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The Fremantle Press Anthology of Western Australian Poetry

Fremantle Press

    George Fletcher Moore (b. 1798 d. 1886)

    Western Australia For Me
    Air — 'Ballinamona oro.'

    From the old Western world, we have come to explore
    The wilds of this Western Australian shore;
    In search of a country, we've ventured to roam,
    And now that we've found it, let's make it our home.
      And what though the colony's new, Sirs,
      And inhabitants yet may be few, Sirs,
      We see them encreasing here too, Sirs,
      So Western Australia for me.

    With care and experience, I'm sure 'twill be found
    Two crops in the year we may get from the ground;
    There's good wood and good water, good flesh and good fish,
    Good soil and good clime, and what more could you wish.

    Then let every one earnestly strive, Sirs,
    Do his best, be alert and alive, Sirs,
    We'll soon see our colony thrive, Sirs,
    So Western Australia for me.

    No lions or tigers we here dread to meet,
    Our innocent quadrupeds hop on two feet;
    No tithes and no taxes we now have to pay,
    And our geese are all swans, as some witty folks say.

      Then we live without trouble or stealth, Sirs,
      Our currency's all sterling wealth, Sirs,
      So here's to our Governor's health, Sirs,
      And Western Australia for me.


    'A' (n.d.)

    Mount Eliza

    On Mount Eliza's gently-swelling height
    Musing of late I sat, and strained my sight
    To catch within its orbs the full expanse
    Of all the beauties which the scene enhance.
    On such a spot as this, how sweet to feel
    The charms of Nature o'er the senses steal;
    When peace, reflected from its sunny spots,
    Soothes the sad mind, and drowns all memr'y's blots;
    And as its genial influence leads us on,
    We feel as calm as all we look upon.
    Long ere by stern necessity's command,
    The emigrant had sought this distant land,
    This lovely spot was mark'd by many a grace,
    And all those hues which Nature loves to trace.
    But then this beauty was of sombre hue,
    And Nature's wildness only met the view.
    No fabric raised, whose bright looks catch the eyes,
    And make us think of Home and all we prize.
    What though the 'Swan' in graceful turnings glide,
    No cheerful boat had ever stemm'd its tide,
    Or merry barks, with white sails deck'd its face,
    Or skimm'd its surface with their magic pace.
    No sound disturb'd its silent, peaceful strand,
    Save when the native savage, spear in hand
    Came from his pathless woods to try his skill,
    By hunger led, the finny prey to kill.
    From fancied scenes like these I turn with pride
    To view the works of man on every side.
    To thee, fair Perth, where, peeping through the trees,
    Thine houses glitter, and full well must please
    The eyes of one who fondly loves to mark
    Those fairy visions springing from the dark.
    When first our hardy colonists, with zeal
    Commenced their hopeful task with trusty steel
    Not in their dreams, by fancy colour'd high,
    E'er matur'd all that here is gay reality.
    Thick clustering dwellings now uprear their heads,
    In pleasing contrast to their leafy beds;
    And verdant gardens, ranging side by side,
    Skirting the river's bank, are spreading wide.
    How much we love the forms we've help'd to rear;
    What deep and earnest thoughts of hope and fear
    Do mark their fitful progress; if the things
    Be pets of Art, or Poets' wild imaginings,
    Say then what thoughts shall fill the exile's mind
    When cast on foreign wilds a home to find;
    Who daily strives his anxious cares to cheer,
    And form around him all he holds most dear.
    Then, if success he should at length attain,
    He loves it more for all its toil and pain;
    With pride surveys the scenes he'd help' d to trace
    On what was once a drear and desert place.
    With feelings such as these I love the sight
    Which greets the eye from off this wood-crown'd height,
    And oft-times wander to this shady place,
    With fondly-curious eye, intent to trace
    Some new raised structure, or some pleasing green
    That lends fresh beauty to the changeful scene;
    Or watch beneath my view some freighted boat
    In silence pass, and onwards gaily float
    O'er Melville Water, dancing on its flight,
    Its white sails lessening, tho' it still looks bright;
    Fleet messenger of Trade, that daily finds
    A sure assistance from alternate winds.
    The country round from this exalted place
    Looks like a chart, on which you trace
    The varied outlines of the pleasing scene,
    Where waters glitter, and where woods look green.
    Here Belches' Point, whose stretching sides extend
    And form, at length, the banks by which descend
    Fair Canning's stream, that flows with gentle force;
    Or Swan's blue flood, that comes from distant source.
    There Headland juts, with base round-spreading, wide.
    That forms a mimic bay on either side;
    And, distant far, the lofty hills are seen
    Raising their blue tops o'er the woods' dark-green.
    Oft as these scenes I view, new hopes will spring
    Of future greatness which each year must bring;
    And in my mind's-eye fondly view each grace
    Which fancy loves to form on many a place.
    No dark'ning clouds, I trust, will ever rise
    To blight the hopes I now so fondly prize.
    Land of my adoption, onward is thy way,
    In spite of all that prejudice can say.
    Detraction's tongue shall now no more have weight;
    She's done her worst, and sent forth all her hate.
    No aid we need to make a prosperous land
    But Councils wise, and Industry's strong hand.
    In these secure, let each one do his best;
    Our sunny clime will work out all the rest.

