I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall, And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city, Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all.

And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle Of the tramways and the 'buses making hurry down the street, And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting, Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet.

And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste, With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy, For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.

And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy, Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go, While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal -- But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of "The Overflow".

Black Swans

As I lie at rest on a patch of clover In the Western Park when the day is done, I watch as the wild black swans fly over With their phalanx turned to the sinking sun; And I hear the clang of their leader crying To a lagging mate in the rearward flying, And they fade away in the darkness dying, Where the stars are mustering one by one.

Oh! ye wild black swans, 'twere a world of wonder For a while to join in your westward flight, With the stars above and the dim earth under, Through the cooling air of the glorious night.

As we swept along on our pinions winging, We should catch the chime of a church-bell ringing, Or the distant note of a torrent singing, Or the far-off flash of a station light.

From the northern lakes with the reeds and rushes, Where the hills are clothed with a purple haze, Where the bell-birds chime and the songs of thrushes Make music sweet in the jungle maze, They will hold their course to the westward ever, Till they reach the banks of the old grey river, Where the waters wash, and the reed-beds quiver In the burning heat of the summer days.

Oh! ye strange wild birds, will ye bear a greeting To the folk that live in that western land?

Then for every sweep of your pinions beating, Ye shall bear a wish to the sunburnt band, To the stalwart men who are stoutly fighting With the heat and drought and the dust-storm smiting, Yet whose life somehow has a strange inviting, When once to the work they have put their hand.

Facing it yet! Oh, my friend stout-hearted, What does it matter for rain or shine, For the hopes deferred and the gain departed?

Nothing could conquer that heart of thine.

And thy health and strength are beyond confessing As the only joys that are worth possessing.

May the days to come be as rich in blessing As the days we spent in the auld lang syne.

I would fain go back to the old grey river, To the old bush days when our hearts were light, But, alas! those days they have fled for ever, They are like the swans that have swept from sight.

And I know full well that the strangers' faces Would meet us now in our dearest places; For our day is dead and has left no traces But the thoughts that live in my mind to-night.

There are folk long dead, and our hearts would sicken -- We would grieve for them with a bitter pain, If the past could live and the dead could quicken, We then might turn to that life again.

But on lonely nights we would hear them calling, We should hear their steps on the pathways falling, We should loathe the life with a hate appalling In our lonely rides by the ridge and plain.

In the silent park is a scent of clover, And the distant roar of the town is dead, And I hear once more as the swans fly over Their far-off clamour from overhead.

They are flying west, by their instinct guided, And for man likewise is his fate decided, And griefs apportioned and joys divided By a mighty power with a purpose dread.

The Travelling Post Office

The roving breezes come and go, the reed beds sweep and sway, The sleepy river murmurs low, and loiters on its way, It is the land of lots o' time along the Castlereagh.

The old man's son had left the farm, he found it dull and slow, He drifted to the great North-west where all the rovers go.

"He's gone so long," the old man said, "he's dropped right out of mind, But if you'd write a line to him I'd take it very kind; He's shearing here and fencing there, a kind of waif and stray, He's droving now with Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh.

The sheep are travelling for the gra.s.s, and travelling very slow; They may be at Mundooran now, or past the Overflow, Or tramping down the black soil flats across by Waddiwong, But all those little country towns would send the letter wrong, The mailman, if he's extra tired, would pa.s.s them in his sleep, It's safest to address the note to `Care of Conroy's sheep', For five and twenty thousand head can scarcely go astray, You write to `Care of Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh'."

By rock and ridge and riverside the western mail has gone, Across the great Blue Mountain Range to take that letter on.

A moment on the topmost grade while open fire doors glare, She pauses like a living thing to breathe the mountain air, Then launches down the other side across the plains away To bear that note to "Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh".

And now by coach and mailman's bag it goes from town to town, And Conroy's Gap and Conroy's Creek have marked it "further down".

Beneath a sky of deepest blue where never cloud abides, A speck upon the waste of plain the lonely mailman rides.

Where fierce hot winds have set the pine and myall boughs asweep He hails the shearers pa.s.sing by for news of Conroy's sheep.

By big lagoons where wildfowl play and crested pigeons flock, By camp fires where the drovers ride around their restless stock, And past the teamster toiling down to fetch the wool away My letter chases Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh.

The Old Australian Ways

The London lights are far abeam Behind a bank of cloud, Along the sh.o.r.e the gaslights gleam, The gale is piping loud; And down the Channel, groping blind, We drive her through the haze Towards the land we left behind -- The good old land of "never mind", And old Australian ways.

The narrow ways of English folk Are not for such as we; They bear the long-accustomed yoke Of staid conservancy: But all our roads are new and strange, And through our blood there runs The vagabonding love of change That drove us westward of the range And westward of the suns.

The city folk go to and fro Behind a prison's bars, They never feel the breezes blow And never see the stars; They never hear in blossomed trees The music low and sweet Of wild birds making melodies, Nor catch the little laughing breeze That whispers in the wheat.

Our fathers came of roving stock That could not fixed abide: And we have followed field and flock Since e'er we learnt to ride; By miner's camp and shearing shed, In land of heat and drought, We followed where our fortunes led, With fortune always on ahead And always further out.

The wind is in the barley-gra.s.s, The wattles are in bloom; The breezes greet us as they pa.s.s With honey-sweet perfume; The parrakeets go screaming by With flash of golden wing, And from the swamp the wild-ducks cry Their long-drawn note of revelry, Rejoicing at the Spring.

So throw the weary pen aside And let the papers rest, For we must saddle up and ride Towards the blue hill's breast; And we must travel far and fast Across their rugged maze, To find the Spring of Youth at last, And call back from the buried past The old Australian ways.

When Clancy took the drover's track In years of long ago, He drifted to the outer back Beyond the Overflow; By rolling plain and rocky shelf, With stockwhip in his hand, He reached at last, oh lucky elf!

The Town of Come-and-help-yourself In Rough-and-ready Land.

And if it be that you would know The tracks he used to ride, Then you must saddle up and go Beyond the Queensland side -- Beyond the reach of rule or law, To ride the long day through, In Nature's homestead -- filled with awe: You then might see what Clancy saw And know what Clancy knew.

By the Grey Gulf-Water

Far to the Northward there lies a land, A wonderful land that the winds blow over, And none may fathom nor understand The charm it holds for the restless rover; A great grey chaos -- a land half made, Where endless s.p.a.ce is and no life stirreth; And the soul of a man will recoil afraid From the sphinx-like visage that Nature weareth.

But old Dame Nature, though scornful, craves Her dole of death and her share of slaughter; Many indeed are the nameless graves Where her victims sleep by the Grey Gulf-water.

Slowly and slowly those grey streams glide, Drifting along with a languid motion, Lapping the reed-beds on either side, Wending their way to the Northern Ocean.

Grey are the plains where the emus pa.s.s Silent and slow, with their staid demeanour; Over the dead men's graves the gra.s.s Maybe is waving a trifle greener.

Down in the world where men toil and spin Dame Nature smiles as man's hand has taught her; Only the dead men her smiles can win In the great lone land by the Grey Gulf-water.

For the strength of man is an insect's strength In the face of that mighty plain and river, And the life of a man is a moment's length To the life of the stream that will run for ever.

And so it cometh they take no part In small-world worries; each hardy rover Rideth abroad and is light of heart, With the plains around and the blue sky over.

And up in the heavens the brown lark sings The songs that the strange wild land has taught her; Full of thanksgiving her sweet song rings -- And I wish I were back by the Grey Gulf-water.