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.
