They say that we've no ballads got
Anent this glorious nation,
Nothing of gold, or wool, or rot,
Or Land Administration;
Nothing that Free Selection shows
Above all other dreaming,
In making men the deadliest foes
In "mail" and "dummy" scheming.
Well! these are hardly worth a song,
They masque, in grand designing
The principles of "right" and "wrong"
And constant undermining.
But surely we may find a theme,
To fill a native ditty,
To float down Time's eternal stream,
In honour of our city.
Of schemes I've heard of half a score
That led to wealthy marriage;
That led -- but I must say no more --
They flaunt it in their carriage.
I would not say a word of these,
They are not bright and rosy,
But e'en at the Antipodes
May seem a little nosey.
Is there not some redeeming name
O'er which the Muse may sorrow,
And wish for it undying fame
To gild Australia's morrow?
Bright artist of the pensive brow,
Who toil'd in Rome's old city,
And toiling died, yet claims e'en now
Our deepest love and pity.
I'll try some day a song of thee,
Fair Adelaide, who ever
Breathed hopes that sought eternity
For Art's sublime endeavour:
Who hungered not, and thirsted not,
For gold or adulation;
But sought that pure and perfect lot
That dignifies a nation.
Of Harpur I would say a word --
Sweet Dora's lyric lover --
Whose song was one of wounded bird,
Of swan, or plaintive plover:
For now adown the fall of years,
It sounds to hearts unheeding,
His countrymen can shed no tears,
Tho' Pity self were pleading.
Of Kendall, too, I might, perhaps,
Say something when Time hurries
To perfect peace the wayward lapse
Of Life that shades and worries.
And e'en of Charley Tompson say --
An earlier bard than any --
A something of her minstrel's lay,
Forgotten by the many.
Nay, e'en of "Stolen Moments" Truth
Might send some words of praising;
Of "Murmurs," which the pride of youth
Breathed forth with zeal amazing.
Tho' not from Shelley-Swinburne mine,
Nor Poe-cum-Browning meted,
They held, in many a pregnant line,
What might be fairly treated.
But politics make irons hot
For each poetic sinner;
An inquisition's deftly got
To grill him for a dinner.
And so e'en strangers in the land,
Who work for leagues and booty,
Will raise the scorner's fulsome hand
In criticisms sooty.
But yet the rose must be the rose,
The brier but the brier;
Despite of friends, despite of foes,
Despite of ape and liar.
Despite of flatterers run mad,
Of harlequins and whipsters;
No genuine fame may ere be had
By acrobats and tipsters.
Adown a pleasant valley runs
A silver brook, and sighing
Sings in the light of quenchless suns,
In tones that are undying,
Of her -- that artist pure and fair --
Who, for her country's glory,
Surrendered life without despair,
And long shall live in story.
First published in The Australian Town and Country Journal, 5 May 1883
Anent this glorious nation,
Nothing of gold, or wool, or rot,
Or Land Administration;
Nothing that Free Selection shows
Above all other dreaming,
In making men the deadliest foes
In "mail" and "dummy" scheming.
Well! these are hardly worth a song,
They masque, in grand designing
The principles of "right" and "wrong"
And constant undermining.
But surely we may find a theme,
To fill a native ditty,
To float down Time's eternal stream,
In honour of our city.
Of schemes I've heard of half a score
That led to wealthy marriage;
That led -- but I must say no more --
They flaunt it in their carriage.
I would not say a word of these,
They are not bright and rosy,
But e'en at the Antipodes
May seem a little nosey.
Is there not some redeeming name
O'er which the Muse may sorrow,
And wish for it undying fame
To gild Australia's morrow?
Bright artist of the pensive brow,
Who toil'd in Rome's old city,
And toiling died, yet claims e'en now
Our deepest love and pity.
I'll try some day a song of thee,
Fair Adelaide, who ever
Breathed hopes that sought eternity
For Art's sublime endeavour:
Who hungered not, and thirsted not,
For gold or adulation;
But sought that pure and perfect lot
That dignifies a nation.
Of Harpur I would say a word --
Sweet Dora's lyric lover --
Whose song was one of wounded bird,
Of swan, or plaintive plover:
For now adown the fall of years,
It sounds to hearts unheeding,
His countrymen can shed no tears,
Tho' Pity self were pleading.
Of Kendall, too, I might, perhaps,
Say something when Time hurries
To perfect peace the wayward lapse
Of Life that shades and worries.
And e'en of Charley Tompson say --
An earlier bard than any --
A something of her minstrel's lay,
Forgotten by the many.
Nay, e'en of "Stolen Moments" Truth
Might send some words of praising;
Of "Murmurs," which the pride of youth
Breathed forth with zeal amazing.
Tho' not from Shelley-Swinburne mine,
Nor Poe-cum-Browning meted,
They held, in many a pregnant line,
What might be fairly treated.
But politics make irons hot
For each poetic sinner;
An inquisition's deftly got
To grill him for a dinner.
And so e'en strangers in the land,
Who work for leagues and booty,
Will raise the scorner's fulsome hand
In criticisms sooty.
But yet the rose must be the rose,
The brier but the brier;
Despite of friends, despite of foes,
Despite of ape and liar.
Despite of flatterers run mad,
Of harlequins and whipsters;
No genuine fame may ere be had
By acrobats and tipsters.
Adown a pleasant valley runs
A silver brook, and sighing
Sings in the light of quenchless suns,
In tones that are undying,
Of her -- that artist pure and fair --
Who, for her country's glory,
Surrendered life without despair,
And long shall live in story.
First published in The Australian Town and Country Journal, 5 May 1883
