Come back to the ridge and the river,
And the ways where you belong,
To the plains and the swamps for ever
Says the whispering currajong.
In the sun-washed garden ingles,
Where the sunflowers nod and sway,
Is a whispering, voice that mingles
With memory's tones alway.
Come back, come back to the tussock plain,
And the Ware where you belong --
Over again and over again,
Says the whispering currajong.
Come back to the swamps and the reaches
Where the garb of the green months smiles:
Come back where the hot haze bleaches
Down the long, long mallee miles.
To the crash and the mighty chorus
Of the storm in the tree-tops strong
To the June gales hammering o'er us,
Says the whispering currajong.
When the clouds roll up in thunder,
Or the frost wind whips from the south
Where the earth lies fainting under
The long sick swoon of the drouth,
All of the red Decembers.
And the fair month's blossomry,
The whispering tree remembers,
And never will let me be.
Whispering there in the quiet
Of the sultry summer noon,
Where the loose-leaved roses riot
And the grey doves coo and croon.
Though never a slow wind passes
To the lilt of a cricket's song,
Telling its tale to the grasses,
Stands the whispering currajong.
When the north wind leaps and rages
Hot breathed and red leagues wide,
And scatters like torn-out pages
The leaves of the countryside,
Low in the lull of the onset,
Loud when the strife is long,
And dying away with the sunset
Croons the whispering currajong.
Come back, come hack to the old days...
So long hove the troubled years
Hidden the way with mist-wreaths grey
And covered the track with tears.
And I would if I could, but, oh, how vain
And useless for long and long
Is the voice of the past and the pleading pair
Of the whispering currajong!
When the heat waves shimmer and quiver
When the winter nights are long --
Come back to the ridge and the river,
Says the whispering currajong.
First published in The Bulletin, 11 September 1929
