To fetch the bishop from the train with limping Currajong.
Ah, newer methods, younger men! the times are moving fast,
And but in dreams we tread again the wheel-ruts of the past;
The eyes are filmed that watched of old, the kindly hearts are still,
And silent tombstones white and cold are glimmering on the hill.
While scorching up the road, belike, with singing gears alive
The curate on his motor-bike hits up his forty-five;
But tender, tingling memories swell, and love will linger long
In all the stirring yarns they tell about Old Currajong.