A. Marian Tranter
The Call of the Bush
¶ This electronic edition of A. Marian Tranter’s 28-page booklet of poems The Call of the Bush reproduces the text of the original publication, which has no publication details and is undated. The typeface used on the cover together with the fact that some of the poems urge the men of the ‘Australian Imperial Forces’ to fight the Germans indicate a date not late than November 1918. A battle at St Quintin is mentioned; there was a battle at Mont St Quentin, France, in September 1918, fought by Australian troops. See photo [5]. ¶ This electronic edition was prepared by John Tranter in November 2005. ¶ Horizontal lines represent page divisions. ¶ Provenance: Presented as a gift to John Tranter in the early 1990s by Nicholas Pounder. ¶ An endnote [1] discusses the original pagination and binding. A note [2] on hyphens. ¶ A reliable antidote to this drivel can be found here: [3]
The Call of the Bush, front cover image
[ front cover ]
The Call
of
the Bush
and Other Poems
[color illustration of wattle brach in flower, green and yellow]
A. MARIAN TRANTER
[ The back cover is blank ]
Dedication page
LOVINGLY DEDICATED
to
MY FATHER
and
THE BRAVE “SISTERS”
of the
AUSTRALIAN IMPERIAL FORCES
Contents page
You may click on the entries in the Contents list:
they act as links to the relevant pages.
INDEX
The Call of the Bush … 5
The Grey-Robed Angels … 7
A Picture for Daddy … 8
No Night There … 9
The Thrush … 9
The Kookaburra … 9
Our Padre … 10
Consider the Ferns … 11
The Dying Highlander … 12
Pain and Pearls … 13
A Gold Mine … 14
Kit Inspection … 15
Herr Satan Consoled … 16
Two Penny Whistles … 17
Love’s Music … 18
Dear Mother Hands … 19
Who Knows? … 20
The Things that Count … 20
On Active Mother Service … 21
Oh, Sing for Joy … 22
God’s Acre … 22
A Soldier’s Letter … 24
Praise … 24
Aim High … 25
Prayer … 26
The Refugees … 27
Opportunities … 28
page 5
THE CALL OF THE BUSH.
Come, ye dwellers in the city,
Tired with all its din and strife—
Come and roam with me the mountains,
Live awhile the rambler’s life.
In the bright and glowing grandeur
Of these old majestic hills,
Worries flee as if by magic,
Nature her sweet charm distils,
Whence was all this beauty gotten,
Which on ev’ry side we see?
Whence the mysic [sic] charm and splendor
Of each shrub and flower and tree?
Green trees flecked with leaves of ruby,
Dancing in the clear, cool air,
Birds, in all their varied plumage.
Call on us their joy to share.
Where the warbling of the magpies
Fill the air with melody,
And the brightly sparkling brooklets
Babble on in harmony.
Where the laughter, all-contagious,
Of the kookaburra gay
Sounds aloud from ev’ry gum tree
In a mirth-provoking way.
Who could watch these merry songsters,
With their quaintly solemn air,
Laughing with a wild abandon,
And refuse their joy to share?
Musk, acacia, wattle, ti-tree,
Fragrant make the forest air,
And the dainty musk of England
From the ground breathes perfume rare.
Can you move amidst it quietly,
Ye who have been city bred,
All the bush’s breathing verdure,
All its yellow, green and red?
page 6
Feel ye not your pulses quicken
With a glow that’s half divine,
As ye gaze on all this beauty,
And on ferny banks recline?
Feel ye not a new, strange sweetness
Steal through tired nerve and vein,
Waking to a holy gladness
Thoughts that ne’er can sleep again?
Thoughts of God’s creative greatness,
Breathing soft from shrub and tree,
As Australia’s glowing splendor
Wakes ye to fresh ecstacy.
Hearken to the creek’s sweet music
As it brightly glides along;
List and you will hear the message
In its happy, gurgling song.
“Though confined in narrow limits,
Owning but one talent small,
Just to flow for ever onward,
Answering to the ocean’s call.
“I receive supplies so constant
From a greater strength than mine,
That I touch all things with gladness
As through them my way I twine.
“So shall you, if linked to heaven,
Scatter joy where’er you go,
For the streams of love and gladness
Ever from that fountain flow.”
Go back now, ye city people,
Back to all its fret and care;
But be sure and carry with you
Lessons learnt in mountain air.
*
*
*
To strive and win and rest content,
No doubt fills one with pleasure;
To strive and fail, yet strive again,
Shows more the soul’s true measure.
page 7
THE GREY-ROBED ANGELS.
