A night of storm and wind and rain,
Tall trees bowing beneath the blast
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The sun is setting behind the range,
His golden rays pour down
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The sun is setting behind the range,
his golden rays pour down
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Gay balloons and coloured streamers,
Gliding figures, footsteps light,
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When I came down Toowoomba streets, The evening air was full of sweets,
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When Rody came to Ironbark, there spread a hectic glow
around the little township - a dozen years ago,
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Oh my heart beat high with joy elate,
When Danny rode in the Hunters’ Plate
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The morn is sweet and radiant with blue sky over all,
There’s a flame of Oleanders over the adobe wall,
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Golden and white in the garden walk,
Chrysanthemums gather their bravest show,
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The harvest moon was shinin’
As Murtagh came from the fair,
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We have scrubbed, and scoured and polished, till she's looking just like new,
And her good old engines singing, and our hearts are s
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The church was wrapped in darkness save for the alter-light,
And save where near the marble rail six tapers glimmered bright
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Her hair was dark and curly, floatin’ to the saddle bow,
Her laugh was frank and girlish, and her voice was sweet and low;
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‘Mid wattle scents and sounds of Spring,
The old man, dreaming in his chair
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Fields of lucerne and waving wheat,
White-washed sheds, and cottage neat,
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I thank my god for brother wind,”
So prayed St. Francis long ago
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November days in Ireland
The skies are dull and grey,
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All rank on rank the tall white lillies stood,
The graceful palms against the rose-flushed sky
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The world is all one smother of grass,
Waves of it rolling deep and green,
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We planned a glorious voyage, my Captain bold and I,
To sail in bliss on summer seas while halcyon days went by;
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The little creek went winding down
‘Twixt whispering reeds and small blue flowers,
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O’Shea was a big railway ganger, clean-hearted, and clean-limbed and shy,
With a glint of grey hair at his temples, and smile in his Irish blue eye;
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In a garden where the may made the straggling fences gay
And the roses cream and scarlet shed their petals on the breeze
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We are saddling Don and Laddie,
Mid laughter, and fun and noise
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Oh! Have you stolen out, one summer morning
To pick white crocus ‘neath the garden wall,
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You’ll not find the name in geography books,
It isn’t marked on the map,
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Under the wintry skies,
Sundered from home and kin,
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Old tales of valour fire our blood
But this, the bravest deed I know
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The heat haze veiled the distant hills, the white clouds floated high,
Drifting in slow content across the blue Australian sky;
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A letter from “The East” it came today,
And all the house is lightened of its gloom:
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