Kilmore

Kilmore cares not who comes nigh. But, with a calm, incurious eye, She sees the swift cars speeding by, Then turns again to labor. She is content to plod along. With now a sigh, when things go wrong, And now a smile and now a song Or gossip with a neighbor. Her mind dwells often in the past, The roaring days that could not last When men might travel not so fast, And all the world was bigger. She saw the coaches clatter down To pause at her important town With loud-voiced venturers strong and brown, And many a bearded digger. She saw the eager traffic flow Upon the road to Bendigo, With talk of many a golden show, Of finds and fields exciting. But wisely she contrived to hold A treasure greater far than gold, Where her rich pasture lands unfold A scene far more inviting. She smiles to dream of those old days Of hearty men and hectic ways When, maddened by the golden craze, Men sought their fortunes blindly. But she, who chose the better part Of patient toil and simple art, Lives on, content of mind and heart, And generous and kindly. So, wealthy now, she sits at ease In this kind land of fields and trees, Ignoring all our flippancies And modern fads and crazes. And, where old buildings, tumbling down, Leave scars about her ancient town, The hasty mock her homely gown; The wise man waits and praises.