Can this be the old town of wheat-teams and saddle-hacks,
Of Ted Toll's smithy, with the anvil ringing clear,
Of stacks in the station yard, and stockmen, and farming hands,
Of bow-legged bound'ry riders coming in for beer
This strange, new, brisk town of sweet-shops and petrol pumps
Petrol pumps with motor cars dashing up and down?
Yet there stands the old church, the bluestone baker's shop,
And the queer, shrunken houses of my old home town.
What has become of him - Little Johnny Parkinson?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem