Эндрю Бартон Патерсон (Andrew Barton Paterson)

* * *

The daylight is dying 
Away in the west, 
The wild birds are flying 
In silence to rest; 
In leafage and frondage 
Where shadows are deep, 
They pass to its bondage— 
The kingdom of sleep. 
And watched in their sleeping 
By stars in the height, 
They rest in your keeping, 
Oh, wonderful night. 
When night doth her glories 
Of starshine unfold, 
’Tis then that the stories 
Of bush-land are told. 

Unnumbered I hold them 
In memories bright, 
But who could unfold them, 
Or read them aright? 
Beyond all denials 
The stars in their glories 
The breeze in the myalls 
Are part of these stories. 

The waving of grasses, 
The song of the river 
That sings as it passes 
For ever and ever, 
The hobble-chains’ rattle, 
The calling of birds, 
The lowing of cattle 
Must blend with the words. 

Without these, indeed, you 
Would find it ere long, 
As though I should read you 
The words of a song 
That lamely would linger 
When lacking the rune, 
The voice of the singer, 
The lilt of the tune. 

But, as one half-hearing 
An old-time refrain, 
With memory clearing, 
Recalls it again, 
These tales, roughly wrought of 
The bush and its ways, 
May call back a thought of 
The wandering days, 

And, blending with each 
In the memories that throng, 
There haply shall reach 
You some echo of song.

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