    First published 26 December 1835.


    Anonymous (n.d.)

    A New Song

    Adapted from 'Sam Sly's African journal.'
    Tune: 'The Campbells are Coming'.

    The Convicts are coming — oho! oho!
    What a curse to the Swan! What a terrible blow!
    'No — devil a bit — don't fear, my old bricks,
    How much may we learn, if they'll teach us their tricks.'

    The Convicts are coming! oh dear, oh dear!
    Don't button your pockets — there's nothing to fear,
    For surely no Exile would venture to thieve,
    When away from the prison, on a Ticket of leave.

    The Convicts are coming! Hurrah! hurrah!
    How it gladdens the heart of each anxious papa,
    For how quickly his children may now learn a trade,
    From that best of preceptors — a thief ready-made.

    The Convicts are coming! Huzza! huzza!
    If we want to pick locks, they will tell us the way,
    Do we think to cut throats, or to blow out men's brains,
    They'll show us the mode, if we'll only take pains.

    The Convicts are coming — what capital sport!
    The road to the gallows made easy and short,
    And long will the Swanites remember the day,
    When the Convicts were sent to their shores by Earl Grey.

    The Convicts are coming! the Orient's in sight!
    Then throw up your hats boys, illumine tonight!
    Yes, throw up your hats, be as merry as grigs,
    For I warrant they'll soon put us up to their rigs.

    The Convicts are coming! Huzza! huzza!
    Three cheers for the Convicts, and three for Earl Grey!
    Three cheers for the Swanites, and nine for each man,
    Who devised and perfected this glorious plan.

    First published 16 November 1849.


    Delta (n.d.)

    The Song of the Ticket of Leave Man

    I am free! I am free! my heart leaps in my breast,
    And each feeling, each thought with grief late opprest,
    Now thrills through my frame, as if a new life
    Were given in mercy to meet the world's strife,
      I am free, I am free!

    For the sins of my youth I have suffered the pain —
    I have felt the world's enmity, coldness, disdain —
    The good have passed by me, 'twas torture, 'twas madness
    To see them avoid me in pitying sadness
      But now I am free!

    I am free, I am free! what rapture is mine —
    How I bless, how adore that mercy Divine,
    Which hath broken my bonds, which hath lightn'd my breast,
    For my chains given liberty — peace for unrest!
      Hurrah! I am free!

    And ye among whom now my lot must be cast,
    Ye never will bring back the thoughts of the past,
    By rendering my heart with the talk of my sin,
    Ye will judge what I am, not what I have been,
      For now I am free!

    Oh, receive me as one who wishes to show
    That repentance has come from chains and from woe,
    By the path he will lead in honesty here,
    While serving you truly as year succeeds year,
      For now I am free!

    Ye will not, ye cannot point finger of scorn
    At one now forsaken, alone and forlorn;
    One far from the land of all he holds dear;
    You never will make a marked stranger here,
      For now I am free!

    I feel you will not — Hurrah, I am free —
    Free from bondage, from chains, from sin's misery;
    Free from feelings, from thoughts, that once led me to shame
    but chained to the hope to regain my good name
      I am free! I am free!

    First published 3 September 1851.