Angels of God, although in human guise,
The love of heaven beaming from their eyes,
As through the wards of wounded men they move—
Sisters in very truth to them they prove.
See where one kneels beside a prostrate form,
And clasps a chilling hand in friendship warm;
Whilst soft and clear “Our Father” she repeats,
And thus the brave man’s need in wisdom meets.
She tells him of “The Everlasting Arms,”
And soothes for him approaching death’s alarms,
Then listens whilst to his far-distant friends
The dying hero some kind message sends.
Whilst further on, one stands beside a bed,
And lays her hand upon the fevered head
Of one who, haunted by some fearful dream,
Awakes with shudd’ring moan or startled scream.
“There, laddie, there, ’tis Sister by your bed;
See, ’tis her hand that’s resting on your head;
And look what she holds here within her hand—
A letter, yes, for you, from Aussie land.”
And thus with words of bright and kindly cheer
She wooes [sic] him from his dream of dread and fear;
Fresh makes his bed, then nourishment she brings,
Or sits and reads to him, or, maybe, sings.
Good folk, who for our men so constant pray,
Forget not these dear angels, robed in grey,
Who for the sake of those you hold so dear,
Are daily facing death and scorning fear.
Remember them—that brave and gentle band,
Who for our men have left their native land;
Angels of God are they in very deed,
Sisters to all our men in their dire need.
page 8
“A PICTURE FOR DADDY.”
Hush, my baby, Daddy’s darling,
Lie you still upon my knee,
For I now must write a letter
To your Daddy ’cross the sea.
Hush thee, Sweetie, hush-a-by-bye,
Daddy’s never seen you yet;
So he wants a little picture
Of our tiny, weeny pet.
You are such a roly-poly,
With grey eyes so dancing bright,
That I surely must tell Daddy
As I write to him to-night.
Then you’ve such a tiny mouthie,
Cheeks and chin all dimpling too,
While your smiles, my little Precious—-
Surely they are part of you,
Hush there, Darling, lie and rest thee,
Coo-loo-oo there, try to sleep;
Let those little, shining peepers
Just forget a while to peep.
Now your hair, my Little Lovekins,
To your Dad I must explain,
Will be, oh, so brown and curly
By the time he comes again.
And your hands and little tootsies—
If your Daddy could them see,
Surely my own, dear, wee comfort,
He would laugh at you and me.
For you’re such a tiny morsel,
While he is so big and strong,
When he sees how much you’re like him
He will laugh both loud and long.
There, my Lambkin—kiss the letter,
Now no more can Mother write,
But before we both go by-bye,
Let us pray for him to-night.
Come then, Darling, “God bless Daddy,
Keep him brave, and all his men;
Grant that war may soon be over,
Bring them all safe home. Amen,”
page 9
“NO NIGHT THERE.”
“No night there,” and no shadow-land of pain,
Never in heav’n shall healthful vigor wane—
From strength to strength in glory shall we go—
Oh, glad’ning hope for wearied ones below.
“No night there,” and no lonely restlessness,
Battling for hope ’midst thoughts that sore distress;
Here some may sleep, whilst others fight alone,
But there no sleep or suff’ring shall be known.
“No night there,” and no bright plans laid aside,
With hopes fulfilled shall all be satisfied;
When morning breaks in heav’n’s eternal day,
All disappointment shall have passed away.
“No night there,” with its urgent need of rest,
For none are wearied in that land so blest;
Service and praise and pure unbounded light—
Oh, glorious thought, there’ll be no need for night.
But for a while the gentle nights we need;
Be then, O Lord, the suff’rer’s stay, we plead;
Help them to pray for those who rest in sleep,
And thus with Thee, dear Lord, Thy vigil keep.
*
*
*
THE THRUSH.
From earth to heaven with a bound,
Dear thrush, thou oft hast sent me,
And so with praise true and profound
I thank my God He sent thee,
To teach me that bright, joyous song
Will help to right whate’er is wrong.
*
*
*
THE KOOKABURRA.
Dear old bird, so quaint and funny,
Laughing whatsoe’er betide,
Well you know that lands and money
Make not people satisfied.
But a heart from care set free
Fills all life with melody.
page 10
OUR PADRE.
Chaplain, sky-pilot, parson or chum,
What matter to us the name?
Our padre’s a white man through and through,
Who helps us to “play the game.”
To us he’s a chum we all love well,
Whatever our creed may he;
His sermons? Well—his life is the best,
A text that we all can see.
He preaches a gospel sane and strong,
Such as we fellows need—
That Life is the highest form of praise,
And Love is the truest creed.
