The night too quickly passes

 

And we are growing old,

 

So let us fill our glasses

 

And toast the Days of Gold;

 

When finds of wondrous treasure

 

Set all the South ablaze,

 

And you and I were faithful mates

 

All through the roaring days!

 

Then stately ships came sailing

 

From every harbour’s mouth,

 

And sought the land of promise

 

That beaconed in the South;

 

Then southward streamed their streamers

 

And swelled their canvas full

 

To speed the wildest dreamers

 

E’er borne in vessel’s hull.

 

Their shining Eldorado,

 

Beneath the southern skies,

 

Was day and night for ever

 

Before their eager eyes.

 

The brooding bush, awakened,

 

Was stirred in wild unrest,

 

And all the year a human stream

 

Went pouring to the West.

 

The rough bush roads re-echoed

 

The bar-room’s noisy din,

 

When troops of stalwart horsemen

 

Dismounted at the inn.

 

And oft the hearty greetings

 

And hearty clasp of hands

 

Would tell of sudden meetings

 

Of friends from other lands;

 

When, puzzled long, the new-chum

 

Would recognise at last,

 

Behind a bronzed and bearded skin,

 

A comrade of the past.

 

And when the cheery camp-fire

 

Explored the bush with gleams,

 

The camping-grounds were crowded

 

With caravans of teams;

 

Then home the jests were driven,

 

And good old songs were sung,

 

And choruses were given

 

The strength of heart and lung.

 

Oh, they were lion-hearted

 

Who gave our country birth!

 

Oh, they were of the stoutest sons

 

From all the lands on earth!

 

Oft when the camps were dreaming,

 

And fires began to pale,

 

Through rugged ranges gleaming

 

Would 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 it

 

In early morning’s light;

 

The yellow mounds of mullock

 

With spots of red and white,

 

The scattered quartz that glistened

 

Like diamonds in light;

 

The azure line of ridges,

 

The bush of darkest green,

 

The little homes of calico

 

That dotted all the scene.

 

I hear the fall of timber

 

From distant flats and fells,

 

The pealing of the anvils

 

As clear as little bells,

 

The rattle of the cradle,

 

The clack of windlass-boles,

 

The flutter of the crimson flags

 

Above the golden holes.

 

   .   .   .   .   .

 

Ah, then our hearts were bolder,

 

And if Dame Fortune frowned

 

Our swags we’d lightly shoulder

 

And 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 progress

 

Is in the West unfurled,

 

The mighty bush with iron rails

 

Is tethered to the world.