The Italian Farmer [poem, 3 September 1932]

The Italian Farmer

Specially dedicated by us to the gentlemen of the B. P. L. (British Preference League)

Now, here am I in this lovely land,
And what do I ask of you?
Only the grip of a friendly hand
And a job of work to do.
Only that freedom and happiness
Which is every true man’s right;
And the right to help, not more nor less,
To keep Australia white.

I come not asking for acres wide
And a mansion on a hill.
But I’ll build a home, and I’ll there abide
And alone I’ll foot the bill;
While arms can labour and eyes can see
I would rather toil than talk,
And my work shall be my guarantee
In the ways where true men walk.

The soil has speech that I understand,
There’s a song in the furrow sweet:
Then show the way to your idle land
That is far from your noisy street;
And my song shall ring to the sunny sky
Where the vines their fullness yield;
For there’s nowhere a happier man than I
In the pride of his home and field.

And the day may come when the dogs of doom
Shall bay on the far-flung track;
When the blades may flash and the guns may boom
O’er the hill and the plain out back;
Then side by side with your pride I’ll stand
In the thick of the hardest fight
To die, if God will, for this lovely land,
To keep Australia white.

Pappagallo



Source:
Il Giornale Italiano (Sydney, NSW), Saturday 3 September 1932, page 1

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