Beautiful Maoriland Or, Love and the Union Henry Lawson, 1894 A shearer came to a blackleg shed, when most of the sheds were full; He'd tramped and tramped till his hope was dead, and never got hands in wool. He'd stuck to the Union, hard and fast, with no one to understand How his heart had longed, as the weeks dragged past, for his love and his Maoriland. "Fern and tussock and flax; range and river and sea. A strain on my heart that will never relax — a heart that will never be free. Oh, why should I break my heart?" he sighs, "Will the Union break thro' me? She draws me back with her great brown eyes, over the leagues of sea. Beautiful Maoriland! Glorious Maoriland! Oh, my heart for my darling waits, down yonder in Maoriland!" "Go in and sign," said the boss once more, "for we can't wait here all day." The shearer turn'd to the office door, and again he turn'd away. His spirit shrank from the dreadful track, and here was a "vacant stand" — The chance of a cheque that would take him back to his home in Maoriland. "You've nothing to fear," said the boss, again, "for the law protects you now." The shearer turn'd with a twinge of pain, and wearily wiped his brow; His ears grew dull, and his eyes grew dim, as he gazed on the burning sand, And thought of his darling who watched for him, at home in his Maoriland. "Sign yer name there," said the mulga clerk; "write yer name there," he said. The shearer read, and his brow grew dark as the shameful clause he read. The squatters' agreement before him spread — the pen in his trembling hand — A few short weeks in the shearing shed — then home to his Maoriland. Then never a train too swift could run, nor a ship could sail too fast, When the shed cut out and the cheque was won, and he followed his heart at last. He stooped to sign, when it seemed to him that a cold breath touched his hand, And a sweet, clear voice he knew cried "Jim!" from the past and Maoriland. As you'd drop a snake, so he dropped the pen, and a short, sharp breath he drew, Oh was it a spirit that whispered then: "Be true to your mates; be true!"? He shouldered his swag, and he faced the track — the heat, and the flies, and sand — To die perhaps in the hell, out back, for the honour of Maoriland. He followed the light of the Union star — his love was a thing apart, But a heavier load than his swag, by far, was the load on the shearer's heart; And long ere the season had passed away his heart was a "vacant stand" — He leaned that his darling had died that day in his dreary Maoriland. "Fern and tussock and flax; range and river and sea. A strain on my heart that will not relax — a heart that will never be free. Promises fair in the future rise; what are they all to me? She haunts me still with her great brown eyes, over the leagues of sea. Beautiful Maoriland. Dreary Maoriland. Oh! my heart! for my heart lies dead in desolate Maoriland." The Worker