[113]
[Illustration: Pointing East]

[115]
 A WISH—FOR SYDNEY-SIDE.

I wish you a happy New Year,
    O, faithful old mother of me!
May it come with a smile, not a tear,
    Where Sydney looks out on the sea—
    On the wings of some wind, blowing free,
Where the heads of Port Jackson rise sheer—
            From the heart in my breast
            And the heart of the West
I wish you a happy New Year!

While the hands of Luck’s jenny-wheel spin
    And Fortune is ever a-fret,
From the voices of homeland and kin,
    Come the clearest of messages yet:
    And the nose of my dinghy is set
For the time the gods give me a win!
            And I waft you a line,
            Dear old mother of mine!
While the hands of Luck’s jenny-wheel spin.

[116]
But, though Fortune be good or be ill!
    Though the guerdon be ashes or gold!
When the crushing has gone to the mill
    And the tale of life’s effort is told,
    Though the world be grown never so cold
There’s a heart that will beat for me still!
            And a prayer to fend,
            And a trust without end,
And an old hand to cancel the bill.

So I wish you a happy New Year,
    O, well-loved old mother of me!
May it come with no trace of a tear
    When it trips from Eternity’s sea!
    Oh, for mine! and for thine! and for thee!
With a love that is deep and sincere,
            From the heart in my breast,
            In the heart of the West,
I wish you “A Happy New Year!”

[117]
AMONGST THE RICKS OF HAY.

When Western roads are rough and long,
        and days are hot and dry:
When mulga branches cast no shade
        against the brazen sky:
I throw “Matilda” by the pad
        and let my fancy play—
A-skipping o’er the fields once more,
        amongst the ricks of hay.

Oh, here they come! there’s Joe and Dan!
        and May, and Kate, and Min.!
The old swing gate flies open wide
        to let the rompers in:
For I am friends with all the lot,
        and trusty chums are they,
And all a-troop for hide-a-hoop
        amongst the ricks of hay.

We mashers dress in father’s pants—
        our sweethearts’ trilbies bare—
For we are jolly farmer’s kids
        with hayseeds in our hair!
And Joe Tresize takes after Kate,
        and I takes after May,
And Dan and Min. like whirlies spin
        amongst the ricks of hay.

[118]
And when the rush and romp are o’er
        we go in twos and twos—
And oh! the undermining arts
        we simple urchins use;
And oh, the saucy tricks and ways
        of Kate, and Min., and May!
While life’s begun and hearts are won
        amongst the ricks of hay.

Then safe behind the sheltering wing
        these friendly ricks afford,
We swear we’re “deep as deep” in love!
        we are “as true as Gord”!
And linked together Jack and Jill,
        beneath the moonlight grey,
With hearts ablaze, we spoon our ways
        amongst the ricks of hay.

Alas! just then a startling voice
        through dream and mistland broke:
“A dozen weary mulga miles
        to Jerry Hogan’s soak!”
A fig for that! The miles fly past
        to spryer steps and gay—
I’ve spent a boyish hour or two
        amongst the ricks of hay.

[119]
KILDEA’S FLOWER FARM.

I live where the shade is,
And rusted Life’s blade is—
The sand-drifts from Hades
        Have tarnished each charm:
But, sober or shicker,
My heart-pulse beats quicker
Whenever I think of
        Kildea’s flower farm!

’Twas not the green sward, or
The spangled disorder
Along the path border
        That led to their gate;
Nor mazes and mazes
Of heartsease and daisies,
That blossomed so early
        And lingered so late:

It was not the ringing
Of crimson bells swinging—
It was not the singing
        Of elves in the corn—
Nor fairy beds, laden
With rose-wreaths from Aidenn,
That smiled like a child, in
        The face of the morn!

[120]
Ah, the roses so bloomy
That held me and drew me—
The thrill that shot through me,
        ’Neath blue skies or grey—
The fear that oppressed me,
The hope that caressed me,
All dwelt ’neath the bonnet
        Of Katy Kildea!

With callous years flying,
And Youth’s fountains drying,
One memory undying
        Lives always attuned:
And, if plucked from its setting,
Forgot and forgetting,
The best of my being
        Would flow through the wound!

I live where the shade is—
And rusted Life’s blade is—
The sand-drifts from Hades
        Have tarnished its charm:
But, sober or shicker,
My heart-pulse beats quicker
Whenever I think of
        Kildea’s flower farm.

[121]
HIS LETTER FROM W.A.

Dear Kitty, I’ve just read the letter you sent—
    It was brought by the man from the store;
And I’m writin’ straight back, as I lay in my tent,
    Sprawlin’ out at full length on the floor.
But the pen ’ll scarce write for the thinkin’ of you—
    Oh, I’m sorry that ever I went!
And I have to knock off every minute or two,
    Just to glance through the letter you sent.

It is scarcely six months since I left Cooranbean,
    But seems longer than all of last year;
And the moon ain’t so bright, and the grass ain’t so green,
    And the sky, somehow, isn’t so clear:
Oh, I’d give all their towns, to the very last brick,
    And their mines, with the forchins they yield,
Just to hear the old ripple of Cooranbean crick,
    And the rustle of corn in the field.

There isn’t no “skirts” like the Cooranbean “skirts”!
    Or no boys like the Cooranbean boys!
And there isn’t no parties for fellers and flirts,
    And there isn’t no dance at Mulroy’s!
[122] And there isn’t no chance for a couple to spin
    Like the wind acrost Cherrytree Plain!
Where the best of the prizes were kisses to win—
    And ... there isn’t no Kitty M‘Lean.

I can’t find no nuggets, and can’t see no charm,
    As I wander about in the street;
And I long to be back once again on the farm,
    With the rabbits and rust in the wheat.
Oh, then life would want neither a whip or a spur—
    With a “string,” and a trigger to pull,
And just you at my side, and the possums astir,
    And the moon, our old moon! at the full ...

But if I am dull, and my letters are crook,
    It is certain that you should know why:
For you’ll find Charley’s heart, if you’re carin’ to look,
    At the gate where he kissed you “Good-bye!”
And say, if in a month, on the home-comin’ track,
    There is anyone’s eyes charnster skim,
And they see a young chap with a “port” on his back—
    That most likely, Dear Kit., ’ll be him.