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Frances Tyrrell Gill BENEATH THE WATTLE Then I reached and gathered a blossomy BOUGHS
And divided its clustering sprays in twain, The wattles were sweet with September's “ As a token for each” (I closed one in her rain,
hand) We drank in their breath and the breath “Till we come to the end of the year of the spring :
again!” “Our pulses are strong with the tide of Tife,”
Then the years sped on, strung high with I said, “and one year is so swift a thing !”
And laughter and gold were the gifts they The land all around was yellow with
Till I chanced one day on some pale dead The birds in the branches sang joyous and flowers, shrill,
And spake, shaking and white, “One more The blue range rose 'gainst the blue of the gift I crave." sky,
“Nay,' a shadow voice in the air replied, Yet she sighed, “But death may be stronger “ 'Neath the blossoming wattles you 'll find still !”
a grave !”
THE DIGGER'S GRAVE
That day had Philip courage gained to tell
His tale of love to pretty Christabel ; He sought Australia's far-famed isle, And she, on her part, with ingenuous grace, Hoping that Fortune on his lot would smile, Endorsed the tell-tale of her blushing face. In search for gold. When one short year Dream on, true lover! never, never thou had flown,
Shalt press the kiss of welcome on her brow. He wrote the welcome tidings to his own E'en now a comrade, eager for thy gold, Betrothèd ; told how months of toiling Above thy fond true heart the knife doth vain
hold Made ten-fold sweeter to him sudden One stroke, the weapon 's plunged into his gain;
breast; With sanguine words, traced with love's So sure the aim that, like a child at rest, eager hand,
The murdered digger lies,
a happy smile He bade her join him in this bright south Parts the full manly bearded lips the while.
land. Oft as he sat, his long day's labor o'er, Next day they found him. In his deathIn his bush hut, he dreamed of home once
cold hand, more ;
He held his last home letter, lately scanned His thoughts to the old country home in With love-lit eyes; and next his heart they Kent
found Returned. ’T was Christmas-day, and they A woman's kerchief which, when they untwo went
wound, O'er frost and snow ; the Christmas anthem Disclosed a lock of silken auburn hair rang
And portrait of a girl's face, fresh and fair, Through the old church, which echoed as Dyed with the life-blood of his faithful they sang
To more than one eye, tears unbidden start;
The bright-hued birds true nature's re
quiem gave, And wattle-bloom bestrews the digger's
They laid him in his lonely resting-place.
Arthur Patchett Martin
LOVE AND WAR
Then the maid dried her tears and looked
up in his eyes, THE Chancellor mused as he nibbled his And she said, “Thou of loving art pen
worthy : (Sure no Minister ever looked wiser), When all are in danger no brave man e'er And said, “I can summon a million of
And thy love should spur on not deter To fight for their country and Kaiser ;
thee." “ While that shallow charlatan ruling o'er The Chancellor took a cigar, which he France,
lit, Who deems himself deeper than Merlin, And he muttered, “Here's naught to Thinks he and his soldiers have only to
alarm me ; dance
By Heaven ! I swear they are both of them To the tune of the Can-can to Berlin.
To march with the great German army." “But as soon as he gets to the bank of the
With nature to commune,
Laugh out, like some buffoon.
You cease, and through the forest drear
Breaks in your harsh guffaw.
I look aloft to yonder place,
And tell you to your very face,
I do not like
I'm in no mood for blatant jest,
My weary soul demands the rest
Strode one or two huge paces nearer ;
“ More than Besides, there passes through my brain life art thou dear;
The poet's love of fame But, 0 loved one, the Fatherland's Why should not an Australian strain dearer."
Immortalize my name ? 1 The giant kingfisher, or “ laughing jackass."
Sweeter than wild bird's throat,
blends, As down the hill the woolly stream descends.
Yes ! now my wings I feel,
Or now, the early “muster” over,
do greet. Here in the world's great heart abiding, We two have left the happy isle ; Australian grass Tom's face is biding, Jim in the spirit-land is riding. From weary thoughts my heart beguile ! Sing, linnet, sing to me, Sing my soul across the sea.
An idle shepherd have I lain,
vain, Or chasing rhymes to wreathe the strain
Which from sweet musing grew.
My soul, impatient of delay,
My Shepherds dear — Good night !