I never thought I'd drag my pen through politics again,
But certain dear good friends of mine have Murphy on the brain.
And Murphy is a good French name as you will all agree;
Besides, a mate believes in him and that's enough for me —
So vote for Cecil Murphy in the morning.

He was two years in Parliament when times were pretty grim —
He must be fairly straight because I never heard of him.
He'll build a bridge to Hell and back and put the tunnel through;
He'll wake up old North Sydney, and, Good Lord, it wants it too.

At a point where the old road crosses
The river, and turns to the right,
I'd camped with the team; and the hosses
Was all fixed up for the night.
I'd been to the town to carry
A load to the Cudgegong;
And I'd taken the youngster, Harry,
On a trip as I'd promis'd him long.

I had seven more, and another
That died at the age of three;
But they all took arter the mother,
And Harry took arter me.
And from the tiniest laddie
'Twas always his fondest dream
To go on the roads with his daddy,
And help him to drive the team.

They talk about them in the clubs, and in the public bars,
They talk about them in the scrubs, those messages from Mars
(Not messages from missuses that keep the kiddies clean,
Not messages from mothers, but the planet Mars, I mean).

They puzzle scientific gents as well as common blokes
(The latter are inclined to think it's one of Billjim's jokes).
Some read their answer in their beer, some read it in the stars,
But none have read their answer right, those messages from Mars.

But I, a poet and inspired, could read them instantly

E'en as the Sibyl in Northland-dawn drew
Forth from the myth-billows gliding,
Told all the past, all the future so true,
Sank with the lands' last subsiding, —
Prophecies leaving, eternally new,
Still abiding.

Thus goes his spirit the Northland before, —
Though, that he sank, we have tiding, —
Visions unfolding like sun-clouds, when o'er
Sea-circled lands they are riding,
Northern lands' future, till time is no more,
Ever guiding.

The plains lay bare on the homeward route,
And the march was heavy on man and brute;
For the Spirit of Drouth was on all the land,
And the white heat danced on the glowing sand.

The best of our cattle-dogs lagged at last,
His strength gave out ere the plains were passed,
And our hearts grew sad when he crept and laid
His languid limbs in the nearest shade.

He saved our lives in the years gone by,
When no one dreamed of the danger nigh,
And the treacherous blacks in the darkness crept
On the silent camp where the drovers slept.

I

1

Now is sunset,
The nightfall lightens
Over the funeral pyre of the day …

On a balcony we
Sweep the round world whose rim
Is edged with fire …

Unstirring cumulus cloud
Is purple and scarlet … bearded cloud of the west
Is incandescent …
Beyond and below
Our planet is a fire, and the flaming
Makes our sky a glory over the dark green Earth …
A painted glory:
No wind breathes:
No tree stirs:
The world of life for a breathless moment

With smiles his soft eyes ever gleamed,
When God and country thinking;
With endless joy, his soul, it seemed,
Faith, fatherland, was linking.
His word, his song,
Like springs flowed strong;
They fruitful made the valley long,
And quickened all there drinking.

Poor people and poor homes among
In wintry region saddest,
In Sunday's choir he always sung,
Of all the world the gladdest:
" The axis stout
It turns about,
Falls not the poorest home without,
For thus, O God, Thou badest. "

'Twas an old respected settler, in the unrespected days,
Who had land along the North Shore and — we'll say his name was Hayes;
And he came there as a young man, when great work was to do,
And his young wife's name was " Chattie " (and, no doubt, she chatted, too).

'Twas a " small place in the country " , where they went to be care-free,
Out beyond the pleasant suburb that they now call Willoughby;
And a little wood was on it, and the trees were tall and good,
And his young wife used to dream there, so he called it " Chattie's Wood " .

I've been sittin' starin', starin' at 'is muddy pair of boots,
And tryin' to convince meself it's 'im.
(Look out there, lad! That sniper — 'e's a dysey when 'e shoots;
'E'll be layin' of you out the same as Jim.)
Jim as lies there in the dug-out wiv 'is blanket round 'is 'ead,
To keep 'is brains from mixin' wiv the mud;
And 'is face as white as putty, and 'is overcoat all red,
Like 'e's spilt a bloomin' paint-pot — but it's blood.

And I'm tryin' to remember of a time we wasn't pals.
'Ow often we've played 'ookey, 'im and me;

1.

There lived an honest man and true,
 O might I follow thee!
And daughters had but only two;
 So dupest thou not me!

2.

The younger bright as is the sun,
But black as dirt the elder one.

3.

The younger suitors came to woo,
With th' elder none would have to do.

4.

The younger loom and shuttle plied,
The elder slept at chimney side.

5.

The elder took her sister's hand,
“Come let us go to younder strand.

6.

“To yonder strand let us repair,