In Cornwall and Across the Sea With Poems Written in Devonshire. By Douglas B. W. Sladen |
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A BALLAD OF WATTLE-BLOSSOM.
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 | In Cornwall and Across the Sea |  |
169
A BALLAD OF WATTLE-BLOSSOM.
[The National Flower of Australia.]
When winter is over and summer not come,
When the North wind forgetteth to freeze or to sear,
When the tempests, which shout in September, are dumb,
Nor the drouth, which we dread in December, is here;
When the children are out in the prime of the year
To gather a glory of tint and perfume,
Though the Waratah, Rose, and Epacris are dear,
Yet it's hey for the Wattle with gold for its bloom.
When the North wind forgetteth to freeze or to sear,
When the tempests, which shout in September, are dumb,
Nor the drouth, which we dread in December, is here;
When the children are out in the prime of the year
To gather a glory of tint and perfume,
Though the Waratah, Rose, and Epacris are dear,
Yet it's hey for the Wattle with gold for its bloom.
170
When summer in splendour and swelter hath come,
And the creeks are all dry and the grass is all sere;
When the picknickers roam in the forest for gum,
Which wells from the Wattle in carbuncles clear;
If little they gather when no one is near,
The sunny young girl, whose shy glances illume,
And her sunburnt and stalwart and staunch cavalier.
Yet it's hey for the Wattle though gone has its bloom.
And the creeks are all dry and the grass is all sere;
When the picknickers roam in the forest for gum,
Which wells from the Wattle in carbuncles clear;
If little they gather when no one is near,
The sunny young girl, whose shy glances illume,
And her sunburnt and stalwart and staunch cavalier.
Yet it's hey for the Wattle though gone has its bloom.
When the shy-glancing maiden has wandered from home
To the land, where her forefathers hunted the deer,
Where the sky without cloud and the sea without foam
Are a sight for the Gods, and Decembers are drear;
When she sighs for the sunburnt young squatter not here,
And picks from his letter, just brought to her room,
The blossom he plucked in the prime of the year,
Then it's hey for the Wattle with gold for its bloom.
To the land, where her forefathers hunted the deer,
Where the sky without cloud and the sea without foam
Are a sight for the Gods, and Decembers are drear;
When she sighs for the sunburnt young squatter not here,
And picks from his letter, just brought to her room,
The blossom he plucked in the prime of the year,
Then it's hey for the Wattle with gold for its bloom.
171
Envoy.
When children are out in the prime of the yearTo gather a glory of tint and perfume—
When shy-glancing maiden meets staunch cavalier,
Then it's hey for the Wattle with gold for its bloom.
| In Cornwall and Across the Sea | |