It's singing in and out,
It's rolling up your sleeves,
It's baking tarts and pies,
It's watching out the door,
And feeling anxious-like,
It's coming back inside
It's getting up again
And flushing all at once
And feeling awful glad,
And feeling full of grace;
Here and there, up and down,
And round about the place.
And whitening up the hearth,
And scrubbing out the floors,
And sweeping down the path;
And shining up the knives;
And feeling like some days
Was worth a thousand lives.
And watching by the gate;
And watching down the road,
And wondering why he's late;
For fear there's something wrong;
And wondering why he's kept,
And why he takes so long.
And sitting down a spell,
To sort o' make believe
You're thinking things is well.
And wandering in and out;
And feeling wistful-like,
Not knowing what about;
And smiling just so sweet,
And feeling read proud
The place is fresh and neat.
Like them that watched Siloam;
And everything because --
A man is coming Home!
GO TO TOP
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan
The congregation stood about,
"It's looking crook," said Daniel Croke;
"It's dry, all right," said young O'Neil,
And so around the chorus ran
"The crops are done; ye'll have your work
"They're singin' out for rain," he said,
"There won't be grass, in any case,
"If rain don't come this month," said Dan,
A heavy silence seemed to steal
"We want an inch of rain, we do,"
"If we don't get three inches, man,
In God's good time down came the rain;
And through the night it pattered still,
It pelted, pelted all day long,
And every creek a banker ran,
And stop it did, in God's good time:
And days went by on dancing feet,
And, oh, the smiles on every face,
While round the church in clothes genteel
"There'll be bush-fires for sure, me man,
In accents most forlorn
Outside the church ere Mass began
One frosty Sunday morn.
Coat collars to the ears,
And talked of stock and crops and drought
As it had done for years.
"Bedad, it's cruke, me lad,
For never since the banks went broke
Has seasons been so bad."
With which astute remark
He squatted down upon his heel
And chewed a piece of bark.
"It's keepin' dry, no doubt."
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"Before the year is out."
To save one bag of grain;
From here way out to Back-o'-Bourke
They're singin' out for rain.
"And all the tanks are dry."
The congregation scratched its head,
And gazed around the sky.
Enough to feed an ass;
There's not a blade on Casey's place
As I came down to Mass."
And cleared his throat to speak --
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"If rain don't come this week."
On all at this remark;
And each man squatted on his heel,
And chewed a piece of bark.
O'Neil observed at last;
But Croke 'maintained' we wanted two
To put the danger past.
Or four to break this drought,
We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"Before the year is out."
And all the afternoon
On iron roof and window-pane
It drummed a homely tune.
And lightsome, gladsome elves
On dripping spout and window-sill
Kept talking to themselves.
A-singing at its work,
Till every heart took up the song
Way out to Back-o'-Bourke.
And dams filled overtop;
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"If this rain doesn't stop."
And spring came in to fold
A mantle o'er the hills sublime
Of green and pink and gold.
With harvest-hopes immense,
And laughing eyes beheld the wheat
Nid-nodding o'er the fence.
As happy lad and lass
Through grass knee-deep on Casey's place
Went riding down to Mass.
Discoursed the men of mark,
And each man squatted on his heel,
And chewed his piece of bark.
There will, without a doubt;
We'll all be rooned,"said Hanrahan,
"Before the year is out."
A pleasant shady place it is, a pleasant place and cool --
But Granny she has seen the world, and often by her side
The boys and girls that Granny knew, far o'er the seas are they,
The day she first met Sullivan -- she tells it all to me --
Her wedding-dress I know by heart; yes! every flounce and frill;
They had their fights in those old days; but Sullivan was strong,
The first dark days of widowhood, the weary days and slow,
How well she loved her little brood! Oh, Granny's heart was brave!
The big world called them here and there, and many a mile away:
Just fancy Granny Sullivan at seventeen or so,
'Tis time to pause, for pause we must; we only have our day:
The township folk go up and down, the children pass to school.
Along the river lies my world, a dear sweet world to me:
I sit and learn -- I cannot go; there is so much to see.
I sit and listen while she speaks of youthful days of pride;
Old Granny's hands are clasped; she wears her favourite faded shawl --
I ask her this, I ask her that: she says, "I mind it all."
But there's no love like the old love, and the old world far away;
Her talk is all of wakes and fairs -- or how, when night would fall,
"'Twas many a quare thing crept and came," and Granny "minds them all."
How she was hardly twenty-one and he was twenty-three.
The courting days! the kissing days! -- but bitter things befall
The bravest hearts that plan and dream. Old Granny "minds it all."
And the little home they lived in first, with the garden on the hill.
'Twas there her baby boy was born; and neighbours came to call,
But none had seen a boy like Jim -- and Granny "minds it all."
A smart quick man at anything; 'twas hard to put him wrong...
One day they brought him from the mine... (The big salt tears will fall)...
"'Twas long ago, God rest his soul!" Poor Granny "minds it all."
The grim, disheartening, uphill fight, then Granny lived to know.
"The childer," ah! they grew and grew -- sound, rosy-cheeked and tall:
"The childer" still they are to her. Old Granny "minds them all."
She gave to them her love and faith -- all that the good God have.
They change not with the changing years; as babies just the same
She feels for them, though some, alas! have brought her grief and shame:
They cannot come -- she cannot go -- the darkness haunts the day;
And I, no flesh and blood of hers, sit here while shadows fall --
I sit and listen -- Grany talks; for Granny "minds them all."
In all the floating finery that women love to show;
And oh! it is a merry dance: the fiddler's flushed with wine,
And Granny's partner brave and gay, and Granny's eyes ashine...
Yes, by and by our dance will die, our fiddlers cease to play;
And we shall seek some quiet place where great grey shadows fall,
And sit and wait as Granny waits -- we'll sit and "mind them all."
The love of field and coppice,
I love a sunburnt country,
The stark white ring-barked forests,
Core of my heart, my country!
Core of my heart, my country!
An opal-hearted country,
Of green and shaded lanes,
Of ordered woods and gardens
Is running in your veins.
Strong love of grey-blue distance,
Brown streams and soft, dim skies-
I know but cannot share it,
My love is otherwise.
A land of sweeping plains,
Of ragged mountain ranges,
Of droughts and flooding rains.
I love her far horizons,
I love her jewel-sea,
Her beauty and her terror-
The wide brown land for me!
All tragic to the moon,
The sapphire-misted mountains,
The hot gold hush of noon,
Green tangle of the brushes
Where lithe lianas coil,
And orchids deck the tree-tops,
And ferns the warm dark soil.
Her pitiless blue sky,
When, sick at heart, around us
We see the cattle die -
But then the grey clouds gather,
And we can bless again
The drumming of an army,
The steady soaking rain.
Land of the rainbow gold,
For flood and fire and famine
She pays us back threefold.
Over the thirsty paddocks,
Watch, after many days,
The filmy veil of greenness
That thickens as we gaze.
A wilful, lavish land -
All you who have not loved her,
You will not understand -
Though earth holds many splendours,
Wherever I may die,
I know to what brown country
My homing thoughts will fly.