Part 2

Santa Claus in the Bush It chanced out back at the Christmas time,

“In Re a Gentleman, One” We see it each day in the paper,

The Melting of the Snow There's a sunny Southern land,

A Dream of the Melbourne Cup Bring me a quart of colonial beer

The Gundaroo Bullock Oh, there's some that breeds the Devon that's as solid as a stone,

Lay of the Motor-Car We're away! and the wind whistles shrewd

The Corner Man I dreamed a dream at the midnight deep,

When Dacey Rode the Mule 'Twas to a small, up-country town,

The Mylora Elopement By the winding Wollondilly where the weeping willows weep,

The Pannikin Poet There's nothing here sublime,

Not on It The new chum's polo pony was the smartest pony yet--

The Protest I say 'e ISN'T Remorse!

The Scapegoat We have all of us read how the Israelites fled

An Evening in Dandaloo It was while we held our races--

A Ballad of Ducks The railway rattled and roared and swung

Tommy Corrigan You talk of riders on the flat, of nerve and pluck and pace,

The Maori's Wool Now, this is just a simple tale to tell the reader how

The Angel's Kiss An angel stood beside the bed

Sunrise on the Coast Grey dawn on the sand-hills--the night wind has drifted

The Reveille Trumpets of the Lancer Corps,

SALTBUSH BILL, J.P., AND OTHER VERSES

Song of the Pen

_Not for the love of women toil we, we of the craft, Not for the people's praise; Only because our goddess made us her own and laughed, Claiming us all our days,

Claiming our best endeavour--body and heart and brain Given with no reserve-- Niggard is she towards us, granting us little gain; Still, we are proud to serve.

Not unto us is given choice of the tasks we try, Gathering grain or chaff; One of her favoured servants toils at an epic high, One, that a child may laugh.

Yet if we serve her truly in our appointed place, Freely she doth accord Unto her faithful servants always this saving grace, Work is its own reward!_

Song of the Wheat

We have sung the song of the droving days, Of the march of the travelling sheep; By silent stages and lonely ways Thin, white battalions creep. But the man who now by the land would thrive Must his spurs to a plough-share beat. Is there ever a man in the world alive To sing the song of the Wheat!