A day of seeming innocence, A glorious sun and sky, And, just above my picket fence, Black Bonnet passing by. In knitted gloves and quaint old d…

The crescent moon and clock tower… Across the smothered lanes of 'Lo… And in the shadow yonder—like cats… The crowding cabs seem waiting—for… The cab lamps are watching as they…

Whenever I’m moving my furniture… Or shifting my furniture out— Which is nearly as often and risky… In these days of shifting about— There isn’t a stretcher, there isn…

There’s the same old coaching stab… And the yard the coaches stood in… And the public-private parlour, wh… Was the shoeing forge and smithy u… There’s the same old walls and woo…

O I dreamt I shore in a shearing… For every one of the rouseabouts w… Dressed up like a page in a pantom… They had flaxen hair they had coal… There was short plump girls there…

I long for the streets but the Lo… For there I am never a saint; There are lovable characters out i… With humour heroic and quaint; And, be it Up Country, or be it…

It was built of bark and poles, an… Where each leak in rainy weather m… And the walls were mostly cracks l… There was little need for windows… Then we rode to school and back by…

The men who camp with Danger Are mostly quiet men: And one may use a rifle, And one may use a pen, And one may strap a camera

The wireless tells and the cable t… How our boys behaved by the Darda… Some thought in their hearts “Wil… We knew them of old and we knew th… Knew they would—

When you’ve come to make a fortune… And the reason of your failure isn… When you haven’t got a billet, and… There is nothing that can spur you… Crawling home with empty pockets,

Let others sing praise of their se… But give me the bush with its limi… Then it’s over the ranges and into… To the scenes of wild boyhood; we… We’ll ride and we’ll ride from the…

They proved we could not think nor… They proved we could not write, They proved we drank the day away And raved through half the night. They proved our stars were never u…

A cloud of dust on the long white… And the teams go creeping on Inch by inch with the weary load; And by the power of the green-hide… The distant goal is won.

Across the stony ridges, Across the rolling plain, Young Harry Dale, the drover, Comes riding home again. And well his stock-horse bears him…

WHEN you drink of what the poets… And yer mouth, in spite of laughin… Do not whine for help or pity; nev… Lay yer list’€™ners back and fight… Though the world on empty pockets…