The Passage

 
Across the Southern Ocean,
on the Roaring Forties run.
Leaving English winter grayness,
for Australian summer sun.
One hundred feet of timber,
canvas rope and iron.
Tied together by seamen,
who lives are ruled by the time.
 
A shipload full of immigrants,
tools, sheep, cows and rum.
On the lee side of the cabin,
day passengers, take in the sun.
A mother playing with her child,
and she is obviously carrying.
A sign of hope in this endeavor,
So far from home in England.
 
From the Central Highlands,
across the Southern Moors.
Farming folk were leaving,
for hope of foreign shores.
Some families left as only three,
would arrive with one more.
Others weren’t so lucky,
and would be buried not ashore.
 
James left from Somerset,
agricultural laborer his ticket said.
For Geelong with wife Ann Palmer,
A Glovit, her only skill.
James was indentured to work at Barrabool,
in the service of a farmer.
<div style="text-align: center; margin: 0in 0in 0pt”>Their passage paid in exchange,
by their he gave time in tenure.
 
New life and hope,
away from country ruled by class,
that would see prosper in this free land.
One hundred days, a wind that’s fair,
would see the sight of land.
The rugged Otway Ranges,
long beaches of soft white sand.
The dreaded rocky coastline around Apollo Bay,
that had claimed the “Loch Ard” victims
in wet graves now stay.
 
Not so the good ship “Childe Harold”,
luck was with her still.
Fear and dread and sickness,
troubles all but few.
Point Lonsdale lighthouse beckons,
calm seas can’t come too soon.
The shelter of the harbor,
rest for weary souls.
Bustling traffic blocks the wharf,
up go shouts of hip hooray.
The captain’s done a mighty job,
And brought us here this day.
 
Written 22.1.2000
Edited   24.6.2001