The Flour Bin

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,
Where times were dry and thin,
In a slab and shingle kitchen
There stood a flour bin.


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


We've been in many countries,
We've sailed on many seas;
We've travelled in the steerage
And lived on land at ease.
We've seen the world together
Through laughter and through tears –
And not been far from baker's bread
These five and thirty years.


The flats are green as ever,
The creeks go rippling through;
The Mudgee Hills are showing
Their deepest shades of blue;
Those mountains in the distance
That ever held a charm
Are fairer than a picture
As seen from Cox's farm.


On a German farm by Mudgee,
That took long years to win,
On the wide bricked back verandah
There stands a flour bin;
And the dear old German lady –
Though the bakers' carts run out –
Still keeps a "fifty" in it
Against a time of drought.


It was my father made it,
It stands as good as new,
And of the others like it
There still remain a few.
God grant, when drought shall strike us,
The young will "take a pull",
And the old folk their strength anew



To keep those flour bins full.

The First Dingo

The kangaroo was formed to run,
but not from man alone it
ran before the horse or gun
or native dog was known.
It ran when drought left waterholes
three hundred miles between from
great floods and greater fires
than we have ever seen.

The blacks beside the coastal springs,
where mountain sides are steep,
they bred and kept their kangaroo
much tamer than are sheep.
And when the men fought inland tribes
or when they roamed at large,
they drove their flocks down to the sea
and left the gins in charge.

And so, alert, with startled eyes
the shepherdess in fear
perceives with wonder and surprise
some foreign beats appear.
She watches, creeping through the trees,
and round the blackened logs
the strangest sight by southern seas the
stranded Dutchmans's dogs.

The Fire At Ross's Farm

The squatter saw his pastures wide
Decrease, as one by one

The farmers moving to the west
Selected on his run;

Selectors took the water up
And all the black soil round;

The best grass-land the squatter had
Was spoilt by Ross's Ground.

Now many schemes to shift old Ross
Had racked the squatter's brains,

But Sandy had the stubborn blood
Of Scotland in his veins;

He held the land and fenced it in,
He cleared and ploughed the soil,

And year by year a richer crop
Repaid him for his toil.

Between the homes for many years
The devil left his tracks:

The squatter pounded Ross's stock,
And Sandy pounded Black's.

A well upon the lower run
Was filled with earth and logs,

And Black laid baits about the farm
To poison Ross's dogs.

It was, indeed, a deadly feud
Of class and creed and race;

But, yet, there was a Romeo
And a Juliet in the case;

And more than once across the flats,
Beneath the Southern Cross,

Young Robert Black was seen to ride
With pretty Jenny Ross.

One Christmas time, when months of drought
Had parched the western creeks,

The bush-fires started in the north
And travelled south for weeks.

At night along the river-side
The scene was grand and strange --

The hill-fires looked like lighted streets
Of cities in the range.

The cattle-tracks between the trees
Were like long dusky aisles,

And on a sudden breeze the fire
Would sweep along for miles;
Like sounds of distant musketry
It crackled through the brakes,



And o'er the flat of silver grass
It hissed like angry snakes.

It leapt across the flowing streams
And raced o'er pastures broad;

It climbed the trees and lit the boughs
And through the scrubs it roared.

The bees fell stifled in the smoke
Or perished in their hives,

And with the stock the kangaroos
Went flying for their lives.

The sun had set on Christmas Eve,
When, through the scrub-lands wide,

Young Robert Black came riding home
As only natives ride.

He galloped to the homestead door
And gave the first alarm:

`The fire is past the granite spur,
`And close to Ross's farm.'

`Now, father, send the men at once,
They won't be wanted here;

Poor Ross's wheat is all he has
To pull him through the year.'

`Then let it burn,' the squatter said;
`I'd like to see it done -


I'd bless the fire if it would clear
Selectors from the run.

`Go if you will,' the squatter said,
`You shall not take the men --

Go out and join your precious friends,
And don't come here again.'