    Elizabeth Deborah Brockman (b. 1833 d. 1915)

    On Receiving From England a Bunch of Dried Wild Flowers

    Pale Ghosts! of fragrant things that grew among
    The woods and valleys of my native land,
    Phantoms of flowers I played with long ago:
    Here are the scented violets I sought
    In their cool nooks of verdure, and the bells
    That fringed the mountain crag with loveliest blue;
    Here are the flushing clusters of the May,
    The dainty primrose on its slender stem;
    And the forget-me-not — all faint and pale
    As those dim memories of home that haunt
    The exile's wistful heart in banishment.
      I look around and see
    A thousand gayer tints; the wilderness
    Is bright with gorgeous rainbow colouring
    Of flowers that have no dear familiar names.
    I see them closing ere the dews of night
    Have touched their waxen leaflets: close they fold
    Their tender blossoms through the darkened hours,
    And will not open, though the fractious winds
    Should wrestle with their roots and strain their stems.
    They waken not until the softer airs,
    Breathed from the rosy lips of early morn,
    Come whispering, 'lo! the lordly sun is nigh.'

    But in my hand these frail memorials
    Lie closely pressed; a slight electric link,
    By which thought over-passes time and space,
    To other hands that plucked them: other hands
    That never more to any touch of mine
    Shall thrill responsive. Blessed be those hands
    With prosperous labours, fruitful through long years,
    Of all life's truest, tenderest charities.


    Sonnet

    Cool wind coming from the southern sea,
    Filling white sails that homeward turn again,
    And flit away like pale clouds o'er the main,
    We hail you as you pass so fresh and free.

    Warming or chilling ever as you flee,
    Speed on soft breeze above the liquid plain,
    Blow sweetest, freshest, blythest, when you gain
    Fair England's generous soil of Liberty.

    Bear greetings from her children far away,
    Who bless her in the new homes where they stay,
    Turning with true hearts to the land they love.

    Come with the song of birds, the breath of flowers,
    Dance with the shadows under hazel bowers,
    And fill with whispered music every grove.


    The Cedars

    They stand secure upon the mountain side,
    Where, close behind, the crest of Lebanon
    Towers bleak and bald above a thousand hills.

    How solitary is thy mountain throne,
    Dark remnant of tall woods that spread afar,
    By mount and moraine in the days gone by.

    They were the glory of a royal race,
    Fallen like thy kindred from their majesty
    And vanished from the place where they have been.

    There are soft sounds upon the hushed mid-air,
    The tender cooing of a hidden dove,
    That keeps his watch beside his brooding mate;

    The crush of crisp leaves to the wild goat's tread
    The hum of laden bees that heap their stores,
    Within the hollows of the creviced rock:

    The chime of rivulets that flow unseen,
    The voice of wild birds in the native grove,
    Stirring the air with sudden flights of song.

    The everlasting hills are here: the sea
    Washes their strong foundations: time and change
    Have wrought their will elsewhere and passed these.

    The snow is still on Lebanon, the sea
    Hath still her fitful moods that come and go,
    Making variety where there is no change.

    The hills keep watch upon that restless tide,
    And see! a lonely sail, where once the waves,
    Gleamed to the measured dash of Syrian oars.

    The ships of Tarshish come and go no more,
    Bearing rich merchandise: rude fishers spread
    Their nets where stood of old the ocean's queen.

    So moves the world: its kingdom and its powers
    Change hands — and names and rival races press
    Each other slowly from their vantage ground.


    Requiescat in Pace

    'Knowing that shortly I must put off this my tabernacle.'

    Since all that is mere dust in me shall die,
    And this immortal soul must be undressed,
    Leaving the form it hath so long possessed,
    Laid as a cast-off garment folded by;
    Give it kind earth upon thy breast a space,
    Where with its kindred it may find a place,
    Till the awaking voice shall echo through the sky.

    O! let the silent heart and nerveless head,
    Sleep where the lowly lie in hallowed graves,
    Where through dark boughs the night breeze sobs and raves,
    In fitful requiems o'er th' unconscious dead;
    Where in the stillness of the Sabbath day,
    The thronging worshippers go up to pray,
    And little children to Our Father's house are led.
    There, from the full-voiced choir the hymn shall rise,
    And float and fall, and echoing hills repeat
    From side to side reverberations sweet,
    Till in the hollow glen it softly dies
    From earth — but ever to the fount of light,
    Speeds onward through th' illimitable height,
    To blend its faltering tones with psalms of Paradise.

