The Boobook Owl

Not for any airs and graces When, to lonely, silent places Men return in memory, Come these kindly thoughts of me. But they hear again my calling Where the dappled moonlight, falling Mid the shadows of the gums, Weaves strange patterns; and there comes, Blending with the hobble's jingle, As the faint bush odors mingle With the smell of wood-fire smoke, Suddenly my call - 'Mo-poke!' Now a weary swagman camping After miles of mountain tramping; Now, mid spinifex and sand, A drover of the overland; Now a timber-getter sitting In his hut, the firelight flitting O'er his old face, lost in dreams; Now the man who punches teams Where the blacksoil plains go rolling; Now a fossicker, pot-holing, Hopeful ever, ever broke Hears me in the night - 'Mo-poke!' Never while one bushland lover Camps beneath the great sky's cover, And my call comes once again To the ears of lonely men: Never while to silent places Memory of old day traces Olden pictures in the fire, And men dream of youth's desire, Dream again of youth's high daring: Never while men yet go faring Forth beyond the ken of folk, Shall my night call fail - 'Mo-poke!'