A Voice From The City

On western plain and eastern hill     Where once my fancy ranged,     The station hands are riding still     And they are little changed.     But I have lost in London gloom     The glory of the day,     The grand perfume of wattle bloom     Is faint and far away.     Brown faces under broad-brimmed hats     The grip of wiry hands,     The gallops on the frosty flats,     Seem dreams of other lands;     The camp fire and the stars that blaze     Above the mystic plain     Are but the thoughts of vanished days     That never come again.     The evening star I seldom view,     That led me on to roam,     I never see the morning star     That used to draw me home.     But I have often longed for day     To hide the few I see,     Because they only point and say     Most bitter things to me.     I wear my life on pavement stones     That drag me ever down,     A paltry slave to little things,     By custom chained to town.     Ive lost the strength to strike alone,     The heart to do and dare,     I mind the day Id roll my swag     And tramp to, God-knows-where.     When I should wait I wander out,     When I should go I bide,     I scarcely dare to think about     The days when I could ride.     I would not mount before his eyes,     Straight Bushman tall and tan,     I mind the day when I stood up     And fought him like a man.     I mind the time when I was shy     To meet the brown Bush girls,     Ive lunched with lords since then and I     Have been at home with earls:     I learned to smile and learned to bow     And lie to ladies gay,     But to a gaunt Bushwoman now     Id not know what to say.     And if I sought her hard bare home     From scenes of show and sham,     Id sit all ill at ease and fell     The poor weak thing I am.     I could not meet her hopeless eyes     That look one through and through,     The haggard woman of the past     Who once thought I was true.     But nought on earth can last for aye,     And wild with care and pain,     Some day by chance Ill break away     And seek the Bush again.     And find awhile from bitter years     The rest the Bush can bring,     And hear, perhaps, with truer ears     The songs it has to sing.