The Way Of The Bush
A night of storm and wind and rain,
Tall trees bowing beneath the blast
That shakes and rattles the window-pane,
And a thunderous roar as the creek goes past.
Inside there a pictures and flowers and books,
And a slim girl-wife with shingled hair;
The lamplight glimmers on cosy nooks,
And Desmond Keene in his easy chair
Thanks God for home and the days toil o’er;
When on the verandah a tramp of feet,
A frenzied knock on the kitchen door
Wondering he goes a neighbour to greet.
“The missus is dyin’ ” poor Simpson says,
‘Down in the ‘orspital-sent for me,
I gathered the kids, and brought ‘’em ‘ere,
I thought your missus might mind ‘em – see!”
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poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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Milestones
Gay balloons and coloured streamers,
Gliding figures, footsteps light,
Flannelled youths and short-frocked maidens
Jazzing gaily through the night.
Music quaint and queer and catchy,
Lilting cadence of the band,
‘Tis a scene of harmless frolic.
Youth and pleasure hand in hand.
Laughter, frank and merry hearted,
Careless banter – burst of song-
“While the red, red robin
Goes bob-bob-bobbin’
Goes bob-bob-bobbin’ along!”
Small Miss Anne is sitting, dreaming
In the vine-clad window-seat
Listening to the lilting music,
To the trip of dancing feet,
But her vision sees a ballroom
Where the swaying lanterns glow
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poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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“O’Shea”
O’Shea was a big railway ganger, clean-hearted, and clean-limbed and shy,
With a glint of grey hair at his temples, and smile in his Irish blue eye;
He’d but one speech for every occasion, as you told him the news of the day,
And I know I will shock pious people-but poor Tim meant no harm when he’s say.
“Aw! g’long, go-to-hell, go-to-hell now! In a mildly expostulant way.
Oft the boys told, with winking and laughter, how O’Shea courted early in life
The dashing and voluble lady who’d make him an excellent wife;
And how slowly that courtship proceeded, till herself had to “settle the day”.
For Tim, though he madly adored her, could find nothing better to say
Than ‘Aw! G’long, go-to-hell go-to-hell now,” in a tender and loverlike way.
The flying gang loved and served him, for O’Shea was a leader of men,
But we never knew Tim for a hero, till the train smash at Appletree, when
The seven forty-five lay in ruins in a setting of scrub, ferns and flowers,
With the summer sky smiling above it, and the air fresh and fragrant from
showers.
There was tragedy, death and confusion, there was horror and grief beyond words,
Pain blent with the incense of blossoms, and groans with the song of the birds.
The flying gang came to the rescue, ah O’Shea was magnificent then,
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poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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Bid McCrae
The church was wrapped in darkness save for the alter-light,
And save where near the marble rail six tapers glimmered bright
O’er waxen heavy-scented flowers and coffin plated deep,
Where the good wife, Mary Halloran lay in her last long sleep.
Her life, calm, pure and prosperous, had scarcely known a care;
Four sons, three daughters, she had reared – all sturdy, strong and fair,
All like their parents, kindly, plain and practical-save one
That rare soul, marked for graces high, the young priest - Father John.
His beautiful young face was lit by spirit-light within
A new St. Michael armed against the powers of wrath and sin-
And now he knelt and prayed alone, amid the church’s gloom,
And heard his mother’s well loved voice come from beyond the tomb:
“Oh help me dearest son of mine to-night my soul has known
Our neighbours’ life is twined with ours; we cannot live alone;
My sins, our dear Lord has forgiven, their guilt is purged away,
But yet I cannot enter Heaven, because of Bid McCrae.”
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poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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Enniskillen
Oh my heart beat high with joy elate,
When Danny rode in the Hunters’ Plate
On Enniskillen, the raking grey-
A mighty jumper, with power to stay!
Velvet muzzled, with eye of fire,
Clean-legged, slant –shouldered, and tough as wire,
Oh, the joy that can fill a colleen’s breast,
When her man and horse are dong their best!
The summer skies were without a cloud
O’er the heads of the frantic, cheering crowd,
As he led the field right into the straight,
And his eyes met mine, at the five-barred gate.
Then they thundered by, like a roaring flood,
And oh, good luck to the Irish blood!
The Irish blood that in horse or man
Has never ‘caved in’ since the world began.
He took the last leap, like a bird in the air,
Clearing the hurdle, straight and fair,
And Enniskillen won!
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poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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The Courtship Of Young John
Fields of lucerne and waving wheat,
White-washed sheds, and cottage neat,
Nesting orchards and mulberry trees,
Scented flowers round hives of bees,
With the cool green creek behind it all,
Where the bell-bird chimed at evenfall
Far from the city’s stir and noise-
This was the home of the ‘Reilly boys.”
There were Matthew and Mark, both lean and grim,
Hard of feature, and strong of limb,
And Luke-poor-Luke had long lain still
In the graveyard under the windy hill,
But his twin remained, the youngest he,
A solemn ‘youth’ of forty-three,
By his elders bossed and put upon,
And always referred to as ‘that young John’.
Their house was speckless, and white as now,
But the dear old neighbour who kept it so,
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poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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The Ride Of Rody Burke
The heat haze veiled the distant hills, the white clouds floated high,
Drifting in slow content across the blue Australian sky;
And down in Clancy’s paddock there were mirth and laughter gay,
Where the She-Oak Jockey Club were met upon St. Patrick’s day.
There were carts and cars and buggies ranged beneath the spreading trees,
Where country folk for miles around were clustered thick as bees,
Watching the prancing horses pass with keen appraising eyes,
All out to win the Squatters’ Cup, the hundred-guinea prize.
Jim Daintry on The Digger rose; hopes for his mount were high,
A gallant roan with swinging pace, game head and fiery eye,
And Jim’s horse was the favourite, the betting there was keen,
But some were backing Rody Burke upon Dark Rosaleen.
A thing of velvet, fire and steel-a little dark brown mare,
With dainty legs and shoulders slant, lean head and high-bred air,
But knowing backers simply scoffed her chances of the race,
“She’ll never see his heels when once The Digger sets the pace.”
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poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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