The boy cleared out to the city from his home at harvest time -- <br />They were Scots of the Riverina, and to run from home was a crime. <br />The old man burned his letters, the first and last he burned, <br />And he scratched his name from the Bible when the old wife's back was turned. <br /> <br />A year went past and another. There were calls from the firing-line; <br />They heard the boy had enlisted, but the old man made no sign. <br />His name must never be mentioned on the farm by Gundagai -- <br />They were Scots of the Riverina with ever the kirk hard by. <br /> <br />The boy came home on his "final", and the township's bonfire burned. <br />His mother's arms were about him; but the old man's back was turned. <br />The daughters begged for pardon till the old man raised his hand -- <br />A Scot of the Riverina who was hard to understand. <br /> <br />The boy was killed in Flanders, where the best and bravest die. <br />There were tears at the Grahame homestead and grief in Gundagai; <br />But the old man ploughed at daybreak and the old man ploughed till the mirk -- <br />There were furrows of pain in the orchard while his housefolk went to the kirk. <br /> <br />The hurricane lamp in the rafters dimly and dimly burned; <br />And the old man died at the table when the old wife's back was turned. <br />Face down on his bare arms folded he sank with his wild grey hair <br />Outspread o'er the open Bible and a name re-written there.<br /><br />Henry Lawson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/scots-of-the-riverina/
