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THE OLD PIONEERS
from the Scrapbook of Hiram A. Crawford (1832-1916)
Author unknown
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Beneath the pines in the cemetery ground, The old pioneer is sleeping sound, No records of the life he led: His tombstone simply says he's dead, No mention of his faithful wife, Who struggled with him in his strife, To found a home and settle down And with success his labours crown. From early morn till late at night Determinedly he waged the fight In clearing and by fencing in The land he wrought so hard to win, His house comprised of slabs and bark; Through many a chink that after dark The moon or stars came peeping in To see tin plates and pannikin. A couple they saw at the fire sat, Having their regular evening chat, Before they took themselves to bed, Worn out and tired they laid their head, And heard the wild dog's short, sharp bark, The weird curlew and 'possum's squark, Their need of rest had grown so deep These noises ne'er disturbed their sleep. His furniture was hard and bare And harder still his usual fare – Salt beef and bread; 'twas very rare That luxuries were ever there, He envied not the rich man's food, For what he ate was just as good, Made sweet by work and pure fresh air, Contentment too, was always there. He came from a strong and hardy race, Who can make a home in any place, With self reliance strong and true, What e'er their hand findeth to do, Australia's sons will never know What pioneers had to undergo To make these places to their hand— Gardens from the wild bush land.
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