While The Billy BoilsSearchOh! Mother, say, for I long to know,Where doth the tree of Freedom grow,And strike its roots in the heart of manAs deep and far as the famed banyan?Is it 'mid those groups in the Southern Seas,In the Coral Isles, or the far Fijis,Where the restless billows seeth and toss'Neath the gleaming light of the Southern Cross?"Not there—not there, my child."
Then tell me, mother, can it be whereThe cry of "Liberty" rends the air?Where grow the maize and the maple tree,In the fertile "bottoms" of Tennessee?Or is it up where the north winds roar,Away by the fair Canadian shore,Where the Indians shriek with insane halloos—As drunk as owls in their bark canoes?"Not there—not there, my child."Or is it back in the Western States,Where Colt's revolver rules the fates,And Judges lounge in a liquor shopWhile Dean and Adams's pistols pop?Where Justice is but a shrivelled ghostAs deaf and blind as a stockyard post,And License sits upon Freedom's chair—Oh, say, dear mother, can it be there?"Not there—not there, my child."
Is it on the banks of the wild Paroo,Where the emu stalks, and the kangarooBounds o'er the sand-hills free and light,And the dingo howls through the sultry night;Where the native gathers the nardoo-seedFor his frugal meal; and the centipede—While the worn-out traveller lies inert,Invades the folds of his flannel shirt?"Not there—not there, my child."
Is it where yon death-like stillness reignsO'er the vast expanse of the salt-bush plains,Where the shepherd leaveth his Leicester ewesFor the firm embrace of his noon-tide snooze,And the most enchanting visions comeTo his thirsty spirit of Queensland rum,While the sun rays strike through his garments scant—Is it there, dear mother, this wond'rous plant?"Not there—not there, my child."
Or Southward, down where our brethren holdThose keys of power, rich mines of gold—That land of rumour and vague reports,Alluvial diggings, and reefs of quartz—Where brokers give you the straightest "tip,"And let in in the way of "scrip;"Where all men vapour, and vaunt, and boast,And manhood suffrage rules the roast?"Not there—not there, my child."
Is it where the blasts of the simoom fan,The blazing valleys of Hindustan;Where the Dervish howls, and their dupes are fleecedBy the swarth Parsee, and the Brahmin priest;Where men believe in their toddy-bowls,And the transmigration of human souls,And the monkeys battle with countless fleasOn the twisted boughs of the tamarind trees?"Not there—not there, my child."
Or is it more to the northward, moreToward the ice-bound rivers of Labrador,Where the glittering curtain of gleaming snowEnshrouds the home of the Esquimaux;Or further still to the north, awayWhere the bones of the Artic heroes layLong, long on the icy surface bare,To bleach and dry in the frosty air?"Not there—not there, my child."
Then is it, mother, among the treesThat shade the paths in the Tuilleries,Where the students walk with the pale grisettes,And scent the air with their cigarettes?Or doth it bloom in that atmosphereOf mild tobacco and lager beer,Where gutteral curses mingle tooWith the croupiers patter of "faites votre jeu?""Not there—not there, my child."
"Boy, 'tis a plant that loves to blowWhere the fading rays of the sunset go;Up where the sun-light never sets,And angels tootle their flageolets;Up through the fleecy clouds, and farBeyond the track of the farthest star,Where the silvery echoes catch no toneOf a simmering sinner's stifling groan:'Tis there—'tis there, my child!