Генри Лоусон (Henry Lawson)

Mount Bukaroo

Only one old post is standing -- 
Solid yet, but only one -- 
Where the milking, and the branding, 
And the slaughtering were done. 
Later years have brought dejection, 
Care, and sorrow; but we knew 
Happy days on that selection 
Underneath old Bukaroo. 

Then the light of day commencing 
Found us at the gully’s head, 
Splitting timber for the fencing, 
Stripping bark to roof the shed. 
Hands and hearts the labour strengthened; 
Weariness we never knew, 
Even when the shadows lengthened 
Round the base of Bukaroo. 

There for days below the paddock 
How the wilderness would yield 
To the spade, and pick, and mattock, 
While we toiled to win the field. 
Bronzed hands we used to sully 
Till they were of darkest hue, 
`Burning off’ down in the gully 
At the back of Bukaroo. 

When we came the baby brother 
Left in haste his broken toys, 
Shouted to the busy mother: 
`Here is dadda and the boys!’ 
Strange it seems that she was able 
For the work that she would do; 
How she’d bustle round the table 
In the hut ’neath Bukaroo! 

When the cows were safely yarded, 
And the calves were in the pen, 
All the cares of day discarded, 
Closed we round the hut-fire then. 
Rang the roof with boyish laughter 
While the flames o’er-topped the flue; 
Happy days remembered after -- 
Far away from Bukaroo. 

But the years were full of changes, 
And a sorrow found us there; 
For our home amid the ranges 
Was not safe from searching Care. 
On he came, a silent creeper; 
And another mountain threw 
O’er our lives a shadow deeper 
Than the shade of Bukaroo. 

All the farm is disappearing; 
For the home has vanished now, 
Mountain scrub has choked the clearing, 
Hid the furrows of the plough. 
Nearer still the scrub is creeping 
Where the little garden grew; 
And the old folks now are sleeping 
At the foot of Bukaroo.

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