The old bush homestead by the sea
Still stands, the front door swings
As on the tall, gaunt, dead gum-tree
The magpie sits and sings.
There, by the door, the stockman sits
And smokes; as on her rug
His pale wife sits just by and knits—
His beard three children tug!
And as I stand and, dreaming, gaze,
The years have taken wing,