Heed Not!

Heed not the cock-sure tourist, Seeing with English eyes; Stroked at the banquet table Still, with the old stock lies— Pet of a social circle, Guest in a garden fair— Free of the first-class carriage— He learns no Australia there. Heed not the Southern humbugs By the first saloons who come— From his work in the wide, hot scrub-lands The Australian goes not home. Give them the toadies’ knighthood, Fit for the souls they’ve got; Fear not to shame Australia For Australia knows them not. Heed not the Sydney ‘dailies,’ Naught for the land they do; Heed not the Melbourne street crowd, For they know no more than you! Pent in the coastal cities, Still on the old-world track— They know naught of Australia, Of the heart of the great Out-Back. But wait for the voice that gathers Strength by the western creeks! Heed ye the Out-Back shearers— List when the Great Bush speaks! Heed ye the black-sheep, working His own salvation free— And Oh! heed ye the sons of the exiles When they speak of the things to be!