#Australians
The brooding ghosts of Australian… My spirit revives in the morning b… though it died when the sun went d… The river is high and the stream i… and the grass is green and tall,
A long farewell to Genoa That rises to the skies, Where the barren coast of Italy Like our own coastline lies. A sad farewell to Genoa,
The Country Girl reflects at last… And well in her young days— For she is learning very fast, The worth of City ways. The emptiness of Tailors men
Oh! this is a joyful dirge, my fri… And this is a clamour of Victory,… It isn’t a Yelp of the Battlefiel… But an ode to the Things that the… ’Tis a triolet of the Tomb, you b…
Fire lighted; on the table a meal… A lantern in the stable; a jingle… The mail-coach looming darkly by l… The growl of sleepy voices; a cand… A stumble in the passage of folk w…
Tall, and stout, and solid-looking… Yet a wreck; None would think Death’s finger’s… Him from deck. Cause of half the fun that’s start…
Tall and freckled and sandy, Face of a country lout; This was the picture of Andy, Middleton’s Rouseabout. Type of a coming nation,
A dusty clearing in the scrubs Of barren, western lands— Where, out of sight, or sign of ho… The wretched school-house stands; A roof that glares at glaring days…
The future was dark and the past w… As they gazed on the sea once more… But a nation was born when the imm… ‘Good-bye!’ as they stepped ashore… In their loneliness they were part…
It chanced upon the very day we’d… A buggy brought a stranger to the… He had a round and jolly face, and… He drove right up between the huts… We chaps were smoking after tea, a…
The colours of the setting sun Withdrew across the Western land— He raised the sliprails, one by on… And shot them home with trembling… Her brown hands clung—her face gre…
Here’s never a bough to be tossed… For it’s long since the forest was… And round all the trunks of the na… The marks of the death-ring are se… The solemn-faced bear, who had loo…
They lie, the men who tell us for… That want is here a stranger, and… For where the nearest suburb and t… My window-sill is level with the f… Drifting past, drifting past,
She sits beside the tinted tide, That’s reddened by the tortured sa… And through the East, to ocean wi… A vessel sails from sight of land. But she will wait and watch in vai…
There’s a pretty little story with… Comes from Beenleigh on the Logan… For we scarcely dare to credit ev’… Those unhappy country papers 'twix… ’Twas the man who owned the wherry…