He’s such an all-round sort of a chap,
And helps us through thick and thin,
Whether at rest in dug-out or camp,
Or out ’midst the battle’s din.
And should a comrade fall at his side,
Too wounded again to rise,
He speaks to him of the Crucified,
And the life that onward lies.
And when a fellow’s down on his luck,
Bowled out of the game a while,
The dear old padre soon looks him up,
And help him the time beguile.
If too ill we be to write ourselves
To dear ones so far away,
With paper and pen he settles down
To write what we wish to say.
And oft he adds some words of his own
To cheer the home people up;
He seems to have an instinct divine
To sweeten each bitter cup.
So keep a place in your pray’rs for him—
This man of the loving heart,
Chaplain, sky-pilot, parson or chum,
He plays a true hero’s part.
page 11
CONSIDER THE FERNS.
“Consider the lilies,” the Saviour once said,
For close round His path their beauty was spread;
Methinks had He dwelt in Australia’s fair land,
“Consider the ferns” had been His command.
So come, ye who’re burdened with care and distress,
And gaze a while on our land’s loveliness;
Yes, come, in that wonderful aeroplane, “Thought,”
And see with what grace our gullies are fraught.
“Consider the ferns,” and behold where they grow;
On their habitance your best thoughts bestow.
’Tis not where Dame Nature for aye’s been at rest
These beautiful things are found at their best.
The mighty upheavals the mountains have known
Are written for us on tablets of stone.
Yes, earthquake and storm and all kinds of weather
Combined to bring these wonders together.
And here the ferns grow, where the fierce storms have played,
Where lightning and tempest havoc have made;
Just so in our lives may rich beauty abound,
Though fierce be the storms that circle us round.
“Consider the ferns” and see how they grow;
Oh, does not your heart with wonder o’erflow?
Such constant uplooking, such peace and content,
They surely for our example are meant.
Then, “Consider the ferns,” for see as they grow
With gladness and peace their lives ever glow;
Yes, “Consider the ferns” would be His command
If Jesus dwelt now in Austral’s bright land.
*
*
*
When sorrow’s night would fain obscure
The glorious light of day,
Love shines with undiminished light,
A guiding star alway [sic].
page 12
THE DYING HIGHLANDER.
A Red Cross ship was homeward bound,
And on a pallet lying,
With oft a sigh deep and profound,
A Highland lad lay dying.
He longed his mother-tongue to hear
Once more in pray’r ascending,
And soon a nurse, with accent clear,
Her voice with his was blending.
‘E’en from the vale of death’s dark shade
His thoughts were homeward fleeting,
For “Mother” and “My little maid”
They heard his voice entreating.
But, oh, t’was lonely lying there,
His weakness aye increasing,
Though ‘‘Sister” breathed a loving pray’r
And gave him care unceasing.
He longed warm arms of love to feel
His wearied frame upholding,
And round him “Sister’s” gently steal,
Her love his need enfolding.
“Oh, dinna let my mither greet,”
She heard him gently sighing;
“But tell her I had visions sweet
Of her when I was dying.”
“The happy things alone I’ll tell
When to your mother writing—
That with her laddie all was well,”
Said Nurse, her sorrow fighting.
Once more he sighed, and turned his head.
And Sister, o’er him bending,
Saw that his noble soul had sped
Its way to Peace unending.
*
*
*
It matters naught though we should unremembered be
If in young hearts we can but start love’s melody.
page 13
PAIN AND PEARLS.
[First two paragraphs typeset as prose]
How oft is pain like grain of sand in oyster’s
shell, which causes such insistent smart, that in
despair to turn it out and so get ease—a pearl the
oyster makes to cover it. And so from irritation of
a shell-fish small is formed a gem of softest radiance,
to glow upon the brow of queens, or be a token sweet
of fervent love. And so with pain, anon it comes,
an uninvited guest, and in our body’s shell makes it
a home, refusing to be quelled or turned away.
To save the mind from subjugation to this pain,
which utterly refuses to be stilled, one lays it over
with some pearls of thought, to keep the soul
untroubled by its sting, and shut it from one’s mental
life. From day to day fresh pearl is added, to cover
up the smarting pain and dread of more, till, lo,
at last, with glad amaze, one stands possessed of
strings of living pearls of thought. So give not way
to sorrow and despair, when troubles thickly fall as
autumn leaves, but cover over with some glowing
thought, the irritation caused by constant pain and
loss.
*
*
*
Weary ones in weakness lying,
Be more content;
Angels are for ever flying,
On succour bent.
