A. B. Paterson

“ I see the old bush homestead now On Kiley's Run, Just nestled down beneath the brow Of one small ridge above the sweep Of river-flat, where willows weep And jasmine flowers and roses bloom, The air was laden with perfume On Kiley's Run. We lived the good old station life On Kiley's Run, With little thought of care or strife. Old Kiley seldom used to roam, He liked to make the Run his home, The swagman never turned away With empty hand at close of day From Kiley's Run. ”

“ It's a wayside inn, A low grog-shanty — a bushman trap, Hiding away in its shame and sin Under the shelter of Conroy's Gap — Under the shade of that frowning range, The roughest crowd that ever drew breath — Thieves and rowdies, uncouth and strange, Were mustered round at the Shadow of Death. The trooper knew that his man would slide Like a dingo pup, if he saw the chance; And with half a start on the mountain side Ryan would lead him a merry dance. Drunk as he was when the trooper came, To him that did not matter a rap — Drunk or sober, he was the same, The boldest rider in Conroy's Gap. ”

“ 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. ”

“ For I go to the balls and the races A lonely companionless elf, And the ladies bestow all their graces On others less grey than myself; While the talk goes around I'm a dumb one 'Midst youngsters that chatter and prate, And they call me 'the Man who was Someone Way back in the year Sixty-eight.' And I look, sour and old, at the dancers That swing to the strains of the band, And the ladies all give me the Lancers, No waltzes — I quite understand. For matrons intent upon matching Their daughters with infinite push, Would scarce think him worthy the catching, The broken-down man from the bush. ”

“ The man that 'rung' the Tubbo shed is not the ringer here, That stripling from the Cooma side can teach him how to shear. They trim away the ragged locks, and rip the cutter goes, And leaves a track of snowy fleece from brisket to the nose; It's lovely how they peel it off with never stop nor stay, They're racing for the ringer's place this year at Castlereagh. The man that keeps the cutters sharp is growling in his cage, He's always in a hurry and he's always in a rage — 'You clumsy-fisted mutton-heads, you'd turn a fellow sick, You pass yourselves as shearers, you were born to swing a pick. ”

“ For the night has come and it brings to naught Thy projects cherished, And thine epitaph shall in brass be wrought — 'He lived and perished.' Art I wait for thee at the outer gate, My love, mine only; Wherefore tarriest thou so late While I am lonely. Thou shalt seek my side with a footstep swift, In thee implanted Is the love of Art and the greatest gift That God has granted. And the world's concerns with its rights and wrongs Shall seem but small things — Poet or painter, a singer of songs, Thine art is all things. For the wine of life is a woman's love To keep beside thee ”

“ Memories come as the daylight fades Down on the hearth where the firelight dozes; Flicker and flutter the lights and shades, And I see the face of a queen of maids Whose memory comes with the scent of roses. Visions arise of a scene of mirth, And a ball-room belle that superbly poses — A queenly woman of queenly worth, And I am the happiest man on earth With a single flower from a bunch of roses. Only her memory lives to-night — God in His wisdom her young life closes; Over her grave may the turf be light, Cover her coffin with roses white — She was always fond of the big white roses. ”