The master-songs are ended, and the man
That sang them is a name. And so is God
I've done my share of shearing sheep,
Of droving and all that;
This is the story the stockman told
On the cattle-camp, when the stars were bright;
I thought I heard the Old Man say, (Leave her, Johnnie, leave her!)
Amid grandees of times Elizabethan
you shimmered too, you followed sumptuous custom;
O take, O keep me, ever blest Domains
Where lovely Flora with Pomona reigns;
Dan, he's dead, as I used to know In the ol' Thermopylae years ago;
Oh, there's places up and down that are queer and quaint and pretty; Sydney's a pleasant port, Frisco's a giddy city;
She hauled through the dock-gates when morning was young And chill on the water the river mist hung,
Aut insanit homo, aut versus facit HOR., Sat. VII, lib. II
Sweet rois of vertew and of gentilness,
Delytsum lily of everie lustynes,
It was a gentle sawbones and his name was Doctor Brown.
His auto was the terror of a small suburban town.
A TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF THE RIGHT HON. WILLIAM PITT.
When, by th' Almighty's dread command
All in the slime of the stagnant Arm, the mouldering slips beside, Where dark as sin slinks out and in the fouled and furtive tide,
This is the ship the Man built . . .
In time's grey dawn, by the unsailed sea,
Redwood grove and war
You and me talking Congo
Napoleon looked upon France and said:
"What is the result of reign of mine?"
Ned Kelly was a gentleman:
Many hardships did he endure.
I was shipmates with Sorrow in a day gone by; We shared the wheel and look-out, old Sorrow and I:
La calle
se llenó de tomates,
And he dared them;
Dared them to grow old and bitter
Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint, Instead of dirges, this complaint;
Their bones lie glistening on the veldt, their shoes are rusted red, They are gone where spur and rifle are at rest,
I don't know who Saint Mawes was, but he surely can't have been
A stiff old stone gazebo on a carved cathedral screen,
Oh, Mulligan's bar was the deuce of a place
To drink, and to fight, and to gamble and race;
I knew not who had wrought with skill so fine What I beheld; nor by what laws of art
The ships to the westward, by night and by day, In storm and in sunshine go forth on their way,
They came of bold and roving stock that would not fixed abide;
There were the sons of field and flock since e’er they learned to rid
THE NIGHT descends in glory, and adown the purple west
The young moon, like a crescent skiff, upon some fairy quest,
You are a rose, but set with sharpest spine;
You are a pretty bird that pecks at me;
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