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| THE MOON is bright, and the winds are laid, and the river is roaring by; | |
| Orion swings, with his belted lights low down in the western sky; | |
| North and south from the mountain gorge to the heart of the silver plain | |
| There’s many an eye will see no sleep till the east grows bright again; | |
| There’s many a hand will toil to-night, from the centre down to the sea; | 5 |
| And I’m far from the men I used to know—and my love is far from me. | |
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| Where the broad flood eddies the dredge is moored to the beach of shingle white, | |
| And the straining cable whips the stream in a spray of silver light; | |
| The groaning buckets bear their load, and the engine throbs away, | |
| And the wash pours red on the turning screen that knows not night or day; | 10 |
| For there’s many an ounce of gold to save, from the gorge to the shining sea— | |
| And there’s many a league of the bare brown hills between my love and me. | |
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| Where the lines of gorse are parched and dry, and the sheaves are small and thin, | |
| The engine beats and the combine sings to the drays that are leading in, | |
| For they’re thrashing out of the stook to-night, and the plain is as bright as day, | 15 |
| And the fork-tines flash as the sheaves are turned on the frame of the one-horse dray; | |
| For many a hand will toil to-night, from the mountains down to the sea;— | |
| But I’m far from the lips of the girl I love, and the heart that beats for me. | |
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| The trappers are out on the hills to-night, and the sickly lantern-shine | |
| Is mocking the gleam of the silver moon in the scrub on the long trap-line; | 20 |
| The tallies are big on the rock-strewn spur, and the rattling clink of the chain | |
| Comes weirdly mixed from the moon-bright hill with the whistling shriek of pain; | |
| For many a hand will toil to-night where the tussocks are waving free;— | |
| But it’s over the hills and over the plain to the heart that beats for me. | |
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| The stars are bright, and the night is still, and the river is singing by, | 25 |
| And many a face is upward turned to gaze at the moon’s bright eye. | |
| North and south, from the forest deeps to the heart of the silver plain, | |
| There’s many an eye will see no sleep till the east grows bright again; | |
| There’s many a hand will toil to-night by shining land and sea. | |
| O moonlight, bear my message of love to the heart that beats for me. | 30 |
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