Ah, these old friends of ours! Sixty years back, <br />Bearded and booted, they followed the track, <br />Came like their Saxon forefathers of old, <br />Carving a nation from waste and from wold, <br />Mighty of purpose and stalwart of limb, <br />Clove they a path through the forest so dim, <br />Forward, adventuring, knowing no fears-- <br />Honour and praise to the old pioneers. <br /> <br /> <br />Now they are feeble and bowed are their backs, <br />Long laid aside are the stockwhip and axe; <br />Dulled though each sense is, the hearing is quick <br />Oft-times to catch the faint ring of the pick, <br />Eyes, too, are closed yet they see clear and plain <br />The camp and the creek and the ranges again; <br />Australia's first story and the world never hears, <br />It is locked in the hearts of the old pioneers. <br /> <br /> <br />Then to the workers of those distant days <br />Certain poor players came bringing their plays, <br />Lighter grew toil for the songs that they trolled, <br />Sweeter was life for the love-stories told, <br />Gone now the music, the laughter is stilled, <br />Audience and players together are chilled, <br />Yet--like the flowers--the smiles and the tears <br />Ever are fresh for the old pioneers. <br /> <br /> <br />Yes, they are old, nor of wealth have they hoard, <br />Heap we the fire, then, and plenish the board; <br />Age steals upon them and chilly life grows, <br />Workers and players have earned their repose. <br />Soon on their names all in vain we shall call, <br />For even the grandest old landmarks must fall. <br />Just a warm hand-clasp ere one disappears-- <br />These are the last of the old pioneers.<br /><br />John Sandes<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-old-pioneers-2/
