The Roaring Days

Their shining Eldorado,Beneath the southern skies,Was day and night for everBefore their eager eyes.The brooding bush, awakened,Was stirred in wild unrest,And all the year a human streamWent pouring to the West.

The rough bush roads re-echoedThe bar-room's noisy din,When troops of stalwart horsemenDismounted at the inn.And oft the hearty greetingsAnd hearty clasp of handsWould tell of sudden meetingsOf friends from other lands;When, puzzled long, the new-chumWould recognise at last,Behind a bronzed and bearded skin,A comrade of the past.

And when the cheery camp-fireExplored the bush with gleams,The camping-grounds were crowdedWith caravans of teams;Then home the jests were driven,And good old songs were sung,And choruses were givenThe strength of heart and lung.Oh, they were lion-heartedWho gave our country birth!Oh, they were of the stoutest sonsFrom all the lands on earth!

Oft when the camps were dreaming,And fires began to pale,Through rugged ranges gleamingWould come the Royal Mail.Behind six foaming horses,And lit by flashing lamps,Old 'Cobb and Co.'s', in royal state,Went dashing past the camps.

Oh, who would paint a goldfield,And limn the picture right,As we have often seen itIn early morning's light;The yellow mounds of mullockWith spots of red and white,The scattered quartz that glistenedLike diamonds in light;The azure line of ridges,The bush of darkest green,The little homes of calicoThat dotted all the scene.

I hear the fall of timberFrom distant flats and fells,The pealing of the anvilsAs clear as little bells,The rattle of the cradle,The clack of windlass-boles,The flutter of the crimson flagsAbove the golden holes.

Ah, then our hearts were bolder,And if Dame Fortune frownedOur swags we'd lightly shoulderAnd tramp to other ground.But golden days are vanished,And altered is the scene;The diggings are deserted,The camping-grounds are green;The flaunting flag of progressIs in the West unfurled,The mighty bush with iron railsIs tethered to the world.