On western plain and eastern hill
  Where once my fancy ranged,
The station hands are riding still
  And they are little changed.
But I have lost in London gloom
  The glory of the day,
The grand perfume of wattle bloom
  Is faint and far away.

Brown faces under broad-brimmed hats
  The grip of wiry hands,
The gallops on the frosty flats,
  Seem dreams of other lands;
The camp fire and the stars that blaze
  Above the mystic plain
Are but the thoughts of vanished days
  That never come again.

The evening star I seldom view –
  That led me on to roam –
I never see the morning star
  That used to draw me home.
But I have often longed for day
  To hide the few I see,
Because they only point and say
  Most bitter things to me.

I wear my life on pavement stones
  That drag me ever down,
A paltry slave to little things,
  By custom chained to town.
I've lost the strength to strike alone,
  The heart to do and dare –
I mind the day I'd roll my swag
  And tramp to--God-knows-where.

When I should wait I wander out,
  When I should go I bide –
I scarcely dare to think about
  The days when I could ride.
I would not mount before his eyes,
  'Straight' Bushman tall and tan –
I mind the day when I stood up
  And fought him like a man.

I mind the time when I was shy
  To meet the brown Bush girls –
I've lunched with lords since then and I
  Have been at home with earls:
I learned to smile and learned to bow
  And lie to ladies gay –
But to a gaunt Bushwoman now
  I'd not know what to say.

And if I sought her hard bare home
  From scenes of show and sham,
I'd sit all ill at ease and fell
  The poor weak thing I am.
I could not meet her hopeless eyes
  That look one through and through,
The haggard woman of the past
  Who once thought I was true.

But nought on earth can last for aye,
  And wild with care and pain,
Some day by chance I'll break away
  And seek the Bush again.
And find awhile from bitter years
  The rest the Bush can bring,
And hear, perhaps, with truer ears
  The songs it has to sing.