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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=374781" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Peter Simson's Farm</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Simson settled in the timber when his arm was strong and true, <br>And his form was straight and limber; and he wrought the long day through <br>In a struggle, single-handed, and the trees fell slowly back, <br>Twenty thousand giants banded ’gainst a solitary jack. <br> <br>Through the fiercest days of summer you might hear his keen axe ring <br>And re-echo in the ranges, hear his twanging crosscut sing; <br>There the great gums swayed and whispered, and the birds were skyward blown, <br>As the circling hills saluted o’er a bush king overthrown. <br> <br>Clearing, grubbing, in the gloaming, strong in faith the man descried <br>Heifers sleek and horses roaming in his paddocks green and wide, <br>Heard a myriad corn-blades rustle in the breeze’s soft caress, <br>And in every thew and muscle felt a joyous mightiness. <br> <br>So he felled the stubborn forest, hacked and hewed with tireless might, <br>And a conqueror’s peace went with him to his fern-strewn bunk at night: <br>Forth he strode next morn, delighting in the duty to be done, <br>Whistling shrilly to the magpies trilling carols to the sun. <br> <br>Back the clustered scrub was driven, and the sun fell on the lands, <br>And the mighty stumps were riven ’tween his bare, brown, corded hands. <br>One time flooded, sometimes parching, still he did the work of ten, <br>And his dog-leg fence went marching up the hills and down again. <br> <br>By the stony creek, whose tiny streams slid o’er the sunken boles <br>To their secret, silent meetings in the shaded waterholes, <br>Soon a garden flourished bravely, gemmed with flowers, and cool and green, <br>While about the hut a busy little wife was always seen. <br> <br>Came a day at length when, gazing down the paddock from his door, <br>Simson saw his horses grazing where the bush was long before, <br>And he heard the joyous prattle of his children on the rocks, <br>And the lowing of the cattle, and the crowing of the cocks. <br> <br>There was butter for the market, there was fruit upon the trees, <br>There were eggs, potatoes, bacon, and a tidy lot of cheese; <br>Still the struggle was not ended with the timber and the scrub, <br>For the mortgage is the toughest stump the settler has to grub. <br> <br>But the boys grew big and bolder—one, a sturdy, brown-faced lad, <br>With his axe upon his shoulder, loved to go to work ‘like dad’, <br>And another in the saddle took a bush-bred native’s pride, <br>And he boasted he could straddle any nag his dad could ride. <br> <br>Though the work went on and prospered there was still hard work to do; <br>There were floods, and droughts, and bush-fires, and a touch of pleuro too; <br>But they laboured, and the future held no prospect to alarm— <br>All the settlers said: ‘They’re stickers up at Peter Simson’s farm.’ <br> <br>One fine evening Pete was resting in the hush of coming night, <br>When his boys came in from nesting with a clamorous delight; <br>Each displayed a tiny rabbit, and the farmer eyed them o’er,— <br>Then he stamped—it was his habit—and he smote his knee and swore. <br> <br>Two years later Simson’s paddock showed dust-coloured, almost bare, <br>And too lean for hope of profit were the cows that pastured there; <br>And the man looked ten years older. Like the tracks about the place, <br>Made by half a million rabbits, were the lines on Simson’s face. <br> <br>As he fought the bush when younger, Simson stripped and fought again, <br>Fought the devastating hunger of the plague with might and main, <br>Neither moping nor despairing, hoping still that times would mend, <br>Stubborn-browed and sternly facing all the trouble Fate could send. <br> <br>One poor chicken to the acre Simson’s land will carry now. <br>Starved, the locusts have departed; rust is thick upon the plough; <br>It is vain to think of cattle, or to try to raise a crop, <br>For the farmer has gone under, and the rabbits are on top. <br> <br>So the strong, true man who wrested from the bush a homestead fair <br>By the rabbits has been bested; yet he does not know despair— <br>Though begirt with desolation, though in trouble and in debt, <br>Though his foes pass numeration, Peter Simson’s fighting yet! <br> <br>He is old too soon and failing, but he’s game to start anew, <br>And he tells his hopeless neighbours ‘what the Gov’mint’s goin’ to do’. <br>Both his girls are in the city, seeking places with the rest, <br>And his boys are tracking fortune in the melancholy West.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Edward+George+Dyson">Edward George Dyson</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=374781" data-title="Peter Simson's Farm de Edward George Dyson" data-description="Simson settled in the timber when his arm was strong and true, 
And his form was straight and limber; and he wrought the long day through 
In a struggle, single-handed, and the trees fell slowly back, 
Twenty thousand giants banded ’gainst a sol..."></div>
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