Little bush maiden, wondering-eyed, <br />Playing alone in the creek-bed dry, <br />In the small green flat on every side <br />Walled in by the Moonbi ranges high; <br />Tell me the tale of your lonely life <br />'Mid the great grey forests that know no change. <br />"I never have left my home," she said, <br />"I have never been over the Moonbi Range. <br />"Father and mother are long since dead, <br />And I live with granny in yon wee place." <br />"Where are your father and mother?" I said. <br />She puzzled awhile with thoughtful face, <br />Then a light came into the shy brown face, <br />And she smiled, for she thought the question strange <br />On a thing so certain -- "When people die <br />They go to the country over the range." <br /> <br />"And what is this country like, my lass?" <br />"There are blossoming trees and pretty flowers <br />And shining creeks where the golden grass <br />Is fresh and sweet from the summer showers. <br />They never need work, nor want, nor weep; <br />No troubles can come their hearts to estrange. <br />Some summer night I shall fall asleep, <br />And wake in the country over the range." <br /> <br />Child, you are wise in your simple trust, <br />For the wisest man knows no more than you. <br />Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust: <br />Our views by a range are bounded too; <br />But we know that God hath this gift in store, <br />That, when we come to the final change, <br />We shall meet with our loved ones gone before <br />To the beautiful country over the range.<br /><br />Andrew Barton Paterson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/over-the-range/
