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And 'neath the Southern Cross the roses cameInto her cheeks, fresh vigour to her frame;New friends she found, and life was glad and gay,But eager was she for home-news alway,And 'mid the splendour longed to hear againThe nightingale, the robin, and the wren;To distant loved ones oft her thoughts she turned,And still for dear, dear England deeply yearned.
She came, the same blithe spirit as of old,And brightened us with all the tales she told,Now full of pathos, now with frolic rife,Now diffuse details of Australian life,Its social converse, unconstrained and free,The vast, grand, foamy, iridescent sea,The giant fields, the haytime in November,The pic-nics 'mid the gum-trees in December,The scentless flowers of loveliest, gayest hues,The croaking frogs, the bounding kangaroos,The gorgeous, songless birds,—a motley crowd,—The laughing jackass' notes, so hoarsely loud;—Then of her interesting journey home,And of the visit paid to far-famed Rome;To beauteous Naples, and its mount of fire,And the old cities, whose fate was so dire;The whiffs she caught of Ceylon's spicy breeze,The passage by the now united seas,Then the safe landing on the homeland shore.More precious to her now than e'er before.
So face to face we communed happilyOn what had been, what was, and what might be;So, severed links were riveted anew,And thoughts were interchanged and friendship grew;But brief her sojourn in the land she loved,For English airs so variable proved,And from another sunny clime there cameAn urgent call, her interest to claim,So, with high hopes, and noble work in view,Once more she bade us all a long adieu.
