Ye Wearie Wayfarer

Adam Lindsay Gordon

Hark! the bells of distant cattle

Waft across the range,

Through the golden-tufted wattle

Music low and strange;

Like the marriage of peal fairies

Comes the tinkling sound,

Or like chimes of sweet St Mary’s

On far English ground.

How my courser champs the snaffle,

And with nostrils spread,

Snorts and scarcely seems to ruffle

Fern leaves with his tread;

Cool and pleasant on his haunches

Blows the evening breeze,

Through the overhanging branches

Of the wattle trees;

Onward! to the Southern Ocean

Glides the breath of Spring.

Onward! with a dreamy motion,

I, too, glide and sing

Forward! forward! still we wander

Tinted hills that lie

In the red horizon yonder

Is the goal so nigh?

Whisper, spring wind, softly singing,

Whisper in my ear;

Respite and nepenthe bringing,

Can the goal be near?

Laden with the dew of vespers,

From the fragrant sky,

In my ear the wind that wispers

Seems to make reply

‘Question not, but live and labour

‘Til yon goal be won,

Helping every feeble neighbour,

Seeking help from none;

Life is mostly froth and bubble,

Two things stand like stone,

Kindness in another’s trouble,

Courage in your own.