No shipside welcome met the men who came with Father Pat.
We turned our horses’ heads out west, beyond the farthest track,
With nothing but an alien star to light the journey back.
The echoes mocked us as we went, and silence startled sat
When out beyond the rim of things we marched with Father Pat.
We said our Mass in canvas tents, and neath the gnarléd trees;
Of red-gum slabs and sheets of bark we built our sanctuaries;
Our axes rang on timbered slopes above the mining flat,
And church and school and convent mark the path of Father Pat.
We made our bow to wild and waste, and hardships worse than those;