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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408585" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Bush Hay</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The stamp of Scotland is on his face,<br>But he sailed to the South a lad,<br>And he does not think of the black bleak hills<br>And the bitter hard youth he had;<br>He thinks of a nearer and dearer past<br>In the bright land far away,<br>When the teams went up and the teams came down,<br>In the days when they made bush hay.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The fare was rough and the bush was grim<br>In the “years of his pilgrimage”,<br>But he gained the strength that is still with him<br>In his hale, late middle age.<br>He thinks of the girl at the halfway inn<br>They use as a barn to-day—<br>Oh, she was a dumpling and he was thin<br>In the days when they made bush hay.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The ration teams to the Bathurst Plains<br>Were often a fortnight full.<br>And they branched all ways in the early days<br>And back to the port with wool.<br>They watched for the lights of old Cobb & Co.<br>That flashed to the West away,<br>When drivers drove six on a twelve-mile stage<br>In the days when they made bush hay.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He has made enough, and he’s sold his claim,<br>And he goes by the morning train,<br>From the gold-field town in the sultry West<br>To his home by the sea again,<br>Where a bustling old body’s expecting him<br>Whose hair is scarcely grey,<br>And she was the girl of the halfway house<br>In the days when they made bush hay.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Lawson">Henry Lawson</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=408585" data-title="Bush Hay de Henry Lawson" data-description="The stamp of Scotland is on his face,
But he sailed to the South a lad,
And he does not think of the black bleak hills
And the bitter hard youth he had;
He thinks of a nearer and dearer past
In the bright land far away,
When the teams went up and ..."></div>
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