O the Queen may keep her golden Crown and sceptre of command! I would give them both twice over
A horseman on a hilltop green Drew rein, and wound his horn; So bright he looked he might have been
When the sap runs up the tree. And the vine runs o'er the wall, When the blossom draws the bee,
The pale discrowned stacks of maize, Like spectres in the sun, Stand shivering nigh Avonaise,
The curtain rose, the play began, The limelight on the gay garbs shone; Yet carelessly I gazed upon
I pity him who has not swung The Thyrsus in the air, And followed Bacchus, blithe and young,
Bouquet said: 'My floral ring The homage of a heart encloses, Whose thoughts to you go worshipping
Day goeth bold in cloth of gold, A royal bridegroom he; But Night in jewelled purple walks,
For some forty years, and over, Poets had with me their way; And they made me think that Sorrow
Stand up, my young Australian, In the brave light of the sun, And hear how Freedom's battle
The days go by, the days go by, Sadly and wearily to die: Each with its burden of small cares,
Once from the world of living men I passed, by a strange fancy led, To a still City of the Dead,
With pen in hand and pipe in mouth, And claret iced to quench my drouth, I sit upon my balcony
What! Don't you our M'cenas know The man who started, years ago, Our Wild Australian Author show?
By a black wharf I stood lately, When the night was at its noon; Keen, malicious stars were shining,
These are the flowers of sleep That nod in the heavy noon, Ere the brown shades eastward creep
I am the Vision and the Dream Of trembling Age, and yearning Youth; I am the Sorceress Supreme.
I learnt the language of the birds, A new St Francis I would be; But, when I understood their words,
The narrow, thorny path he trod. 'Enter into My joy,' said God. The sad ascetic shook his head;
There is a saying of renown, "God made the country, man the town." Well, everybody to his trade!
The days go by, the days go by, Sadly and wearily to die: Each with its burden of small cares,
It fell upon a summer night The village folk were soundly sleeping, Unconscious of the glamour white
Who are these strange small folk, These that come to our homes as kings, Asking nor leave nor grace,
Not only on cross and gibbet, By sword, and fire, and flood, Have perished the world's sad martyrs
The red sun on the lonely lands Gazed, under clouds of rose, As one who under knitted hands
Once upon a hushed red morning In the wondrous years of old, When the sun rose like a Rajah