They came of bold and roving stock that would not fixed abide; <br />There were the sons of field and flock since e’er they learned to ride; <br />We may not hope to see such men in these degenerate years <br />As those explorers of the bush – the brave old pioneers. <br /> <br />‘Twas they who rode the trackless bush in heat and storm and drought; <br />‘Twas they that heard the master-word that called them further out; <br />‘Twas they that followed up the trail the mountain cattle made <br />And pressed across the mighty range where now their bones are laid. <br /> <br />But now the times are dull and slow, the brave old days are dead <br />When hardy bushmen started out, and forced their way ahead <br />By tangled scrub and forests grim towards the unknown west, <br />And spied the far off promised land from off the ranges’ crest. <br /> <br />Oh! Ye, that sleep in lonely graves by far-off ridge and plain, <br />We drink to you in silence now as Christmas comes again, <br />The men who fought the wilderness through rough unsettled years – <br />The founders of our nation’s life, the brave old pioneers. <br /><br /><br />Andrew Barton Paterson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/pioneers/
