Part 9 (1/2)
Overhead the deep, clear azure is just fleck'd with snowy clouds, And the green and crimson parrots fly around in chatt'ring crowds; Far away is all the bustle of the smoky, restless town, And the timid kangaroo upon the gra.s.s lies fearless down; Nature calmly lieth waiting, in her peaceful solitude, For the dawning of the morning bright with hopes of future good: Lies as she has lain for ages, by the white man's foot untrod, Like a glorious new creation, freshly from the hand of G.o.d.
'Tis Australia's golden Springtime, and the vision, fresh and green, Of the lonely, peaceful country, is a swiftly changing scene; First a few white tents embosom'd 'mid the thickly growing trees, And the sound of human labour floating on the pa.s.sing breeze.
First a village--then a city--with an everswelling tide Pa.s.sing thro' its busy markets--stretching outwards far and wide; And while the growing nation overspreads the smiling land, Nature opens up her treasures with a free and lavish hand: O'er the verdant fields are roaming flocks and herds of sheep and kine-- Deep beneath the sunlit surface works the toiler in the mine-- Education and religion build their temples o'er the plain, And the iron horse moves swiftly past broad fields of golden grain, Where a plenteous harvest ripens to reward the toiler's care, And each honest, willing worker may obtain a rightful share.
Blessed peace and glorious freedom banish far the warrior's sword-- Fancy seems to gaze enraptur'd on a Paradise restored!
'Tis the Springtime of Australia, and the dazzled eye may see Wondrous dreams of future greatness--of the glories yet to be: Visions--not of martial conquest--not of courage, blood and fire-- But of lands by n.o.ble actions growing greater, grander, higher!
Of the wond'ring nations turning--gazing with expectant eyes, While oppress'd and toiling millions feel new hopes and thoughts arise In the march of human progress as Australia leads the van To the world's great Federation, and the ”parliament of Man!”
Such the triumphs--aye, and grander, that the coming days shall see If Australia but be faithful to her glorious destiny; With the smile of Heav'n upon her in the future, as the past, Sweeping back the threat'ning war-clouds that her sky may overcast-- Like a stately white-wing'd vessel she shall keep her steadfast way-- Peace, o'er all her wide dominions, ruling with unbroken sway; And her progress be continued till the wings of Time are furled-- Her glorious page the brightest in the history of the world!
W. L. LUMLEY.
_THE MAN THAT SAVED THE MATCH._
BY DAVID M'KEE WRIGHT.
(_By kind permission of the Author._)
Our church ain't reckoned very big, but then the towns.h.i.+p's small-- I've seen the time when there was seats and elbow-room for all.
The women-fold would come, of course, but working chaps was rare; They'd rather loaf about and smoke, and take the Sunday air.
But now there's hardly standing room, and you can fairly say There ain't a man we like as well as quiet Parson Grey.
We blokes was great for cricket once, we'd held our own so long, In all the towns.h.i.+ps round about our team was reckoned strong; And them that didn't use to play could barrack pretty fair, They liked the leather-hunting that they didn't have to share.
A team from town was coming up to teach us how to play-- We meant to show what we could do upon that Christmas Day.
The stumps were pitched at two o'clock, but Lawson's face was grim (Lawson was Captain of the team, our crack we reckoned him), For Albert Wilson hadn't come, the safest bat of all, With no one there to take his place he counted on a fall.
”Who could we get? There's no one here it's worth our while to play In place of Albert.” At his side was standing Parson Grey.
”I used to wield the willow once,” the Parson softly said; ”If you have no one for the tail, you might take me instead.”
The Captain bit his fair moustache--he seemed inclined to swear; But answered sulkily enough, ”All right, sir; I don't care.
There's no one here is worth his salt with breaking b.a.l.l.s to play.”
”I'll try and do my best for you,” said quiet Parson Grey.
”His best,” Bill Lawson said to me, ”what's that, I'd like to know?
To spoon an easy ball to point, and walk back sad and slow, Miss every catch that comes to him and fumble every ball, And lose his way about the field at every 'over' call.
The blooming team can go below after this Christmas Day; I'm hanged if I'm to captain it when parsons start to play.”
Bill won the toss, we went in first. I might as well say here That I'm a weary kind of bat--to stick in for a year.
I can't hit out--it ain't no use; it saddens me to think A bloke that bowled against us once has taken since to drink.
He couldn't get my wicket, and his b.a.l.l.s came in that way I batted through the innings without a run all day.
The fun began. By George! to think the way our stumps went down!
Our boys was made the laughing-stock for them swell-blokes from town.
I kept my end up--that was all, Lawson was bowled first ball, And six of them went strolling back without a run at all.