Are you coming, Ivan, coming? — Ah, the ways are long and slow,
In the vast land that we know not — and we never sought to know.
We are watching through the daybreak, when the anxious night is done,
For the dots upon the skyline — black against the rising sun;
We are watching through the morning haze, and waiting through the night,
For the long, dark, distant columns that proclaim the Muscovite!

Are you coming, Ivan, coming? (O the world is growing grey
With the terror of the future and the madness of to-day!)

We learnt the creed at Hungerford,
We learnt the creed at Bourke;
We learnt it in the good times
And learnt it out of work.
We learnt it by the harbour-side
And on the billabong:
" No matter what a mate may do,
A mate can do no wrong! "

He's like a king in this respect
(No matter what they do),
And, king-like, shares in storm and shine
The Throne of Life with you.
We learnt it when we were in gaol
And put it in a song:
" No matter what a mate may do,
A mate can do no wrong! "

Think gently of the erring one:
O let us not forget.
However darkly stained by sin,
He is our brother yet.
Heir of the same inheritance,
Child of the self-same God,
He hath but fallen in the path
We have in weakness trod.

Speak gently to the erring one:
We yet may lead him back,
With holy words and tones of love,
From misery's thorny track.
Forget not, brother, thou hast sinned,
And sinful yet may'st be;
Deal gently with the erring heart,
As God hath dealt with thee.

Heavenly Helper, Friend divine,
Friend of all men, therefore mine,
Let my heart as thy heart be,
Breathe thy living breath through me!

Only at thy love's pure tide
Human thirst is satisfied;
He who fills his chalice there,
Fills with thirstier souls to share.

If another lose the way,
My feet also go astray:
Sleepless Watcher, lead us back,
Safe into the homeward track!

As a bird unto its nest,
Flies the tired soul to thy breast;
Let not one an alien be,—
Lord, we have no home but thee.

You may laugh at my bulls, (tho its much to my grief,
For no bull surpasses the bulls of the deaf .)
I thought my friend ask'd me the streight road to Leith,
Directly I show'd him the way to Dalkeith.
My master he sent me unto James's court
With letters: but I took them to the West port.
My brother he ask'd me my welfare to day,
I told him I ne'er drank no Whiskybae;
Nor no kind of liquor wou'd I drink a drop,
Not for all the goods that he had in his shop.
I sung Gramachree, and my Wife cry'd ancore ;
Instead of which I sung Lochaber no more.

Occasioned by a Lady being deeply affected with the Censure of the World . A Dialogue . B .

Alas! alas! so much I've heard,
I scarce have Breath to speak a Word;
The World! the World, what won't it say?
Is hatching Lies from Day to Day;
If for one Mouthful of fresh Air,
We venture from our Homes to steer,
And this at Ev'ning should be done,
Expect to hear by Morning's Sun,
Malice has done her utmost Spite,
To represent in foulest Light,
And damn the Actions of the Night. U .

No more, no more disturb thy Mind,

The Local Spirit never dies,
Though it is mostly rotten.
For Local Spite and local lies
Can never be forgotten;
The local truth dies very young
When wed to local merit;
'Tis murdered by the envious tongue —
And — that's the Local Spirit.

The General Good is sacrificed,
In spite of all petitions,
To paltry private interests
And local mean ambitions.
And when we lose 'neath fortune's frown

Seen plainly from O'Brien's Hill,
That stands by our old home,
Mount Buckaroo is standing still,
And likewise old Mount Frome;
Lowe's Peak and all its hills are ranged
Just as in memory,
And Granite Ridge is little changed
As far as I can see.

The creek that I can ne'er forget
Its destiny fulfils,
The glow of sunrise purples yet
Along the Mudgee hills;
The flats and sidings seem to lie
Unchanged by Mudgee town,
And with the same old song and sigh
The Cudgegong goes down.

The little town is just as fair

By Lawson's Hill, near Mudgee,
On old Eurunderee —
The place they called " New Pipeclay " ,
Where the diggers used to be —
On a dreary old selection,
When times were dry and thin,
In a slab-and-shingle kitchen
There stood a flour bin.

'Twas " ploorer " with the cattle,
'Twas rust or smut in wheat,
'Twas blight in eyes and orchards,
And coarse salt-beef to eat.
O how our mothers struggled
Till eyes and brains were dull —
O how our fathers slaved and toiled
To keep those flour bins full!

I.

Is it not true, as one has proudly sung,
" A Poet's love is Immortality? "
Many a time and oft that note has rung
Echoings of high and heavenly harmony.
Sweet, when the weary day is done, to be
Greeted by budding lips and kindling eyes,
Pressed to the one true heart in ecstasy, —
Enchantment only worthy of the skies.
Repose my heart has sought, and all in vain;
Care, like a demon, hunts me everywhere;