New Zealand Verse/Arlington
XXXIX.
Arlington.
The sun shines bright on Arlington, the drowsy sheep creep by,
The water races seam the hills, cloud shadows line the sky,
New fences climb the warm brown spurs to guard the scrubber ewes,
Because the run is broken up for hungry cockatoos;
The township sleeps below the hill, the homestead on the plain,
But the lost days of Arlington will never come again.
The water races seam the hills, cloud shadows line the sky,
New fences climb the warm brown spurs to guard the scrubber ewes,
Because the run is broken up for hungry cockatoos;
The township sleeps below the hill, the homestead on the plain,
But the lost days of Arlington will never come again.
The working-men are seen no more in hut or rabbit camp,
The stock-whip never will be heard about the river swamp;
No more the mighty fleeces crown the bins like drifted snow,
No more the princely rams go down, the wonder of the show;
The swagger on the weary tramp comes o’er the summer plain,
And sighs for rest at Arlington, yet knows he sighs in vain.
The stock-whip never will be heard about the river swamp;
No more the mighty fleeces crown the bins like drifted snow,
No more the princely rams go down, the wonder of the show;
The swagger on the weary tramp comes o’er the summer plain,
And sighs for rest at Arlington, yet knows he sighs in vain.
There’s little work on Arlington since the old station days;
The hawk-faced owners groan to tell sheep-farming never pays,
They build no homesteads on the runs, they pay no wages out;
The station style was different when money flew about.
The rabbits flourish on the hills and burrow all the plain,
The stock that ran on Arlington will never run again.
The hawk-faced owners groan to tell sheep-farming never pays,
They build no homesteads on the runs, they pay no wages out;
The station style was different when money flew about.
The rabbits flourish on the hills and burrow all the plain,
The stock that ran on Arlington will never run again.
The good old boss of Arlington was everybody’s friend,
He liked to keep the wages up right to the very end;
If diggers’ horses went astray they always could be found,
The cow that roamed across the run was never in the pound.
He was a white man through and through, cheery and fair and plain,
And now he’ll never ride the rounds of Arlington again.
He liked to keep the wages up right to the very end;
If diggers’ horses went astray they always could be found,
The cow that roamed across the run was never in the pound.
He was a white man through and through, cheery and fair and plain,
And now he’ll never ride the rounds of Arlington again.
And yet the talk is evermore, “The people want the land!”
I tell you that the workers’ cry is, “Let the stations stand.”
The greedy few will clamour loud and clamour to the end;
A dummy grabbing what he can is not the people’s friend.
And Heaven’s curse is on him still in all his schemes for gain;
He falls—and yet old Arlington will never rise again!
I tell you that the workers’ cry is, “Let the stations stand.”
The greedy few will clamour loud and clamour to the end;
A dummy grabbing what he can is not the people’s friend.
And Heaven’s curse is on him still in all his schemes for gain;
He falls—and yet old Arlington will never rise again!