From Crow's Nest here by Sydney town,
Where crows had nests of old,
I see the Range where day goes down—
The dim blue in the gold.
And sometimes wonder, half in doubt,
Has there been so much change
As pictured in the prints about
The Bush beyond the Range.
There's motor-cars and all the "frills,"
But none of my old mates —
The Bush seems run by Buff'lo Bills
And Hayseeds from the States.
I miss the homesteads and the scrub,
The stock and fences too,
The horse and swagtman from the pub
That Minns and Mahoney drew.
I miss the drovers, diggers—sheep,
And—lots of things. Ah well!
I wonder if the Kellys keep
The Carriers' Camp Hotel,
If that still stands by hill and plain
As old Man Kelly's pride,
Or if he did pull round again —
When Mary Kelly died —
And Andy Kelly took to drink,
And Barney took a horse
(And two years' hard without a blink),
And each one took his course.
And what become of Andy Mack,
Tom Browne, and Pat "O'Brine"?
It must be twenty seasons back
Since last I had a line.
I wonder if—but I forget
And wonder like a fool,
Is Bertha Lambert teaching yet
A wretched half-time school.
I hope — Ah! how the memories come
To bother and defer —
I only hope my boyhood's chum,
Fred. Spencer, married her.
I wonder, and the more it seems
So far away and strange,
For I have lost, except in dreams,
The Bush beyond the Range.
I wonder, too, in fear and shame,
Do they, like me, forget—
I wonder if they mind the name
Of Henry Lawson yet.