Читать книгу Poetical Works of Henry Lawson - Henry Lawson - Страница 9

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The night too quickly passes

And we are growing old,

So let us fill our glasses

And toast the Days of Gold;

When finds of wondrous treasure

Set all the South ablaze,

And you and I were faithful mates

All through the roaring days!

Then stately ships came sailing

From every harbour’s mouth,

And sought the Land of Promise

That beaconed in the South;

Then southward streamed their streamers

And swelled their canvas full

To speed the wildest dreamers

E’er borne in vessel’s hull.

Their shining Eldorado,

Beneath the southern skies,

Was day and night for ever

Before their eager eyes.

The brooding bush, awakened,

Was stirred in wild unrest,

And all the year a human stream

Went pouring to the West.

The rough bush roads re-echoed

The bar-room’s noisy din,

When troops of stalwart horsemen

Dismounted at the inn.

And oft the hearty greetings

And hearty clasp of hands

Would tell of sudden meetings

Of friends from other lands.

And when the cheery camp-fire

Explored the bush with gleams,

The camping-grounds were crowded

With caravans of teams;

Then home the jests were driven,

And good old songs were sung,

And choruses were given

The strength of heart and lung.

Oft when the camps were dreaming,

And fires began to pale,

Through rugged ranges gleaming

Swept on the Royal Mail.

Behind six foaming horses,

And lit by flashing lamps,

Old Cobb and Co., in royal state,

Went dashing past the camps.

Oh, who would paint a goldfield,

And paint the picture right,

As old Adventure saw it

In early morning’s light?

The yellow mounds of mullock

With spots of red and white,

The scattered quartz that glistened

Like diamonds in light;

The azure line of ridges,

The bush of darkest green,

The little homes of calico

That dotted all the scene.

The flat straw hats, with ribands,

That old engravings show—

The dress that still reminds us

Of sailors, long ago.

I hear the fall of timber

From distant flats and fells,

The pealing of the anvils

As clear as little bells,

The rattle of the cradle,

The clack of windlass-boles,

The flutter of the crimson flags

Above the golden holes.

Ah, then their hearts were bolder,

And if Dame Fortune frowned

Their swags they’d lightly shoulder

And tramp to other ground.

Oh, they were lion-hearted

Who gave our country birth!

Stout sons, of stoutest fathers born,

From all the lands on earth!

Those golden days are vanished,

And altered is the scene;

The diggings are deserted,

The camping-grounds are green;

The flaunting flag of progress

Is in the West unfurled,

The mighty bush with iron rails

Is tethered to the world.