Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.
Passed and gone that old bush homestead where the hours too swiftly flew;
Silent now the merry voices of the happy friends I knew;
We have drifted far from Casey’s. All deserted now is Casey’s—
Just a lone brick chimney standing, and a garden-tree or two.
Still the minahs love to linger where the sign-post points the finger
Down the bush track winding westward where the tall white timber grew.
But the big hill seems to wonder why the ties are snapped asunder,
Why the neighbours never gather, never loiter as they pass;
Yet a tear-stained thought beseeming comes along and sets me dreaming