Dame Mary Gilmore Poems

Sons of the mountains of Scotland,
Welshmen of coomb and defile,
Breed of the moors of England,
Children of Erin's green isle,
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I have grown past hate and bitterness,
I see the world as one;
But though I can no longer hate,
My son is still my son.
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They grouped together about the chief
And each one looked at his mate,
Ashamed to think that Australian men
Should meet such bitter fate!
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I span and Eve span
A thread to bind the heart of man;
But the heart of man was a wandering thing
That came and went with little to bring:
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"I'm old
Botany Bay;
stiff in the joints,
little to say.
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IT’S singin’ in an’ out,
An’ feelin’ full of grace;
Here ’n’ there, up an’ down,
An’ round about th’ place.
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Harried we were, and spent,
broken and falling,
ere as the cranes we went,
crying and calling.
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IT’S gettin’ bits o’ posies,
’N’ feelin’ mighty good;
A-thrillin’ ’cause she loves you,
An’ wond’rin’ why she should;
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Though leaves have fallen long since,
The wagtails flirt and flit,
Glad in the morning sun;
While, on the knotted quince,
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Deep in the meadow grass
Easy stand the cattle,
Lightly lock the young bulls
In a mimic battle,
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