*
*
*
Earth is but heaven’s ante-room,
It is not all;
And even here sweet flow’rets bloom
And blessings fall.
*
*
*
Say, what will you do in heaven
When the Lord shall call you hence,
If on earth your education
You do not even commence?
For there His servants shall serve Him,
And sad indeed it will be
If you with a soul untutored
Should enter eternity.
page 14
A GOLD MINE.
A gold mine, filled with rich and precious ore,
Is calling loud for toilers, staunch and true;
The work is hard, but stimulates the more
Each one to do the best that he may do.
The field is wide, and all may enter in,
Assured of rich reward for all their toil;
It needs but grit, and all may trophies win
And go rejoicing with their well-earned spoil.
One can “sign on” and work whene’er he chose [sic],
By night or day, odd moments here and there,
But must beware lest his reward he lose
By shunning work which all alike must share.
For be he rich or poor, or young or old,
By sweat of his own brow he must succeed,
And all he finds he must be strong to hold,
Though he may use it for the world’s great need.
A shaft is lying close to each one’s door.
And none need travel far to find employ,
For always there is room for workers more,
Where each can fruit [sic] of his own toil enjoy.
The field is open to both young and old,
Both weak and strong can there employment find,
And oft the truest seekers for its gold
Are found amongst the crippled, deaf or blind.
It is the field of knowledge, and the tools
Are faith and patience, and a plodding zeal—
An earnest keeping of the golden rules
By God ordained for our true commonweal.
A lowly mind that will not scorn to kneel
Before the One in Whom in all riches dwell,
And Who alone can set a regal seal
On that bright gold of which truth-miners tell.
page 15
KIT INSPECTION.
Way back on the farm, my hearties,
With few other chaps around,
Except when I went to parties,
Or threshers were on the ground—
I’d rather a good idea of Tom Brown;
Thought him quite up to the fellows from town.
But here in the camp, old cobbers,
There are heaps of real old sports,
Not just any old odd-jobbers
Or chaps passed on from the courts.
And here, in the camp, with thousands of men,
As big as a shrimp feels Tom now and then.
They tackle your pride quite sprightly
As soon as khaki you don,
And let you not down too lightly
If rules you haste not to con.
Indeed, they have quite a number of things
For taking the flap from new chummy’s wings.
The pride it takes from a fellow
Is something funny to see;
But, ugh! it made me turn yellow
When it just happened to me;
And Sergeant came round for “inspection of kit,”
I did not much relish doing my bit.
I stood in my nether blueys,
My outfit before me spread,
And heard that big gawk of Toohey’s
A-sniggering in his bed,
While Sergeant went through the whole precious lot,
And growled at each hole and rowed at each spot.
I’d ne’er been much for o’er-rating
The things a woman can do,
But altered my estimating
Before that sergeant was through,
When shirts, coats and pants, sans buttons appeared,
And socks even worse with holes than I feared.
And now in the camp, old cobbers,
The pride of your friend, Tom Brown,
Who cut such a dash at parties,
Has gone quite to zero down.
If minus a girl, I feel such a fool,
I’d rather be back on my milking stool.
page 16
HERR SATAN CONSOLED.
The brow of Herr Satan was furrowed with care,
And he called in his minions from here and there:
Do you see, quoth he, that folk everywhere
Are all giving themselves to most earnest prayer?
I had hoped the effect of this world-wide war
Would be folk leaving off their God to adore,
But instead they seek now His face more and more—
Give more heed to His will than ever before.
My desire when sending a faggot from hell
To start those hate fires in a place all know well,
Was to burn up the love of which we’ve heard tell,
By withering blasts of gas poison and shell.
But, alack and alack, love strengthens each day
In the hearts of the folk who still kneel and pray;
For honor, the noblest are hasting away
To fight for the right in the heart of the fray.
Now, go down to the earth and search all around,
And see you what comfort for us can be found;
’Tis hateful to think we are losing our ground
In the great town of Man-soul for which we were bound.
So off the imps hastened, and Man-soul searched through,
And found many there to Herr Satan still true;
Then, back to their master returned the whole crew,
And cheered up his spirits without more ado.
“Diabolo, hail!” they all cried in their glee,
“Most joyful the tidings we now bring to thee—
Strong drink, our great ally, still pow’rful is he
To make men the fools we all wish them to be.
Not far did we need on our great search to go,
To find what in Man-soul would work the most woe;
Some offer to help us as well as they know
By the sale of strong drink to both high and low.”