    The flowers I have loved shall bloom and fade,
    Through many a winter's gloom and summer's glow,
    And rushing from the hills the streams I know,
    Shall make sweet music in the forest shade,
    While I — afar upon another shore,
    Where the eternal light shines evermore —
    Bide peacefully till time's revolving course is stayed.


    John Boyle O'Reilly (b. 1844 d. 1890)

    The Dukite Snake

    A West Australian Bushman's Story

    Well, mate, you've asked about a fellow
    You met to-day, in a black-and-yellow
    Chain-gang suit, with a peddler's pack,
    Or with some such burden, strapped to his back.
    Did you meet him square? No, passed you by?
    Well, if you had, and had looked in his eye,
    You'd have felt for your irons then and there;
    For the light in his eye is a madman's glare.
    Ay, mad, poor fellow! I know him well,
    And if you're not sleepy just yet, I'll tell
    His story, — a strange one as ever you heard
    Or read; but I'll vouch for it, every word.
    You just wait a minute, mate: I must see
    How that damper's doing, and make some tea.
    You smoke? That's good; for there's plenty of weed
    In that wallaby skin. Does your horse feed
    In the hobbles? Well, he's got good feed here,
    And my own old bush mare won't interfere.
    Done with that meat? Throw it there to the dogs,
    And fling on a couple of banksia logs.

    And now for the story. That man who goes
    Through the bush with the pack and the convict's clothes
    Has been mad for years; but he does no harm,
    And our lonely settlers feel no alarm
    When they see or meet him. Poor Dave Sloane
    Was a settler once, and a friend of my own.
    Some eight years back, in the spring of the year,
    Dave came from Scotland, and settled here.
    A splendid young fellow he was just then,
    And one of the bravest and truest men
    That I ever met: he was kind as a woman
    To all who needed a friend, and no man —
    Not even a convict — met with his scorn,
    For David Sloane was a gentleman born.
    Ay, friend, a gentleman, though it sounds queer:
    There's plenty of blue blood flowing out here,
    And some younger sons of your 'upper ten'
    Can be met with here, first-rate bushmen.
    Why, friend, I — Bah! curse that dog! you see
    This talking so much has affected me.

    Well, Sloane came here with an axe and a gun;
    He bought four miles of a sandal-wood run.
    This bush at that time was a lonesome place,
    So lonesome the sight of a white man's face
    Was a blessing, unless it came at night,
    And peered in your hut, with the cunning fright
    Of a runaway convict; and even they
    Were welcome, for talk's sake, while they could stay.
    Dave lived with me here for a while, and learned
    The tricks of the bush, — how the snare was laid
    In the wallaby track, how traps were made,
    How 'possums and kangaroo rats were killed,
    And when that was learned, I helped him to build
    From mahogany slabs a good bush hut,
    And showed him how sandal-wood logs were cut.
    I lived up there with him days and days,
    For I loved the lad for his honest ways.
    I had only one fault to find: at first
    Dave worked too hard; for a lad who was nursed,
    As he was, in idleness, it was strange
    How he cleared that sandal-wood off his range.
    From the morning light till the light expired
    He was always working, he never tired;
    Till at length I began to think his will
    Was too much settled on wealth, and still
    When I looked at the lad's brown face, and eye
    Clear open, my heart gave such thought the lie.
    But one day — for he read my mind — he laid
    His hand on my shoulder: 'Don't be afraid,'
    Said he, 'that I'm seeking alone for pelf.
    I work hard, friend; but 'tis not for myself.'

    And he told me then, in his quiet tone,
    Of a girl in Scotland, who was his own, —
    His wife, — 'twas for her: 'twas all he could say,
    And his clear eye brimmed as he turned away.
    After that he told me the simple tale:
    They had married for love, and she was to sail
    For Australia when he wrote home and told
    The oft-watched-for story of finding gold.

    In a year he wrote, and his news was good:
    He had bought some cattle and sold his wood.
    In a year he wrote, and his news was good:
    He had bought some cattle and sold his wood.
    He said, 'Darling, I've only a hut, — but come.'
    Friend, a husband's heart is a true wife's home;
    And he knew she'd come. Then he turned his hand
    To make neat the house, and prepare the land
    For his crops and vines; and he made that place
    Put on such a smiling and homelike face,
    That when she came, and he showed her round
    His sandal-wood and his crops in the ground,
    And spoke of the future, they cried for joy,
    The husband's arm clasping his wife and boy.

