In the Days When the World Was Wide | Page 5

They came to many a strange countree and marvellous sights they saw.
The villagers gaped at the tales they told,
and old eyes glistened with
pride --
When barbarous cities were paved with gold
in the days
when the world was wide.
'Twas honest metal and honest wood, in the days of the Outward Bound,
When men were gallant and ships were good -- roaming the wide world
round. The gods could envy a leader then when `Follow me, lads!' he
cried -- They faced each other and fought like men
in the days when

the world was wide.
They tried to live as a freeman should -- they were happier men than
we, In the glorious days of wine and blood, when Liberty crossed the
sea; 'Twas a comrade true or a foeman then, and a trusty sword well
tried -- They faced each other and fought like men
in the days when
the world was wide.
The good ship bound for the Southern seas when the beacon was
Ballarat, With a `Ship ahoy!' on the freshening breeze,
`Where
bound?' and `What ship's that?' --
The emigrant train to New Mexico
-- the rush to the Lachlan Side -- Ah! faint is the echo of Westward Ho!

from the days when the world was wide.
South, East, and West in advance of Time -- and, ay! in advance of
Thought Those brave men rose to a height sublime -- and is it for this
they fought? And is it for this damned life we praise the god-like spirit
that died At Eureka Stockade in the Roaring Days
with the days when
the world was wide?
We fight like women, and feel as much; the thoughts of our hearts we
guard; Where scarcely the scorn of a god could touch,
the sneer of a
sneak hits hard;
The treacherous tongue and cowardly pen, the
weapons of curs, decide -- They faced each other and fought like men

in the days when the world was wide.
Think of it all -- of the life that is! Study your friends and foes! Study
the past! And answer this: `Are these times better than those?' The
life-long quarrel, the paltry spite, the sting of your poisoned pride! No
matter who fell it were better to fight
as they did when the world was
wide.
Boast as you will of your mateship now -- crippled and mean and sly --
The lines of suspicion on friendship's brow
were traced since the days
gone by.
There was room in the long, free lines of the van
to fight
for it side by side --
There was beating-room for the heart of a man


in the days when the world was wide.
. . . . .
With its dull, brown days of a-shilling-an-hour
the dreary year drags
round:
Is this the result of Old England's power?
0. the bourne of the Outward Bound? Is this the sequel of Westward Ho!
-- of the days of Whate'er Betide? The heart of the rebel makes
answer `No! We'll fight till the world grows wide!'
The world shall yet be a wider world -- for the tokens are manifest;
East and North shall the wrongs be hurled that followed us South and
West. The march of Freedom is North by the Dawn! Follow, whate'er
betide! Sons of the Exiles, march! March on! March till the world
grows wide!
Faces in the Street
They lie, the men who tell us in a loud decisive tone
That want is
here a stranger, and that misery's unknown;
For where the nearest
suburb and the city proper meet
My window-sill is level with the
faces in the street --
Drifting past, drifting past,
To the beat of weary feet --
While I
sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street.
And cause I have to sorrow, in a land so young and fair,
To see upon
those faces stamped the marks of Want and Care; I look in vain for
traces of the fresh and fair and sweet
In sallow, sunken faces that are
drifting through the street --
Drifting on, drifting on,
To the scrape of restless feet;
I can sorrow
for the owners of the faces in the street.
In hours before the dawning dims the starlight in the sky
The wan and
weary faces first begin to trickle by,
Increasing as the moments hurry
on with morning feet,
Till like a pallid river flow the faces in the

street --
Flowing in, flowing in,
To the beat of hurried feet --
Ah! I sorrow
for the owners of those faces in the street.
The human river dwindles when 'tis past the hour of eight,
Its waves
go flowing faster in the fear of being late;
But slowly drag the
moments, whilst beneath the dust and heat The city grinds the owners
of the faces in the street --
Grinding body, grinding soul,
Yielding scarce enough to eat --
Oh!
I sorrow for the owners of the faces