They put Man-soul and Profit both in the scale,
And Profit was chosen, though Man-soul should fail,
And children go hungry, uncared for and pale,
Oh, Lucifer, cheer! we’ll yet weather the gale.”
page 17
TWO PENNY WHISTLES.
But few there be who have not heard
The erstwhile famous story,
How Bridges led his wearied men
From black despair to glory.
St. Quintin was the far-off town,
Which saw their courage failing,
Because of overtired nerves
And troubles fast assailing.
In vain their leader urged them on—
They were o’er spent with marching—
Enough to rest on solid ground,
The blue sky o’er them arching.
At length he thought of plan so good,
And yet so queer and cunning,
That his brave men, who knew him well,
At first thought he was funning.
There chanced to be a toy-shop there,
And though his stock was lowly,
He looked it o’er with greatest care,
As though each toy were holy.
And from the lot he chose one drum,
Of penny whistles double,
And sallied forth with rum-te-dum
To cheer his men in trouble.
With whistles two and one small drum
He set the men all humming,
And soon they cast all fear aside,
And followed his brave drumming.
The lowly things that lay at hand
He used with skill and daring,
And soon the men at his command
His hope and faith were sharing.
And so the Rubicon was crossed,
Dark shame sent rearward racing,
And soon, undaunted or afraid,
These men the foe were facing.
page 18
And so it is in life’s great war,
When hope and faith seem dying.
That some are strong to do and dare.
Because on God relying.
Their talents may be few and small,
And small their stock of missiles,
Just like that tiny, wee child’s drum
And those two penny whistles.
Yet, if with them they do their best,
How grand will be the story,
When God has used their faith and love
To lead a host to glory.
(Though St. Quintin was retaken by the enemy
shortly after this event, that does not take aught
from the glory of the deed.)
*
*
*
LOVE’S MUSIC.
Seated one day at my window,
My heart with care opprest,
I heard such delightful warbling
Float from a magpie’s nest.
That like the clouds of the morning
Flee from the rising sun;
Gone were my cares in a moment,
Faith fresh victory won.
I thought of the Lord of Glory
Sharing this world’s great care,
And finding rest ’midst His labors
In songs of praise and pray’r.
His life was full of love’s music,
And still in each green tree;
He sets the birds all a-singing
To cheer both you and me.
Cease then all bitter repining.
Learn to be brave and true;
Tune your life’s harp to love’s music,
Love will then sing to you.
page 19
DEAR MOTHER HANDS.
The hands that rocked the cradles
Of men so true and brave,
Who fight with our great Allies
Their nation’s life to save,
Are hands in love that rested
On our dear laddies’ heads,
As their child-pray’rs they offered
Whilst kneeling by their beds.
And now those hands are busied
In knitting day by day,
Or words of love are writing
To those so far away.
And though they oft may tremble,
Or press to still the pain
Of hearts so sorely aching
For those in battle slain,
They still keep working bravely
Each morning, noon and night,
And fold their heart’s deep sorrow
Away from others’ sight.
Oh, dear, dear hands of mothers.
Who rocked in by-gone days
The cradles of the heroes
Who now win world-wide praise.
We give you praise and honor
For all that you have done,
For yours is half the glory
Of each fresh conquest won.
For ’twas your love that guided
Our men in years gone by.
To stand for truth and honor—
If needs be. for them die.
*
*
*
page 20
WHO KNOWS ?
What though to-day dark clouds o’ercast your sky,
And fainter grow your hopes as days go by,
Your part it is to keep your outlook clear,
Be for yourself and others full of cheer.
Who knows how soon, the clouds may pass away.
And turn your darkness into fairest day?
What though the way grow steeper as you go.
The biting blast bring with it hail and snow,
Just gird your loins and forge with faith ahead,
Blaze you the track for feebler souls to tread.
Who knows how soon the bitter winds may cease,
And your path lead through sheltered glades of peace?
What though the end just now be hard to see,
The next step surely will be plain to thee;
So face the storm, endure the chilling blast,
With head held high, keep courage to the last.
Who knows how soon your troubles may be o’er,
Or what good things the future holds in store?
What though your strength has ebbed to lowest tide.
God still is strong and ever at your side;
What though His face to-day you cannot see.
You know that He is there and loveth thee.
So still plod on. how hard soe’er the way,
Who knows how soon will dawn a Perfect Day?
*
*
*
THE THINGS THAT COUNT.
It is the little things that count,
The worry, fear and doubt;
The little odds and ends of life
Too oft that put us out.
To meet a monster we are strong,
Our loins are girt thereto.
But ’tis the pin-pricks of the day
That pierce our armor through.
