Classic Poem

I

We wrote and sang of a Bush we never
Had known in youth in the Western land;
Of the dear old homes by the shining river,
The deep, clear creeks and the hills so grand.
The grass waved high on the flat and siding,
The wild flowers bloomed on the banks so fair,
And younger sons from the North came riding
To vine-clad homes in the gardens there.

We wrote and sang — and the Lord knows best —
O those dear old songs of the Fairy West!

We dreamed and sang of the bustling mother,
The brick-floored kitchen we saw so clear,
The pranks and jokes of the youngest brother,
The evening songs of our sisters dear.
The old man dozed in the chimney corner,
Or smoked and blinked at the cheerful blaze,
Or yarned with a crony — old Jack Horner —
Who'd known him back in the diggings days.

We worked and sang — and the Lord knows best —
O those dear old homes of the Fairy West!

By the path that ran 'neath the Granite Ridges
The children played on their way from school —
By the fairy dells and the sapling bridges,
Or stole a swim in the willowed pool.
And home they flocked with their ceaseless chatter,
Till happy and tired and washed and fed —
(The wash came after — it doesn't matter)
They said their prayers and they went to bed.

We worked and dreamed — and the Lord knows best —
O those dear old ways of the Fairy West!

We rose at daylight, refreshed and hearty,
And drank our tea while the children slept;
We worked with the zest of a camping party
While the morning breeze through the gum-trees crept.
We worked till the signal of " Breakfast ready! "
And ate our fill of the good land's best;
And Jimmy and Mary and Nell and Teddy
And all the children were washed and dressed.

O those grand old farms of pleasure and rest
In the fairy tales of the Golden West!

'Twas a land overflowing with milk and honey,
And eggs and bacon and butter and beer.
We came to the city with whips of money
To see the world, about twice a year.
The girls got married to rich young farmers,
And did no work save to populate;
And we'd the pick of the city charmers
And took them back to the country straight.

We dreamed and sang — and the Lord knows best —
O those dear old dreams of the Fairy West!

II

I dreamed last night of those days long vanished
And buried in bitterness out of sight;
The scene was gone and the folk were banished,
And this is the picture I saw last night —
It may be false and it may be real;
It may be wrong and it may be right —
A sort of set-off to the grand ideal:
We'll call it " A Vision of Sandy Blight " .

The daylight comes to the skillion " winder " ,
A hole with never a breath of air;
And never a pane of glass to hinder
The reek from the pig-sty adjacent there.
Swiftly — too swiftly — the light came creeping
Round the corners, cobweb-immeshed,
To the dusty bunk where " the boys " lay sleeping,
Gummy-eyed, dirty and unrefreshed.

Curled like monkeys (I'm tired of coming
Rhymes to brighten this cheerful lay) —
A bang on the slabs of the room adjoining:
" Git up! Are yer gaunter lay there all day? "
The skillion cowers in the daylight ghostly,
Criminal-like, as skillions do;
It is fashioned of bark and bagging mostly —
And furnished with bark and bagging, too.

Three bags of bones in the yard are bailed up
(We called 'em " k'yows " when our hearts were young),
A pitiful calling where calves are railed up,
A stifling cloud from the powdered dung.
A dusty and sleepy head is boring
Into the flank of each dusty cow —
Milk, dust and burrs in the buckets pouring;
Three skinny youngsters are milkin' now.

And rainy mornings! I would be plainer —
The filthy tail and the plunging hoof!
(The worst came out in the home-made " strainer " ,
But more came down from the " dairy " roof.)
Ten cows each, and the calves are " poddied " ,
The pigs are fed while the boys can creep;
They've done the work of the able-bodied,
And one poor youngster sits down to sleep.

The dishes, washed in the muddy water,
The butter churned, and the morning done —
The hopeless face of the elder daughter,
The narrowed mind of the elder son.
The sulky scowl of a younger brother,
The morning greeting of " You're a fool! "
The rasping voice of the worn-out mother:
" Now git yer breakfust an' git ter school! "

'Twas bread-an'-drippin' and bread-an'-treacle
And milkless tea in that Fairy West,
And honey for sugar — 'Tis hard to speak ill
Of those old parents who did their best;
For never an egg nor an ounce of butter
Could settlers spare from greedy " store " ,
And often we heard a father mutter
When his slave children asked for more.

Three miles to the school-house — and often more in
The sparser districts (it makes me sick) —
" Mountins and rivers " , " parsin' " and " drorin' " ,
Readin' and writin' and 'rithmetic,
Sewin' an' singin' and " objeck lessins " ,
Spellin', dicktashin, " home lessin " rows,
A bit of " religin " for all these " blessin's " ,
Then home in a hurry to milk the cows.
(I was in " yewklid " when I finished
Me edyercashun in those times dim —
My young brother cleared out to Queensland,
'Twas " mountains and rivers " that finished him.)