The London lights are far
Behind a bank of cloud,
Along the shore the gaslights gleam,
The gale is piping loud;
And down the Channel, groping blind,
We drive her through the
Towards the land we left behind —The good old land of `never mind',
And old Australian ways.
The narrow ways of English
Are not for such as we;
They bear the long-accustomed
Of staid conservancy:
But all our roads are new and strange,
And through our blood there
The vagabonding love of
That drove us westward of the
And westward of the suns.
The city folk go to and
Behind a prison's bars,
They never feel the breezes
And never see the stars;
They never hear in blossomed
The music low and
Of wild birds making melodies,
Nor catch the little laughing
That whispers in the wheat.
Our fathers came of roving
That could not fixed abide:
And we have followed field and
Since e'er we learnt to ride;
By miner's camp and shearing shed,
In land of heat and drought,
We followed where our fortunes led,
With fortune always on
And always further out.
The wind is in the barley-grass,
The wattles are in bloom;
The breezes greet us as they
With honey-sweet perfume;
The parakeets go screaming
With flash of golden wing,
And from the swamp the wild-ducks
Their long-drawn note of revelry,
Rejoicing at the Spring.
So throw the weary pen
And let the papers rest,
For we must saddle up and
Towards the blue hill's breast;
And we must travel far and
Across their rugged maze,
To find the Spring of Youth at last,
And call back from the buried
The old Australian ways.
When Clancy took the drover's
In years of long ago,
He drifted to the outer
Beyond the Overflow;
By rolling plain and rocky shelf,
With stockwhip in his hand,
He reached at last, oh lucky elf,
The Town of
In Rough-and-ready Land.
And if it be that you would
The tracks he used to ride,
Then you must saddle up and
Beyond the Queensland side —Beyond the reach of rule or law,
To ride the long day through,
In Nature's homestead — filled with
You then might see what Clancy
And know what Clancy knew.
