AT CASEY’S AFTER MASS

There’s a weather-beaten sign-post where the track turns towards the west,

Through the tall, white, slender timber, in the land I love the best.

Short its message is—“To Casey’s”—for it points the road to Casey’s;

And my homing heart goes bushwards on an idle roving quest,

Down the old, old road contented, o’er the gum-leaves crisp and scented,

Where a deft hand splashed the purple on the big hill’s sombre crest.

Ah, it’s long, long years and dreary, many, many steps and weary,