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In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy
Gone a…droving 〃down the Cooper〃 where the Western drovers go；
As the stock are slowly stringing； Clancy rides behind them singing；
For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know。
And the bush hath friends to meet him； and their kindly voices greet him
In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars；
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended；
And at night the wondrous glory of the everlasting stars。
。 。 。 。 。
I am sitting in my dingy little office； where a stingy
Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall；
And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty； dirty city；
Through the open window floating； spreads its foulness over all。
And in place of lowing cattle； I can hear the fiendish rattle
Of the tramways and the 'buses making hurry down the street；
And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting；
Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet。
And the hurrying people daunt me； and their pallid faces haunt me
As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste；
With their eager eyes and greedy； and their stunted forms and weedy；
For townsfolk have no time to grow； they have no time to waste。
And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy；
Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go；
While he faced the round eternal of the cash…book and the journal
But I doubt he'd suit the office； Clancy； of 〃The Overflow〃。
Black Swans
As I lie at rest on a patch of clover
In the Western Park when the day is done；
I watch as the wild black swans fly over
With their phalanx turned to the sinking sun；
And I hear the clang of their leader crying
To a lagging mate in the rearward flying；
And they fade away in the darkness dying；
Where the stars are mustering one by one。
Oh！ ye wild black swans； 'twere a world of wonder
For a while to join in your westward flight；
With the stars above and the dim earth under；
Through the cooling air of the glorious night。
As we swept along on our pinions winging；
We should catch the chime of a church…bell ringing；
Or the distant note of a torrent singing；
Or the far…off flash of a station light。
From the northern lakes with the reeds and rushes；
Where the hills are clothed with a purple haze；
Where the bell…birds chime and the songs of thrushes
Make music sweet in the jungle maze；
They will hold their course to the westward ever；
Till they reach the banks of the old grey river；
Where the waters wash； and the reed…beds quiver
In the burning heat of the summer days。
Oh！ ye strange wild birds； will ye bear a greeting
To the folk that live in that western land？
Then for every sweep of your pinions beating；
Ye shall bear a wish to the sunburnt band；
To the stalwart men who are stoutly fighting
With the heat and drought and the dust…storm smiting；
Yet whose life somehow has a strange inviting；
When once to the work they have put their hand。
Facing it yet！ Oh； my friend stout…hearted；
What does it matter for rain or shine；
For the hopes deferred and the gain departed？
Nothing could conquer that heart of thine。
And thy health and strength are beyond confessing
As the only joys that are worth possessing。
May the days to come be as rich in blessing
As the days we spent in the auld lang syne。
I would fain go back to the old grey river；
To the old bush days when our hearts were light；
But； alas！ those days they have fled for ever；
They are like the swans that have swept from sight。
And I know full well that the strangers' faces
Would meet us now in our dearest places；
For our day is dead and has left no traces
But the thoughts that live in my mind to…night。
There are folk long dead； and our hearts would sicken
We would grieve for them with a bitter pain；
If the past could live and the dead could quicken；
We then might turn to that life again。
But on lonely nights we would hear them calling；
We should hear their steps on the pathways falling；
We should loathe the life with a hate appalling
In our lonely rides by the ridge and plain。
。 。 。 。 。
In the silent park is a scent of clover；
And the distant roar of the town is dead；
And I hear once more as the swans fly over
Their far…off clamour from overhead。
They are flying west； by their instinct guided；
And for man likewise is his fate decided；
And griefs apportioned and joys divided
By a mighty power with a purpose dread。
The Travelling Post Office
The roving breezes come and go； the reed beds sweep and sway；
The sleepy river murmurs low； and loiters on its way；
It is the land of lots o' time along the Castlereagh。
。 。 。 。 。
The old man's son had left the farm； he found it dull and slow；
He drifted to the great North…west where all the rovers go。
〃He's gone so long；〃 the old man said； 〃he's dropped right out of mind；
But if you'd write a line to him I'd take it very kind；
He's shearing here and fencing there； a kind of waif and stray；
He's droving now with Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh。
The sheep are travelling for the grass； and travelling very slow；
They may be at Mundooran now； or past the Overflow；
Or tramping down the black soil flats across by Waddiwong；
But all those little country towns would send the letter wrong；
The mailman； if he's extra tired； would pass them in his sleep；
It's safest to address the note to ‘Care of Conroy's sheep'；
For five and twenty thousand head can scarcely go astray；
You write to ‘Care of Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh'。〃
。 。 。 。 。
By rock and ridge and riverside the western mail has gone；
Across the great Blue Mountain Range to take that letter on。
A moment on the topmost grade while open fire doors glare；
She pauses like a living thing to breathe the mountain air；
Then launches down the other side across the plains away
To bear that note to 〃Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh〃。
And now by coach and mailman's bag it goes from town to town；
And Conroy's Gap and Conroy's Creek have marked it 〃further down〃。
Beneath a sky of deepest blue where never cloud abides；
A speck upon the waste of plain the lonely mailman rides。
Where fierce hot winds have set the pine and myall boughs asweep
He hails the shearers passing by for news of Conroy's sheep。
By big lagoons where wildfowl play and crested pigeons flock；
By camp fires where the drovers ride around their restless stock；
And past the teamster toiling down to fetch the wool away
My letter chases Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh。
The Old Australian Ways
The London lights are far abeam
Behind a bank of cloud；
Along the shore the gaslights gleam；
The gale is piping loud；
And down the Channel； groping blind；
We drive her through the haze
Towards the land we left behind
The good old land of 〃never mind〃；
And old Australian ways。
The narrow ways of English folk
Are not for such as we；
They bear the long…accustomed yoke
Of staid conservancy：
But all our roads are new and strange；
And through our blood there runs
The vagabonding love of change
That drove us westward of the range
And westward of the suns。
The city folk go to and fro
Behind a prison's bars；
They never feel the breezes blow
And never see the stars；
They never hear in blossomed trees
The music low and sweet
Of wild birds making melodies；
Nor catch the little laughing breeze
That whispers in the wheat。
Our fathers came of roving stock
That could not fixed abide：
And we have followed field and flock
Since e'er we learnt to ride；
By miner's camp and shearing shed；
In land of heat and drought；
We followed where our fortunes led；
With fortune always on ahead
And always further out。
The wind is in the barley…grass；
The wattles are in bloom；
The breezes greet us as they pass
With honey…sweet perfume；
The parrakeets go screaming by
With flash of golden wing；
And from the swamp the wild…ducks cry
Their long…drawn note of revelry；
Rejoicing at the Spring。
So throw the weary pen aside
And let the papers rest；
For we must saddle up and ride
Towards the blue hill's breast；
And we must travel far and fast
Across their rugged maze；
To find the Spring of Youth at last；
And call back from the buried past
The old Australian ways。
When Clancy took the drover's track
In years of long ago；
He drifted to the outer back
Beyond the Overflow；
By rolling plain and rocky shelf；
With stockwhip in his hand；
He reached at last； oh lucky elf！
The Town of Come…and…help…yourself
In Rough…and…ready Land。
And if