Colonial nationalist poems

The University of Western Australia, which promotes itself as in the top 1% of research led universities in the world, (131 in the times ranking, and better than any NZ university) is shutting its printing press because of global strategic vision.

Globalists one: locals nil. It is what happens when you import a vice chancellor from elsewere: their CV is good but their wisdom is suspect.

The ironic thing here is that the lefty-luvvies of UWAP are simply getting their globalism good and hard, and isn’t that what they’ve been crowing about for so long? Multiculturalism means globalism, and globalism means getting some guy named Shah to come in and start shutting down your Western institutions and firing your staff under the auspices of “global partnerships strategic vision”.

This is what happens when you support an agenda that at its heart wants to see you destroyed. But the prog left never actually believe that they will be personally effected. They’re special, don’t you know.

Adam is an Australian, now expatriate, for the sake of his sanity. I don’t like Australia: New Zealand is more akin to England. But no country should forget what it is.

My Country

The love of field and coppice,
Of green and shaded lanes.
Of ordered woods and gardens
Is running in your veins,
Strong love of grey-blue distance
Brown streams and soft dim skies
I know but cannot share it,
My love is otherwise.

I love a sunburnt country,
A land of sweeping plains,
Of ragged mountain ranges,
Of droughts and flooding rains.
I love her far horizons,
I love her jewel-sea,
Her beauty and her terror –
The wide brown land for me!

A stark white ring-barked forest
All tragic to the moon,
The sapphire-misted mountains,
The hot gold hush of noon.
Green tangle of the brushes,
Where lithe lianas coil,
And orchids deck the tree-tops
And ferns the warm dark soil.

Core of my heart, my country!
Her pitiless blue sky,
When sick at heart, around us,
We see the cattle die –
But then the grey clouds gather,
And we can bless again
The drumming of an army,
The steady, soaking rain.

Core of my heart, my country!
Land of the Rainbow Gold,
For flood and fire and famine,
She pays us back threefold –
Over the thirsty paddocks,
Watch, after many days,
The filmy veil of greenness
That thickens as we gaze.

An opal-hearted country,
A wilful, lavish land –
All you who have not loved her,
You will not understand –
Though earth holds many splendours,
Wherever I may die,
I know to what brown country
My homing thoughts will fly.

Dorothea Mackellar, 1907

The modern poets despise this as mawkish, sentimental, and above all, patriotic. I like it, for an Australian it’s good.

Bracken wrote our second national anthem (the first is “God save the Queen”) and this. From it you can make a rule: when you have buried your ancestors in a land you can say it is your own. Many of the colonials still talked of England or Scotland. They fought for King and Empire. It took three or four generations for New Zealanders to become acculturated to England and Colonials, no longer really welcome, and outside the class system.

And this is now our land. Let no globalist import a new people

Pax Vobiscum

IN a forest, far away,
One small creeklet, day by day,
Murmurs only this sad lay:
‘Peace be with thee, Lilian.’

One old box-tree bends his head,
One broad wattle shades her bed,
One lone magpie mourns the dead:
‘Peace be with thee, Lilian.’

Echoes come on every breeze,
Sighing through the ancient trees,
Whisp’ring in their melodies:
‘Peace be with thee, Lilian.’

Mellow sunbeams, morn and eve,
Quick to come and slow to leave,
Kiss the quilt where daisies weave
Rich designs o’er Lilian.

When the dying blossoms cling
To the skirts of parting Spring,
Wattle-boughs and branches fling
Showers of gold o’er Lilian.

When the Summer moon mounts high,
Queen of all the speckless sky,
Shafts of silver softly lie
O’er the grave of Lilian.

Mystic midnight voices melt
Through each leafy bower and belt,
Round the spot where friends have knelt—
‘Peace be with thee, Lilian.’

Far away from town and tower,
Sleeping in a leafy bower,
Withered lies the forest flower—
‘Peace be with thee, Lilian.’

There, where passions ne’er intrude,
There, where Nature has imbued
With her sweets the solitude,
Rests the form of Lilian.

Dear old forest o’er the sea,
Home of Nature’s euphony,
Pour thy requiem psalmody
O’er the grave of Lilian.

Guard that daisy-quilted sod:
Thou hast there no common clod;
Keep her ashes safe; for God
Makes but few like Lilian.

Sceptics ask me: ‘Is that clay
In the forest far away
Part of her?’—I only say:
‘Flow’rets breathe out Lilian;

‘From her grave their sweets mount high—
Love and beauty never die—
Sun and stars, earth, sea and sky
All partake of Lilian.

Thomas Bracken