’Tis easy to be bright and gay
Amidst a happy throng,
But hard to lilt a song of praise
If little things go wrong.
’Tis easy on the mountain top
To join in glad acclaim,
But hard upon the field of life
To nobly “play the game,”
page 21
’Tis easy with the crowd to pray
For souls in some far land,
But hard to live the Christ-like life
To win those close at hand.
But ’tis these little things that count
With Him who dwells above,
The patience, praise and cheerfulness
And deeds of helpful love.
*
*
*
ON ACTIVE MOTHER SERVICE.
On active service for the King!
Our men? No; this short song
Is sung in praise of Mothers true
Who serve their whole lives long.
On active service for the King,
As much as men who fight,
Are all good Mothers in the land,
On service day and night.
They fight brave battles day by day,
And all the long years through,
Till only angels can appraise
The work these Mothers do.
They keep the home fires burning bright
With patient, tender care,
And train the little budding lives
That they may burdens bear.
For burdens come as life goes by,
And false that Mother’s art
Which fits her children not to choose
The hard, but better part,
To “hitch their waggons to a star,”
And strive that niche to gain.
Where they can serve their fellows most
By muscle or by brain.
And, oh. the wondrous skill it needs,
These days of prices high,
To safely guide the good ship “Home”
Lest on the rocks it lie.
On Mother service for the King,
I think you will agree,
That each true Mother in the land
Deserves the King’s V.C.
[4]
page 22
OH, SING FOR JOY.
(Written Specially for Baby Week.)
Oh, sing for joy! Here comes a baby;
This one a statesman wise may prove to be,
You smile at such a supposition
For one whose height is scarcely to your knee.
Oh, sing for joy! Here comes a baby;
For she may have a wondrous gift of song,
And by her songs of love and duty
Woo many wand’rers from the paths of wrong.
Oh, sing for joy! Here comes a baby;
A skilful surgeon may be wrapped in him,
Whose gentle hand, and strength, and wisdom,
May give fresh hope to those whose faith is dim.
Oh, sing for joy! Here comes a baby;
Her gift may be a nurse’s gentle touch—
Her fingers deft, her smile so cheery,
May soothe a host who suffer overmuch.
Oh, sing for joy! Here come some babies,
All radiant with the rosy glow of health;
Welcomed, protected, loved and happy.
Such babies are a nation’s truest wealth.
Yet must we mourn, for many babies
Have heritage a weary weight of sin;
Oh! people, rouse and see you to it,
These babes may have a chance good names to win.
Remember Christ—that wondrous Baby
Who came to earth so many years ago,
And for His sake, Who loved the children.
Most tender love to all the babies show.
*
*
*
GOD’S ACRE.
(“Somewhere in France.”)
See where the wooden crosses among the poppies stand,
Each one a mark of sorrow to some in our fair land;
The poppies in their beauty look upward to the light,
Whence come the beauteous colors that fill us with delight.
page 23
Where roses, with their fragrance, bespeak a loving care,
There kneels a gentle maiden, who speaks aloud her prayer—
“Great God of all the nations, which rise and pass away.
Bend down in Thy pity, be with me while I pray.
“Look down upon the mothers of all the noble sons
Who in this land have fallen before the tyrant Huns;
Oh, whisper words of comfort to those so far away.
Who gave their boys to aid us in this gigantic fray.
“Stand Thou beside the Fathers, assuage their bitter woe,
For Thou, too, art a Father, and all their grief doth know;
And o’er the dear wee bairnies whose fathers here have died,
Spread Thou Thy love protecting, be Thou their Guard and Guide.
“We know ’tis but the bodies lie here beneath the sod,
Brave souls who once possessed them live still with Thee, oh God;
But we are only children, still groping in the night.
And these bright blooms Thou givest to point us to the light.
Thou grantest life eternal to all who trust in Thee,
And though these graves we honor, another sight we see
Of countless throngs of heroes upon that wondrous shore.
Where life means Life Unending and Peace for ever-
more.”
And then the maid arises, and with a girlish grace
She scatters pure white blossoms throughout the sacred place.
While angels in deep gladness look down from heav’n above,
And bless the dear French maiden for her sweet work of love.
page 24
A SOLDIER’S LETTER.
Dear Mother mine, away in far-off France
I lie in spotless ward, and think, perchance,
That even now you may on bended knee
Be praying for your son across the sea.
Almost, methinks, I hear the words you say,
As there in “Home, sweet home” you kneel and pray :
“Dear Heavenly Father, bless my soldier son,
Let him no coward be, or danger shun.
