At Devlins Siding

What made the porter stare so hard? what made the porter stare
And eye the tall young woman and the bundle that she bare?

What made the tall young woman flush, and strive to hide her face,
As the train slid past the platform and the guard swung in his place?

What made her look so stealthily both up and down the line,
And quickly give the infant suck to still its puny whine?

Why was the sawmill not at work? why were the men away?
They might have turned a woman from a woeful deed that day.

Why did the pine-scrub stand so thick? why was the place so lone
That nothing but the soldier-birds might hear a baby moan?

Why doth the woman tear the child? why doth the mother take
The infant from her breast, and weep as if her heart would break?

Why doth she moan, and grind her teeth, and weave an awful curse
To fall on him who made of her a harlot, ay, and worse?

Why should she fall upon her knees and, with a trembling hand,
Clear off the underbrush and scrape a cradle in the sand?

Why doth she shudder as she hears the buzz of eager flies,
And bind a handkerchief across the sleeping infants eyes?

Why doth she turn, but come again and feverishly twine,
To shield it from the burning sun, the fragrant fronds of pine?

Why, as she strides the platform, does she try hard not to think
That somewhere in the scrub a babe is calling her for drink?

Why, through the alleys of the pine, do languid breezes sigh
A low refrain that seems to mock her with a babys cry?

Seek not to know! but pray for her, and pity, as the train
Carries a white-faced woman back to face the world again.

Barcroft Boake

Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake was an Australian poet, born in Sydney, New South Wales. He worked as a surveyor and drover in the Australian outback, which influenced his poetry. Boake was known for his bush ballads that depicted the harsh and rugged life in the Australian wilderness. Tragically, his life ended prematurely when he took his own life at the age of 26. Despite his short career, Boake left a lasting impact on Australian literature.

Barcroft Boake

Jack Corrigan

Barcroft Boake, Simple Poetry

To A Hatpeg

Barcroft Boake, Simple Poetry

Fogarty's Gin

Barcroft Boake, Simple Poetry

A Bushmans Love - A Fragment

Barcroft Boake, Simple Poetry

English

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The Changeling (From The Tent On The Beach)

For the fairest maid in Hampton
They needed not to search,
Who saw young Anna favor
Come walking into church,

Or bringing from the meadows,
At set of harvest-day,
The frolic of the blackbirds,
The sweetness of the hay.

Now the weariest of all mothers,
The saddest two years' bride,
She scowls in the face of her husband,
And spurns her child aside.

"Rake out the red coals, goodman,
For there the child shall lie,
Till the black witch comes to fetch her
And both up chimney fly.

"It's never my own little daughter,
It's never my own," she said;
"The witches have stolen my Anna,
And left me an imp instead.

"Oh, fair and sweet was my baby,
Blue eyes, and hair of gold;
But this is ugly and wrinkled,
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The Thorn

I

"There is a Thorn, it looks so old,
In truth, you'd find it hard to say
How it could ever have been young,
It looks so old and grey.
Not higher than a two years' child
It stands erect, this aged Thorn;
No leaves it has, no prickly points;
It is a mass of knotted joints,
A wretched thing forlorn.
It stands erect, and like a stone
With lichens is it overgrown.

II

"Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown,
With lichens to the very top,
And hung with heavy tufts of moss,
A melancholy crop:
Up from the earth these mosses creep,
And this poor Thorn they clasp it round
So close, you'd say that they are bent
With plain and manifest intent
To drag it to the ground;
And all have joined in one endeavour
To bury this poor ...

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Skeeta - An Old Servants Tale

Our Skeeta was married, our Skeeta! the tomboy and pet of the place,
No more as a maiden wed greet her, no more would her pert little face
Light up the chill gloom of the parlour; no more would her deft little hands
Serve drinks to the travel-stained caller on his way to more southerly lands;
No more would she chaff the rough drovers and send them away with a smile,
No more would she madden her lovers, demurely, with womanish guile
The prince from the great Never-Never, with light touch of lips and of hand
Had come, and enslaved her for ever a potentate bearded and tanned
From the land where the white mirage dances its dance of death over the plains,
With the glow of the sun in his glances, the lust of the West in his veins;

His talk of long drought-stricken stretches when the ton...

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The Child-Mother

    Heavily slumbered noonday bright
    Upon the lone field, glory-dight,
    A burnished grassy sea:
    The child, in gorgeous golden hours,
    Through heaven-descended starry flowers,
    Went walking on the lea.

    Velvety bees make busy hum;
    Green flies and striped wasps go and come;
    The butterflies gleam white;
    Blue-burning, vaporous, to and fro
    The dragon-flies like arrows go,
    Or hang in moveless flight:--

    Not one she followed; like a rill
    She wandered on with quiet will;
    Received, but did not miss;
    Her step was neither quick nor long;
    Nought but a snatch of murmured song
    Ever revealed her bliss.

    An almost solemn woman-child,
    Not fashioned frolicsome and wild,
 ...

George MacDonald

The Babes In The Wood.

Come, list to my story,
More sorry, by far,
To her who must tell it,
And you who will hear it,
Than all others are!

'Tis the darling of each, who
Has spirit so mild
As to grieve for the Human--
The sad man or woman,
Or desolate child!

Of eyes, my dear children,
Yours are not the first,
Through whose teary lashes,
In soft, pitying splashes,
The warm drops have burst

At hearing it. Many,
For hundreds of years,
Have in the same fashion
Their heartfelt compassion
Shown thus--with their tears!


A dying father in his arms
Two children did enfold.
The eldest one, a little boy,
Was only three years old;
Even less than that had served to tint
The baby's head with gold.

The mother, too,...

Clara Doty Bates

Red Stockin.

Shoo wor shoeless, an shiverin, an weet, -
Her hair flyin tangled an wild:
Shoo'd just been browt in aght o'th street,
Wi drink an mud splashes defiled.
Th' poleece sargent stood waitin to hear
What charge agean her wod be made,
He'd scant pity for them they browt thear,
To be surly wor pairt ov his trade.
"What name?" an he put it i'th' book, -
An shoo hardly seemed able to stand;
As shoo tottered, he happened to luk
saw summat claspt in her hand.
"What's that? Bring it here right away!
You can't take that into your cell;"
"It's nothing." "Is that what you say?
Let me have it and then I can tell."
"Nay, nay! yo shall nivver tak this!
It's dearer nor life is to me!
Lock me up, if aw've done owt amiss,
But aw'll stick fast to this wol aw dee!"

John Hartley

At Devlins Siding

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At Devlins Siding