    Well, friend, if a little of heaven's best bliss
    Ever comes from the upper world to this,
    It came into that manly bushman's life,
    And circled him round with the arms of his wife.
    God bless that bright memory! Even to me,
    A rough, lonely man, did she seem to be,
    While living, an angel of God's pure love,
    And now I could pray to her face above.
    And David he loved her as only a man
    With a heart as large as was his heart can.
    I wondered how they could have lived apart,
    For he was her idol, and she his heart.
    Friend, there isn't much more of the tale to tell:
    I was talking of angels awhile since. Well,
    Now I'll change to a devil, — ay, to a devil!
    You needn't start: if a spirit of evil
    Ever came to this world its hate to slake
    On mankind, it came as a Dukite Snake.

    Like? Like the pictures you've seen of Sin,
    A long red snake, — as if what was within
    Was fire that gleamed through his glistening skin.
    And his eyes! — if you could go down to hell
    And come back to your fellows here and tell
    What the fire was like, you could find no thing,
    Here below on the earth, or up in the sky,
    To compare it to but a Dukite's eye!

    Now, mark you, these Dukites don't go alone:
    There's another near when you see but one;
    And beware you of killing that one you see
    Without finding the other; for you may be
    More than twenty miles from the spot that night,
    When camped, but you're tracked by the lone Dukite,
    That will follow your trail like Death or Fate,
    And kill you as sure as you killed its mate!

    Well, poor Dave Sloane had his young wife here
    Three months, — 'twas just this time of the year.
    He had teamed some sandal-wood to the Vasse,
    And was homeward bound, when he saw in the grass
    A long red snake: he had never been told
    Of the Dukite's ways, — he jumped to the road,
    And smashed its flat head with the bullock-goad!

    He was proud of the red skin, so he tied
    Its tail to the cart, and the snake's blood dyed
    The bush on the path he followed that night.
    He was early home, and the dead Dukite
    Was flung at the door to be skinned next day.
    At sunrise next morning he started away
    To hunt up his cattle. A three hours' ride
    Brought him back: he gazed on his home with pride
    And joy in his heart; he jumped from his horse
    And entered — to look on his young wife's corse,
    And his dead child clutching his mother's clothes
    As in fright; and there, as he gazed, arose
    From her breast, where 'twas resting, the gleaming head
    Of the terrible Dukite, as if it said,
    'I've had vengeance, my foe: you took all I had.'

    And so had the snake — David Sloane was mad!
    I rode to his hut just by chance that night,
    And there on the threshold the clear moonlight
    Showed the two snakes dead. I pushed in the door
    With an awful feeling of coming woe:
    The dead was stretched on the moonlit floor,
    The man held the hand of his wife, — his pride,
    His poor life's treasure, — and crouched by her side.
    O God! I sank with the weight of the blow.

    I touched and called him: he heeded me not,
    So I dug her grave in a quiet spot,
    And lifted them both, — her boy on her breast, —
    And laid them down in the shade to rest.
    Then I tried to take my poor friend away,
    But he cried so woefully, 'Let me stay
    Till she comes again!' that I had no heart
    To try to persuade him then to part
    From all that was left to him here, — her grave;
    So I stayed by his side that night, and, save
    One heart-cutting cry, he uttered no sound, —
    O God! that wail — like the wail of a hound!

    'Tis six long years since I heard that cry,
    But 'twill ring in my ears till the day I die.
    Since that fearful night no one has heard
    Poor David Sloane utter sound or word.
    You have seen to-day how he always goes:
    He's been given that suit of convict's clothes
    By some prison officer. On his back
    You noticed a load like a peddler's pack?
    Well, that's what he lives for: when reason went,
    Still memory lived, for the days are spent
    In searching for Dukites; and year by year
    That bundle of skins is growing. 'Tis clear
    That the Lord out of evil some good still takes;
    For he's clearing this bush of the Dukite snakes.

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Excerpted from The Fremantle Press Anthology of Western Australian Poetry by John Kinsella, Tracy Ryan. Copyright © 2017 John Kinsella and Tracy Ryan. Excerpted by permission of Fremantle Press.
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