But keep him true whatever may betide,
And may he alway in Thy love abide;
If he should fall, be Thou his Help and Stay;
Oh, Saviour, bless my bonny lad, I pray.”
Dear loving heart, no thought of your own need
Is with you, as before the Throne you plead,
But all of mine, your son’s, so far away,
And so dear Mother, I for you will pray.
But now, how goes the world with all at home?
I long for news wherever I may roam ;
Tell me about the things that we love best—
The flow’rs, the “kiddies,” horses, and the rest.
We hear too much of war in France, you know;
But I should like to hear how fast the children grow;
If you can read without your glasses still.
And what’s the latest trick of Baby Bill.
These are the things we like to know out here,
And let the “kiddies” write, too, there’s a dear;
But here comes Nurse, so dear ones all “Good night,”
For she is calling. “Jim, put out that light!”
*
*
*
PRAISE.
For all the wide expanse of blue
That domes above us day by day;
For clouds with sunbeams glancing through,
Or gold just peeping round the grey;
Oh, God, Whose love hath planned it all
In worship at Thy feet we fall.
page 25
For night with all its myriad stars,
The Southern Cross and Pleiades,
For Jupiter, Orions, Mars,
And countless orbs that ever please,
We give Thee thanks, oh Lord of Light,
For these bright visions of the night.
For trees with all their varied green,
Their autumn tints of brown and gold.
Their flaming red or silver sheen,
The pods, that seeds of life enfold.
Oh, wondrous Might from which these spring,
To Thee our truest praise we bring.
The birds, soft cooing to their mates,
Or singing loud in joyous glee;
The mother bird that patient waits
Within her nest in sheltered tree—
All these in sweet, persuasive voice
Invite that we in God rejoice.
For children’s charm and winsome grace,
Their sweet confiding in our care,
The love that shines in each young face
For all who seek their thoughts to share.
We praise the Lord Who laid His hand
On children’s heads in Canaan’s land.
*
*
*
AIM HIGH.
With steady aim, aim high,
And let no failure daunt you,
And as you upward fly,
Let not your dead self haunt you;
But morning, noon, and night,
Face ever toward the light,
And still aim high.
Not failure, but low aim,”
A seer hath sung, “is crime;”
But this will be to your shame,
If, fearing, you cease to climb;
So onward to the light,
’Tis worth a strenuous fight,
To still aim high.
page 26
PRAYER.
[This page is typeset as prose]
True prayer not only bends the soul in lowly
adoration, ’fore the face of Him who gave it birth,
nor brings it as a suppliant to the feet of Him who
holds within His hand all powers of good and ill,
but rather lifts it from the stress and cares of life to
purer air, to be refreshed and strengthened by vision
of eternity.
On the strong, broad pinions of true prayer we
rise, too oft like eaglets falling back to earth, afraid
to trust the strength by which we soar; but, ever
and anon, the loving heart of God swoops under-
neath, and helps our heavenward flight. Enthralled
by pressing cares and hindrances of earth, we lose
the truest sense of what life means; the noise, the
fret, the hurry, and the strife dim the soul’s vision
to life’s grand realities. But when by faith on
wings of prayer we fly. far from the discords wrought
by earth’s ambitious strife, we catch, as from an
organ, vast and grand, the harmonious swell of
love’s sweet symphony. How little then seem all
the crochets and the bars, by which we seek to make
our little tune, the one to which all men must play in
harmony, or else discounted as musicians be. When
having mingled for a while with heaven’s choir, and
learnt the value of self-sacrifice, if by that sacrifice
some higher good be gained, we come again to earth
with vision cleared, and see that only love is lasting
good. Such is true prayer—to bring heaven’s love
to earth, and make it part of every busy day, and
sing through all the jangling tones of wrong and
sin, in harmony with the eternal law of love and
peace, and constant rise to heaven to have our harp
re-tuned; to make each smallest deed an act of
worship true, and not alone on bended knee to pour
out words of adoration and desire, but rising, steep
ourselves in light and love, then come again to sing
heaven’s love song here.
page 27
THE REFUGEES.
They were such a very old couple,
Bowed with the weight of the years,
And their dear old faces were troubled,
And their brave eyes full of tears.
For the Boche had shelled their old homestead,
And nowhere had they to go,
Since all homes around them were shattered
By the hard, relentless foe.
Their five sons, at the front, were fighting,
Their daughters — killed by the shell,
And they trudged off feeling so lonely,
Though they loved each other well.
Hand in hand they wandered, till darkness
Had made them rest by the way;
And there, ‘neath a hedge by the roadside.
Tired out, the old couple lay.
