The heart of New Zealand went beside All the way, all the way, To the resting-place of her Highland Chief; Much she thought she could not say; He found her a land of many domains, Maiden forest and fallow plains -- He left her a land of many homes, The pearl of the world where the sea wind roams, And New Zealand went mourning all the way.

Henry Lawson.

Andy's gone with Cattle

Our Andy's gone to battle now 'Gainst Drought, the red marauder; Our Andy's gone with cattle now Across the Queensland border.

He's left us in dejection now; Our hearts with him are roving.

It's dull on this selection now, Since Andy went a-droving.

Who now shall wear the cheerful face In times when things are slackest?

And who shall whistle round the place When Fortune frowns her blackest?

Oh, who shall cheek the squatter now When he comes round us snarling?

His tongue is growing hotter now Since Andy cross'd the Darling.

The gates are out of order now, In storms the "riders" rattle; For far across the border now Our Andy's gone with cattle.

Oh, may the showers in torrents fall, And all the tanks run over; And may the gra.s.s grow green and tall In pathways of the drover;

And may good angels send the rain On desert stretches sandy; And when the summer comes again G.o.d grant 'twill bring us Andy.

Out Back

The old year went, and the new returned, in the withering weeks of drought, The cheque was spent that the shearer earned, and the sheds were all cut out; The publican's words were short and few, and the publican's looks were black -- And the time had come, as the shearer knew, to carry his swag Out Back.

~For time means tucker, and tramp you must, where the scrubs and plains are wide, With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide; All day long in the dust and heat -- when summer is on the track -- With stinted stomachs and blistered feet, they carry their swags Out Back.~

He tramped away from the shanty there, when the days were long and hot, With never a soul to know or care if he died on the track or not.

The poor of the city have friends in woe, no matter how much they lack, But only G.o.d and the swagmen know how a poor man fares Out Back.

He begged his way on the parched Paroo and the Warrego tracks once more, And lived like a dog, as the swagmen do, till the Western stations sh.o.r.e; But men were many, and sheds were full, for work in the town was slack -- The traveller never got hands in wool, though he tramped for a year Out Back.

In stifling noons when his back was wrung by its load, and the air seemed dead, And the water warmed in the bag that hung to his aching arm like lead, Or in times of flood, when plains were seas, and the scrubs were cold and black, He ploughed in mud to his trembling knees, and paid for his sins Out Back.

He blamed himself in the year "Too Late" -- in the heaviest hours of life -- 'Twas little he dreamed that a shearing-mate had care of his home and wife; There are times when wrongs from your kindred come, and treacherous tongues attack -- When a man is better away from home, and dead to the world, Out Back.

And dirty and careless and old he wore, as his lamp of hope grew dim; He tramped for years till the swag he bore seemed part of himself to him.

As a bullock drags in the sandy ruts, he followed the dreary track, With never a thought but to reach the huts when the sun went down Out Back.

It chanced one day, when the north wind blew in his face like a furnace-breath, He left the track for a tank he knew -- 'twas a short-cut to his death; For the bed of the tank was hard and dry, and crossed with many a crack, And, oh! it's a terrible thing to die of thirst in the scrub Out Back.

A drover came, but the fringe of law was eastward many a mile; He never reported the thing he saw, for it was not worth his while.

The tanks are full and the gra.s.s is high in the mulga off the track, Where the bleaching bones of a white man lie by his mouldering swag Out Back.

~For time means tucker, and tramp they must, where the plains and scrubs are wide, With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide; All day long in the flies and heat the men of the outside track With stinted stomachs and blistered feet must carry their swags Out Back.~

The Star of Australasia

We boast no more of our bloodless flag, that rose from a nation's slime; Better a shred of a deep-dyed rag from the storms of the olden time.

From grander clouds in our "peaceful skies" than ever were there before I tell you the Star of the South shall rise -- in the lurid clouds of war.

It ever must be while blood is warm and the sons of men increase; For ever the nations rose in storm, to rot in a deadly peace.

There comes a point that we will not yield, no matter if right or wrong, And man will fight on the battle-field while pa.s.sion and pride are strong -- So long as he will not kiss the rod, and his stubborn spirit sours, And the scorn of Nature and curse of G.o.d are heavy on peace like ours.

There are boys out there by the western creeks, who hurry away from school To climb the sides of the breezy peaks or dive in the shaded pool, Who'll stick to their guns when the mountains quake to the tread of a mighty war, And fight for Right or a Grand Mistake as men never fought before; When the peaks are scarred and the sea-walls crack till the furthest hills vibrate, And the world for a while goes rolling back in a storm of love and hate.

There are boys to-day in the city slum and the home of wealth and pride Who'll have one home when the storm is come, and fight for it side by side, Who'll hold the cliffs 'gainst the armoured h.e.l.ls that batter a coastal town, Or grimly die in a hail of sh.e.l.ls when the walls come crashing down.

And many a pink-white baby girl, the queen of her home to-day, Shall see the wings of the tempest whirl the mist of our dawn away -- Shall live to shudder and stop her ears to the thud of the distant gun, And know the sorrow that has no tears when a battle is lost and won, -- As a mother or wife in the years to come, will kneel, wild-eyed and white, And pray to G.o.d in her darkened home for the "men in the fort to-night."

All creeds and trades will have soldiers there -- give every cla.s.s its due -- And there'll be many a clerk to spare for the pride of the jackeroo.

They'll fight for honour and fight for love, and a few will fight for gold, For the devil below and for G.o.d above, as our fathers fought of old; And some half-blind with exultant tears, and some stiff-lipped, stern-eyed, For the pride of a thousand after-years and the old eternal pride; The soul of the world they will feel and see in the chase and the grim retreat -- They'll know the glory of victory -- and the grandeur of defeat.

The South will wake to a mighty change ere a hundred years are done With a.r.s.enals west of the mountain range and every spur its gun.

And many a rickety "son of a gun", on the tides of the future tossed, Will tell how battles were really won that History says were lost, Will trace the field with his pipe, and shirk the facts that are hard to explain, As grey old mates of the diggings work the old ground over again -- How "this was our centre, and this a redoubt, and that was a scrub in the rear, And this was the point where the guards held out, and the enemy's lines were here."

And fools, when the fiends of war are out and the city skies aflame, Will have something better to talk about than an absent woman's shame, Will have something n.o.bler to do by far than jest at a friend's expense, Or blacken a name in a public bar or over a backyard fence.

And this you learn from the libelled past, though its methods were somewhat rude -- A nation's born where the sh.e.l.ls fall fast, or its lease of life renewed.

We in part atone for the ghoulish strife, and the crimes of the peace we boast, And the better part of a people's life in the storm comes uppermost.

The self-same spirit that drives the man to the depths of drink and crime Will do the deeds in the heroes' van that live till the end of time.

The living death in the lonely bush, the greed of the selfish town, And even the creed of the outlawed push is chivalry -- upside down.

'Twill be while ever our blood is hot, while ever the world goes wrong, The nations rise in a war, to rot in a peace that lasts too long.

And southern nation and southern state, aroused from their dream of ease, Must sign in the Book of Eternal Fate their stormy histories.

Middleton's Rouseabout