The Sunday Mail (Queensland) - - OPINION - By his mother Mary House

He will come no more to his bush­land home And the sport and toil of a by-gone day. Though he sleeps afar o’er the north­ern foam In our hearts dream­ing he still is nigh. O dear lit­tle tod­dler of long ago, With curls of silk, and the candid smile That lit his face, like the tran­sient glow, Of some sweet vision of things worth­while. I pic­ture him dig­ging in shin­ing sand, To his sis­ter call­ing in child­ish glee, As they pad­dle or frolic hand-in-hand, With their new-found play­mate – the sun-lit-sea. Tin sol­diers fight, round a bit toy fort To the boy in­tent, they are things of life, One Great War over, how small our thought Of this fiercer vor­tex of wider strife! When the lad left school, came an anx­ious time, But he laughed his way o’er an up-hill track, And his laugh made light of the stoni­est climb. Those im­posed on man out­back. He could swim and box, and ride with the best And he loved the stress of manly sport. He mapped his course with a force­ful zest, Till the bar­que of his dreams came safe to port. Though the years flown, ‘tis as yes­ter­day. That he wooed and wed­ded a fair young bride. War’s bu­gle sang, and no man might stay Whose heart was high as the world is wide. The record was fine he has writ since then On many a bold and fear­less deed. He shall be known as a man amongst men A friend supreme in a com­rade’s need. He has gone from the home he held so dear, From the mates of his youth, and manhood’s prime Yet a song of vic­tory, brave and clear, Is borne on the winds of the win­ter-time. When the morn­ing breaks and the sea is o’er We shall meet in the man­sion of the end­less day. Where the King, who shall liveth for ev­er­more, Shall from every eye wipe all tears away

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