Then sleep, with a wonderful pity.
Soon folded them to her breast.
And the snow above them fell gently.
And lulled them to Perfect Rest.
‘Twas thus from all sorrows and trials
A refuge for aye they found,
The lullaby kiss of the snowstorm
Making slumber all too sound.
Strong men, this sad story now ponder;
Like things might well happen here,
And yours be the father and mother
To suffer a fate so drear.
For though we’ve no snow, we have winter,
With rain, and tempests, and hail,
And the Boche would come In a twinkling
Should our Allied armies fail.
Your brothers, God bless the brave fellows.
Are calling aloud for aid;
Oh! how will you feel in the future
At the answer you have made?
page 28
OPPORTUNITIES.
Each day fresh opportunities arise;
Be eager then to seize them whilst you may,
For though they come, they also pass away,
And ‘tis not sloth that wins a worthy prize.
And what though failure hath too oft been writ
Across the pages of your book of life,
Tis not by weeping, but by earnest strife,
The next will see a “Credit” stamped on it.
And surely he a very worm must be
Who seeks not earnestly some niche to find
Where he can be of service to mankind,
Nor seeks that niche to fill most worthily.
And as God’s great, recording angel writes
In His great book the record of our days,
Those souls, methinks, will have full meed of praise
Who strive through failure to life’s noblest heights.
And though the page you wrote but yesterday
Has faults which now you never can erase,
To-day is here in which to better trace
The Perfect Pattern in a nobler way.
A pattern set for us long years ago
Of love to God transcribed in helpful deeds,
A tender ministry to each who needs,
Arid hearts that ever with true love overflow.
Yet some there be who ever idle stand
E’en in these days of anxious, throbbing care,
Who never help another’s load to bear
By using voice, or muscle, brain or hand.
Cowards at heart, they stand in sloth aside,
Forgetful that each day they deeper write
Their condemnation in the great world’s sight,
And in the sight of Him Who for them died.
Go forth and work, for laborers are few;
The world is needing all you have to give;
Be not content for self alone to live,
For God demands your very best from you.
Notes
[1] The book measures 218 by 142 millimetres. It is bound in three signatures.
The first, now a single sheet the size of one page, bears the printed dedication and on the verso the ‘Index’ or list of contents. It shows the rust marks of an earlier binding, two staples each with a span of 17 millimetres. It is likely that this sheet was once the second half (that is, pages three and four) of a larger folded sheet, allowing for a title page, now lacking. The folios (page numbers) begin on the second signature with page 5, bearing the poem ‘The Call of the Bush.’ This is now the third page of the booklet, and would have been correctly numbered as page 5 if the torn and missing half-sheet had existed. A photograph of the dedication page may be viewed here. It shows the fragments of the missing page (folded out here) that were retained by the staples when the half-sheet was torn out.
The second signature consists of four sheets folded once each to make 16 pages, from page 5 to page 20.
The third signature consists of two sheets folded once each to make eight pages, from page 21 to page 28.
At some stage the staples have been removed, and two holes punched through to allow a thread to bind the booklet, as can be seen in the cover illustration at the top of this file.
The cover was never attached by staples, and may have been attached originally by a thread looped through the centre fold of one of the signatures and then around the spine.
[2] Hyphens: the hyphen in ‘ever-more’ on page 23 occurs at a line-break in the original printing. The hyphen in ‘under-neath’ on page 26 occurs at a line-break in the original printing. No other hyphens occur at line-breaks in the original printing.
[3] An antidote to this drivel is the poetry of Lesbia Harford. As a IWW member she fought so hard against conscription in the First World War that she ended up in hospital. In 1916 the IWW was banned and twelve of the group's members were charged with conspiracy and sentenced to long periods in prison. Unlike many socialist writers, she kept her poetry free from propaganda, and though it reflected the social and economic conditions of her life in a direct way, it always had a frank and personal tone. Her poems were not published as a collection in her lifetime, and her reputation has not been amplified by fame nor buttressed by widespread academic interest. She was a contemporary of the saccharine Ms Tranter, and a selection of her poems can be found at the University of Sydney Library site: http://setis.library.usyd.edu.au/ozpoets/index.html.
[4] The V.C., or Victoria Cross, is the highest and most prestigious award for gallantry in the face of the enemy that can be awarded to British and British Commonwealth forces.
[5] Mont St Quentin.
Members of the 6th Australian Infantry Brigade about to renew the assault on Mont St Quentin on 1 September 1918. Photo courtesy the Australian War Memorial, http://www.awm.gov.au/1918/battles/55031.htm (AWM E03139)
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