There's recitations, songs, and fights --
A willin' lot you'll meet.
There's one long bloke up there recites,
I tell you -- he's a treat.
They're lively blokes all right up there,
It's never dull a day.
I'd go meself if I could spare
The time to get away.
. . . . .
The stranger turned his horses quick.
He didn't cross the bridge;
He didn't go along the crick
To strike the second ridge;
He didn't make the trip, because
He wasn't feeling fit.
His business up at Hogan's was
To serve him with a writ.
He reckoned if he faced the pull
And climbed the rocky stair,
The next to come might find his hide
A land-mark on the mountain side,
Along with Hogan's brindled bull
And Hogan's old grey mare!
A Singer of the Bush
There is waving of grass in the breeze
And a song in the air,
And a murmur of myriad bees
That toil everywhere.
There is scent in the blossom and bough,
And the breath of the Spring
Is as soft as a kiss on a brow --
And Spring-time I sing.
There is drought on the land, and the stock
Tumble down in their tracks
Or follow -- a tottering flock --
The scrub-cutter's axe.
While ever a creature survives
The axes shall swing;
We are fighting with fate for their lives --
And the combat I sing.
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