`I won't come back,' young Robert cried,
And, reckless in his ire,

He sharply turned his horse's head
And galloped towards the fire.

And there, for three long weary hours,
Half-blind with smoke and heat,

Old Ross and Robert fought the flames
That neared the ripened wheat.

The farmer's hand was nerved by fears
Of danger and of loss;

And Robert fought the stubborn foe
For the love of Jenny Ross.

But serpent-like the curves and lines
Slipped past them, and between,

Until they reached the bound'ry where
The old coach-road had been.


`The track is now our only hope,
There we must stand,' cried Ross,

`For nought on earth can stop the fire
If once it gets across.'

Then came a cruel gust of wind,
And, with a fiendish rush,

The flames leapt o'er the narrow path
And lit the fence of brush.

`The crop must burn!' the farmer cried,
`We cannot save it now,'

And down upon the blackened ground
He dashed the ragged bough.

But wildly, in a rush of hope,
His heart began to beat,

For o'er the crackling fire he heard
The sound of horses' feet.

`Here's help at last,' young Robert cried,
And even as he spoke

The squatter with a dozen men
Came racing through the smoke.

Down on the ground the stockmen jumped
And bared each brawny arm,

They tore green branches from the trees
And fought for Ross's farm;

And when before the gallant band
The beaten flames gave way,

Two grimy hands in friendship joined -And
it was Christmas Day.

The Federal City

OH! the folly, the waste, and the pity! Oh, the time that is flung behind!
They are seeking a site for a city, whose eyes shall be always blind,
Whose love for their ease grows greater, and whose care for their country less—
They are seeking a site for a city—a City of Selfishness.


In ignorance, deafness, blindness, in the cities by the sea,
With waste of time and of money, and with local jealousy;
With Anti-Federal envy, and personal paltriness,
They are seeking a site for a city—while Australia moans in distress.


By the coast with the people crowding, where Australia’s danger lies,
By the hills and the clear, cool rivers, and under the softer skies,
Where the fat shall not melt, and the ranter grow cool in the fresh’ning breeze,
And the dwellers drivel in comfort and the boodlers swindle at ease.


They are seeking a site for a city in the beauty spots of the land,
While I see so plainly, my children, where the Federal towers should stand!
Where the heart of Australia beats strongest and highest in desert air.
Make a site for a Federal City, and build you your capital there!


Where the crowd should be drawn from the coast line to the great bush that cradled
the race,
Where the bush might be armed and directed should the seaboard be lost for a space;
Where the waste should be watered and gardened, in the drought-land of Never
Despair,
There build you your Federal City, and make you a paradise there.


It shall be a world-wide object-lesson; it shall stand while a bushman is true,
And I tell you the bushmen will build it to show what a nation can do;
And there shall Australia sit queenly, and there shall her children be schooled,
For, I say, from the heart of Australia shall the whole of Australia be ruled.

The Empty Glass

THERE ARE three lank bards in a borrowed room—
Ah! The number is one too few—
They have deemed their home and the bars unfit
For the thing that they have to do.
Three glasses they fill with the Land’s own wine,
And the bread of life they pass.
Their glasses they take, which they slowly raise—
And they drink to an empty glass.


(There’s a greater glare in the street to-night,
And a louder rush and roar,
There’s a mad crowd yelling the winner’s name,
And howling the cricket score:
Oh! The bright moonlight on the angels white,
And the tombs and the monuments grand—
And down by the water at Waverley
There’s a little lone mound of sand.)


Oh, the drinkers would deem them drunk or mad,
And the barmaid stare and frown—
Each lays a hand on the empty glass
Ere they turn it upside down.
There’s a name they know, in a hand they know,
Was scratched with a diamond there—
And they place it in sight—turn on more light—
And they fill their glasses fair.


There’s a widow that weeps by the Hornsby line,
And she stood by him long and true—
But the widow should think by the Hornsby line
That others have loved him too,
’Twas a peaceful end, and his work was done,
When called with the year away;
And the greatest lady in all the land
Is working for her to-day.


