| AROUND THE BOREE LOG |
| Oh, stick me in the old caboose this night of wind and rain, . . . . | [1] |
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| CALLING TO ME |
| Through the hush of my heart in the spell of its dreaming . . . . | [4] |
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| THE LITTLE IRISH MOTHER |
| Have you seen the tidy cottage in the straggling, dusty street, . . . . | [6] |
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| ONE BY ONE |
| With trust in God and her good man . . . . | [10] |
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| TEN LITTLE STEPS AND STAIRS |
| There were ten little Steps and Stairs, . . . . | [12] |
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| THE TRIMMIN’S ON THE ROSARY |
| Ah, the memories that find me now my hair is turning gray, . . . . | [14] |
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| THE BIRDS WILL SING AGAIN |
| She saw The Helper standing near . . . . | [21] |
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| THE OLD BUSH SCHOOL |
| ’Tis a queer, old battered landmark that belongs to other years; . . . . | [23] |
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| SIX BROWN BOXER HATS |
| The hawker with his tilted cart pulled up beside the fence, . . . . | [29] |
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| THE LIBEL |
| “The flowers have no scent, and the birds have no song,” . . . . | [31] |
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| WHEN THE CIRCUS CAME TO TOWN |
| When the circus came to town . . . . | [33] |
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| HIS FATHER |
| We meet him first in frills immersed, . . . . | [36] |
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| THE KOOKABURRAS |
| Fall the shadows on the gullies, fades the purple from the mountain; . . . . | [41] |
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| PETER NELSON’S FIDDLE |
| Do you ever dream you hear it, you who went the lonely track? . . . . | [43] |
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| THE CHURCH UPON THE HILL |
| A simple thing of knotted pine . . . . | [46] |
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| CURRAJONG |
| Old Father Pat! They’ll tell you still with mingled love and pride . . . . | [49] |
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| THE HELPING HAND |
| When that hour comes when I shall sit alone, . . . . | [54] |
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| VALE, FATHER PAT |
| Yes, that’s the hardest hand at all upon my frosted head— . . . . | [57] |
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| JOSEPHINE |
| The presbytery has gone to pot since this house-keeper came; . . . . | [64] |
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| THE OLD MASS SHANDRYDAN |
| I can see it in my dreaming o’er a gap of thirty years, . . . . | [70] |
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| PITCHIN’ AT THE CHURCH |
| On the Sunday morning mustered, . . . . | [78] |
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| SAID HANRAHAN |
| “We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan, . . . . | [80] |
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| THE TIDY LITTLE BODY |
| Faith, and little Miss McCroddie was the tidy little body, . . . . | [84] |
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| THE PILLAR OF THE CHURCH |
| Faith, ’tis good to see him comin’ when the bell for Mass is flingin’ . . . . | [86] |
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| TEDDO WELLS, DECEASED |
| Times I think I’m not the man— . . . . | [92] |
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| NORAH O’NEILL |
| That Norah O’Neill is a sthreel, . . . . | [96] |
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| THE PRESBYT’RY DOG |
| Now of all the old sinners in mischief immersed, . . . . | [98] |
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| TANGMALANGALOO |
| The bishop sat in lordly state and purple cap sublime, . . . . | [100] |
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| THE ALTAR-BOY |
| Now McEvoy was altar-boy . . . . | [103] |
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| AT CASEY’S AFTER MASS |
| There’s a weather-beaten sign-post where the track turns towards the west, . . . . | [105] |
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| ST. PATRICK’S DAY |
| ’Tis the greatest splash of sunshine right through all my retrospection . . . . | [112] |
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| THE CAREYS |
| Their new house stood just off the road, . . . . | [119] |
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| WHEN OLD MAN CAREY DIED |
| A night of wind and driving rain, . . . . | [125] |
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| THE PARTING ROSARY |
| They have brought the news, my darlin’, that I’ve waited for so long . . . . | [128] |
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| OWNERLESS |
| He comes when the gullies are wrapped in the gloaming . . . . | [134] |
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| LAUGHING MARY |
| With cheeks that paled the rosy morn . . . . | [137] |
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| MORYAH |
| “Wisha, where is he goin’ to now . . . . | [139] |
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| A STRANGER IN THE CHURCH |
| ’Twas Callagan who jerked the thumb— . . . . | [141] |
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| TELL ME, WHAT’S A GIRL TO DO? |
| Tell me, what’s a girl to do . . . . | [143] |
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| THE WIREE’S SONG |
| The Wiree sang that Christmas Day, . . . . | [145] |
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| WISHA, WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH JIM? |
| “Wisha, what is the matter with Jim, I dunno? . . . . | [147] |
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| SAID THE WHITE-HAIRED PRIEST |
| Said the white-haired priest, “So the boy has come, . . . . | [149] |
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| HONEYMOONING FROM THE COUNTRY |
| To the rooms where I am dining in the glaring city’s day . . . . | [152] |
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| MAKING HOME |
| No, you don’t quite get the meaning when the fun is at its height . . . . | [156] |
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| COULD I HEAR THE KOOKABURRAS ONCE AGAIN |
| May a fading fancy hover round a gladness that is over? . . . . | [162] |
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| COME, SING AUSTRALIAN SONGS TO ME! |
| Come, Little One, and sing to me . . . . | [165] |