring;
Three skinny youngsters are milkin now.
And rainy weather! I would be plainer
The filthy tail and the plunging hoof!
(The worst came out in the home-made strainer,
But more came down from the dairy roof.)
Seven cows each, and the calves are poddied.
The pigs are fed while the boys can creep;
Theyve done the work of the able-bodied,
And one sits down in the dust to sleep.
The skimmin, and scaldin (in loo-warm water,
And cloudy at that) and the churnin done,
The hopeless face of the elder daughter
The narrowed mind of the elder son.
The sulky scowl of the younger brother,
The morning greeting of youre a fool!
The rasping voice of the worn-out mother:
Now git yer breakfus an git ter school!
Three miles to the school-houseand often more in
The sparser districts (it makes me sick)
Mountins and rivers and parsin and drorin
Readin and writin and rithmetic,
Sewin an singin and objeck lessins,
Spellin, dicktashin, home lessins too!
A bit of relegin for all these blessins,
And home in a hurry to milk the Coo.
We slaved and sangand the Lord knows best
Oh, those dear old homes of the fairy West!
P.S.: I was in Yewklid the day I finished
Me edyercashun in those times dim
My younger brother cleared out to Queensland,
Twas mountains and rivers that finished him.