The Bush Beyond the Range

From Crow's Nest here by Sydney town,
 * Where crows had nests of old,

I see the Range where day goes down—
 * The dim blue in the gold.

And sometimes wonder, half in doubt,
 * Has there been so much change

As pictured in the prints about
 * The Bush beyond the Range.

There's motor-cars and all the "frills,"
 * But none of my old mates —

The Bush seems run by Buff'lo Bills
 * And Hayseeds from the States.

I miss the homesteads and the scrub,
 * The stock and fences too,

The horse and swagtman from the pub
 * That Minns and Mahoney drew.

I miss the drovers, diggers—sheep,
 * And—lots of things. Ah well!

I wonder if the Kellys keep
 * The Carriers' Camp Hotel,

If that still stands by hill and plain
 * As old Man Kelly's pride,

Or if he did pull round again —
 * When Mary Kelly died —

And Andy Kelly took to drink,
 * And Barney took a horse

(And two years' hard without a blink),
 * And each one took his course.

And what become of Andy Mack,
 * Tom Browne, and Pat "O'Brine"?

It must be twenty seasons back
 * Since last I had a line.

I wonder if—but I forget
 * And wonder like a fool,

Is Bertha Lambert teaching yet
 * A wretched half-time school.

I hope — Ah! how the memories come
 * To bother and defer —

I only hope my boyhood's chum,
 * Fred. Spencer, married her.

I wonder, and the more it seems
 * So far away and strange,

For I have lost, except in dreams,
 * The Bush beyond the Range.

I wonder, too, in fear and shame,
 * Do they, like me, forget—

I wonder if they mind the name
 * Of Henry Lawson yet.