If the widow should fear for her children’s fate,
Or brood on a future lot,
In a frivolous land with her widowed state
In a short twelve months forgot.
She can lay her down for a peaceful rest
And forget her grief in sleep,
For his brothers have taken an oath to-night,
An oath that their hearts can keep.


They have taken an oath to his memory,
A pledge they cannot recall,
To stand by the woman that stood by him,
Through poverty, illness and all.
They are young men yet, or the prime of life,
And as each lays down his trust,
May the world be kind to the left behind,



And their native land be just.


(Silence of death in town to-night,
And the streets seem strangely clear—
Have the pitiful slaves of the gambling curse
Fled home for a strange new fear?
Oh, the soft moonlight on the angels white,
Where the beautiful marbles stand—
And down by the rollers at Waverley
There’s a mound of the golden sand.)

The Drunkard's Vision

A public parlour in the slums,
The haunt of vice and villainy,
Where things are said unfit to hear,
And things are done unfit to see;
’Mid ribald jest and reckless song,
That mock at all that’s pure and right,
The drunkard drinks the whole day long,
And raves through half the dreadful night.


And in the morning now he sits,
With staring eyes and trembling limb;
The harbour in the sunlight laughs,
But morning is as night to him.
And, staring blankly at the wall,
He sees the tragedy complete—
He sees the man he used to be
Go striding proudly up the street.


He turns the corner with a swing,
And, at the vine-framed cottage gate,
The father sees, with laughing eyes,
His little son and daughter wait:
They race to meet him as he comes—
And—Oh! this memory is worst—
Her dimpled arms go round his neck,
She pants, ‘I dot my daddy first!’


He sees his bright-eyed little wife;
He sees the cottage neat and clean—
He sees the wrecking of his life
And all the things that might have been!
And, sunk in hopeless, black despair,
That drink no more has power to drown,
Upon the beer-stained table there
The drunkard’s ruined head goes down.


But even I, a fearful wreck,
Have drifted long before the storm:
I know, when all seems lost on earth,
How hard it can be to reform.
I, too, have sinned, and we have both
Drunk to the dregs the bitter cup—
Give me your hand, Oh brother mine,
And even I might help you up.

The Drums of Ages

Drums of all that’s right and wrong—of love and hate and scorn,
And the new-born baby hears them and it wails when it is born.
Drums of all that is to be, and all that has gone by,
And we hear them when we’re dreaming, and we hear them while we die.


Drums of martyred innocence and drums of driven guilt
Beating backward from the future when the first rude town was built;
Beating louder through the slave days and the dark and hungry nights,
While the hovels filled the valleys and the castles crowned the heights;
Beating louder while the mansions shifted east from miles of slums—
Don’t you hear them? Don’t you hear them? Don’t you hear the alley drums?


Drums of human sacrifice and drums of war at home—
While the Romans conquered nations they were beating loud in Rome.
Children heard them through the ages, mothers paused and glanced behind,
Madmen saw and heard the drummers, but the rest were deaf and blind.
Peasants starved on fields of plenty, workmen rotted in the slums—
Till the drummers came to Paris and the nations heard the drums.


Drums of hope and bursting hearts—the drums of Westward Ho!—
From the homes of generations and their native land they go.
’Groom and bride and grey-haired mother, bent old men who go alone—
Fleeing bitter persecution for the terrible unknown:
Seeking freedom, rest, or justice—and the peace that never comes—
And the wilderness was conquered when the pilgrims beat their drums.


Drums of Greed that followed fast where men had made the way,
Waking drums of stern rebellion when the exiles turned at bay,
Spreading death and desolation, breeding old-world hells anew,
Until England lost a nation for the blindness of a few.
Still the dirty Jewish talon reached from palaces and slums
Till a hundred thousand English died to stop the farmers’ drums.


Drums of tortured hearts o’ men—the drums that never ceased—
Throbbing through the British Empire from the heart of London East;
Growling louder still wherever, in the wake of those who lead,
Comes the murmur of the board-room and the stealthy steps of greed;
Growling through the Southern cities, murmuring in the Western gums,
Till the Empire falls to pieces at the beating of the drums!


Drums of all that’s right and wrong—of love and hate and scorn;
And the new-born baby hears them, and he wails when he is born.
Drums of all that is to be, and all that has gone by—
And we hear there when we’re dreaming, and we hear then while we die.

The Drovers

Shrivelled leather, rusty buckles, and the rot is in our knuckles,
Scorched for months upon the pommel while the brittle rein hung free;
Shrunken eyes that once were lighted with fresh boyhood, dull and blighted—
And the sores upon our eyelids are unpleasant sights to see.
And our hair is thin and dying from the ends, with too long lying
In the night dews on the ashes of the Dry Countree.
Yes, we’ve seen ’em ‘bleaching whitely’ where the salt-bush sparkles brightly,
But their grins were over-friendly, so we passed and let them be.
And we’ve seen them ‘rather recent,’ and we’ve stopped to hide ’em decent
When they weren’t nice to handle and they weren’t too nice to see;
We have heard the dry bones rattle under fifteen hundred cattle—
Seen the rags go up in dust-clouds and the brittle joints kicked free;
But there’s little time to tarry, if you wish to live and marry,
When the cattle shy at something in the Dry Countree.


No, you needn’t fear the blacks on the Never Never tracks—
For the Myall in his freedom’s an uncommon sight to see;
Oh! we do not stick at trifles—and the trackers sneak their rifles,
And go strolling in the gloaming while the sergeant’s yarning free:
Round the Myalls creep the trackers—there’s a sound like firing crackers
And—the blacks are getting scarcer in the Dry Countree.
(Goes an unprotected maiden-’cross the clearing carrion-laden—
Oh they ride ’em down on horseback in the Dry Countree.)


But you don’t know what might happen when a tank is but a trap on
Roofs of hell, and there is nothing but the blaze of hell to see;
And the phantom water’s lapping—and no limb for saddle-strapping—
Better carry your revolver through the Dry Countree.
But I’m feeling gay and frisky, come with me and have a whisky!
Change of hells is all we live for (that’s my mate that’s got D.T.);
We have fought through hell’s own weather, he and I and death together—
Oh, the devil grins to greet us from the Dry Countree!

The Distant Drum

Republicans! the time is coming!
Listen to the distant drumming!
Hearken to the whispers humming
In the troubled atmosphere.


Ye are born to do the toiling;
On and on—and no recoiling!
To the fighting, to the foiling
Of the wrongs that wrong us here.


Let the Loyal laugh and jeer you;
Let them in derision cheer you.
Still the cowards show they fear you
By their deeds and all they say.


Let Britannia rule for ever
O’er the wave; but never, never!
Rule a land great oceans sever
Fifteen thousand miles away.


Stained by persecution’s fires
Thinned of homes and thick with spires,
They love the land that bred their sires,
Ye the Land that breeds your sons.


And your sons shall have the reaping,
And your sons shall have the keeping
Of your honour while you’re sleeping,
Freedom’s vanguard, in your graves.

The Day Before I Die

There's such a lot of work to do, for such a troubled head!
I’m scribbling this against a book, with foolscap round, in bed.
It strikes me that I’ll scribble much in this way by and by,
And write my last lines so perchance the day before I die.


There’s lots of things to come and go, and I, in careless rhyme,
And drink and love (it wastes the most) have wasted lots of time.
There’s so much good work to be done it makes me sure that I
Will be the sorriest for my death, the day before I die.


But, lift me dear, for I am tired, and let me taste the wine—
And lay your cheek a little while on this lined cheek of mine.
I want to say I love you so—your patient love is why
I’ll have such little time, you know, the day before I die.