The Roaring Days

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;     When, puzzled long, the new-chum     Would recognise at last,     Behind a bronzed and bearded skin,     A comrade of the past.     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.     Oh, they were lion-hearted     Who gave our country birth!     Oh, they were of the stoutest sons     From all the lands on earth!     Oft when the camps were dreaming,     And fires began to pale,     Through rugged ranges gleaming     Would come the Royal Mail.     Behind six foaming horses,     And lit by flashing lamps,     Old `Cobb and Co.'s', in royal state,     Went dashing past the camps.     Oh, who would paint a goldfield,     And limn the picture right,     As we have often seen 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.     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 our hearts were bolder,     And if Dame Fortune frowned     Our swags we'd lightly shoulder     And tramp to other ground.     But 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.