Tall and freckled and sandy, Face of a country lout; This was the picture of Andy, Middleton's Rouseabout.

Type of a coming nation, In the land of cattle and sheep, Worked on Middleton's station, "Pound a week and his keep."

On Middleton's wide dominions Plied the stockwhip and shears; Hadn't any opinions, Hadn't any "idears".

Swiftly the years went over, Liquor and drought prevailed; Middleton went as a drover, After his station had failed.

Type of a careless nation, Men who are soon played out, Middleton was: -- and his station Was bought by the Rouseabout.

Flourishing beard and sandy, Tall and robust and stout; This is the picture of Andy, Middleton's Rouseabout.

Now on his own dominions Works with his overseers; Hasn't any opinions, Hasn't any "idears".

The Vagabond

White handkerchiefs wave from the short black pier As we glide to the grand old sea -- But the song of my heart is for none to hear If one of them waves for me.

A roving, roaming life is mine, Ever by field or flood -- For not far back in my father's line Was a dash of the Gipsy blood.

Flax and tussock and fern, Gum and mulga and sand, Reef and palm -- but my fancies turn Ever away from land; Strange wild cities in ancient state, Range and river and tree, Snow and ice. But my star of fate Is ever across the sea.

A G.o.d-like ride on a thundering sea, When all but the stars are blind -- A desperate race from Eternity With a gale-and-a-half behind.

A jovial spree in the cabin at night, A song on the rolling deck, A lark ash.o.r.e with the ships in sight, Till -- a wreck goes down with a wreck.

A smoke and a yarn on the deck by day, When life is a waking dream, And care and trouble so far away That out of your life they seem.

A roving spirit in sympathy, Who has travelled the whole world o'er -- My heart forgets, in a week at sea, The trouble of years on sh.o.r.e.

A rolling stone! -- 'tis a saw for slaves -- Philosophy false as old -- Wear out or break 'neath the feet of knaves, Or rot in your bed of mould!

But I'D rather trust to the darkest skies And the wildest seas that roar, Or die, where the stars of Nations rise, In the stormy clouds of war.

Cleave to your country, home, and friends, Die in a sordid strife -- You can count your friends on your finger ends In the critical hours of life.

Sacrifice all for the family's sake, Bow to their selfish rule!

Slave till your big soft heart they break -- The heart of the family fool.

Domestic quarrels, and family spite, And your Native Land may be Controlled by custom, but, come what might, The rest of the world for me.

I'd sail with money, or sail without! -- If your love be forced from home, And you dare enough, and your heart be stout, The world is your own to roam.

I've never a love that can sting my pride, Nor a friend to prove untrue; For I leave my love ere the turning tide, And my friends are all too new.

The curse of the Powers on a peace like ours, With its greed and its treachery -- A stranger's hand, and a stranger land, And the rest of the world for me!

But why be bitter? The world is cold To one with a frozen heart; New friends are often so like the old, They seem of the past a part -- As a better part of the past appears, When enemies, parted long, Are come together in kinder years, With their better nature strong.

I had a friend, ere my first ship sailed, A friend that I never deserved -- For the selfish strain in my blood prevailed As soon as my turn was served.

And the memory haunts my heart with shame -- Or, rather, the pride that's there; In different guises, but soul the same, I meet him everywhere.

I had a chum. When the times were tight We starved in Australian scrubs; We froze together in parks at night, And laughed together in pubs.

And I often hear a laugh like his From a sense of humour keen, And catch a glimpse in a pa.s.sing phiz Of his broad, good-humoured grin.

And I had a love -- 'twas a love to prize -- But I never went back again ...

I have seen the light of her kind brown eyes In many a face since then.

The sailors say 'twill be rough to-night, As they fasten the hatches down, The south is black, and the bar is white, And the drifting smoke is brown.

The gold has gone from the western haze, The sea-birds circle and swarm -- But we shall have plenty of sunny days, And little enough of storm.

The hill is hiding the short black pier, As the last white signal's seen; The points run in, and the houses veer, And the great bluff stands between.

So darkness swallows each far white speck On many a wharf and quay.

The night comes down on a restless deck, -- Grim cliffs -- and -- The Open Sea!

The Sliprails and the Spur

The colours of the setting sun Withdrew across the Western land -- He raised the sliprails, one by one, And shot them home with trembling hand; Her brown hands clung -- her face grew pale -- Ah! quivering chin and eyes that brim! -- One quick, fierce kiss across the rail, And, "Good-bye, Mary!" "Good-bye, Jim!"

~Oh, he rides hard to race the pain Who rides from love, who rides from home; But he rides slowly home again, Whose heart has learnt to love and roam.~

A hand upon the horse's mane, And one foot in the stirrup set, And, stooping back to kiss again, With "Good-bye, Mary! don't you fret!

When I come back" -- he laughed for her -- "We do not know how soon 'twill be; I'll whistle as I round the spur -- You let the sliprails down for me."

She gasped for sudden loss of hope, As, with a backward wave to her, He cantered down the gra.s.sy slope And swiftly round the dark'ning spur.

Black-pencilled panels standing high, And darkness fading into stars, And blurring fast against the sky, A faint white form beside the bars.

And often at the set of sun, In winter bleak and summer brown, She'd steal across the little run, And shyly let the sliprails down.

And listen there when darkness shut The nearer spur in silence deep; And when they called her from the hut Steal home and cry herself to sleep.

~And he rides hard to dull the pain Who rides from one that loves him best; And he rides slowly back again, Whose restless heart must rove for rest.~

Arthur Albert Dawson Bayldon.

Sunset

The weary wind is slumbering on the wing: Leaping from out meek twilight's purpling blue Burns the proud star of eve as though it knew It was the big king jewel quivering On the black turban of advancing night.

In the dim west the soldiers of the sun Strike all their royal colours one by one, Reluctantly surrender every height.