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We are the old-world
people,
Ours were the hearts to dare;
But our youth is spent, and our backs are bent,
And the snow is on our hair.
Back in the early fifties,
Dim through the mists of years,
By the bush-grown strand of a wild, strange land
We entered-the Pioneers.
Our axes rang in the woodlands
Where the gaudy bush-birds flew,
And we turned the loam of our new-found home
Where the eucalyptus grew.
Housed in the rough log shanty,
Camped in the leaking tent,
From sea to view of the mountains blue,
Where the eager fossickers went,
We wrought with a will unceasing,
We moulded, and fashioned, and planned,
And we fought with the black, and we blazed the track,
That ye might inherit the land.
Here are your shops and churches,
Your cities of stucco and smoke;
And the swift trains fly where the wild cat's cry
O'er the sad bush silence broke.
Take now the fruit of our labour,
Nourish and guard it with care,
Four our youth is spent, and our backs are bent,
And the snow is on our hair.
Frank Hudson
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