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Project Gutenberg Australia HomeReturn to Index of Poems
Of a Federal City we dreamed In our youth,
And so starts its historee;
We promised ‘twould rear in a region uncouth,
And comply with the people’s decree;
And we planned and we dreamed through an eon of drouth,
And still ‘tis a question in every mouth,
In the east and the south, and to westward of Louth—
Oh, where shall the capital be?
It stands on its ace in a singular case,
For ‘tis piling up historee,
While yet it is nameless, and hasn’t a place
E’en def’nitely marked by a tree
Though our grandchildren great when this country they grace,
While the hills, and the vales of their chosen they pace,
Some relics may trace of their ancestors’ chase,
But—where will the capital be?
The tours of inspection and picnics of yore,
Made pages of historee;
And the tins and the bottles they scattered galore,
Mark the sites so the people may see;
Of Commissions we’ve read till Commission’s a bore,
Thro’ Bombala, and Lyndhurst, and Tumut, and more,
We travelled and swore, and still ask as before,
Oh, where shall our capital be?
The schemes of the brummagem tilted our tile;
‘Tis all in our historee;
We passed legislation, praiseworthy and vile,
In language effective and free;
The plague interested—and so did the Nile,
The Federal crisis created a smile;
Still after each while would the query beguile:
Oh, where shall the capital be?
We give some attention at times to the Russ—
He’s making great historee;
We wander to Thibet, and back with a cuss
On the ways of the Heathen Chinee;
The valiant Jap is applauded by us,
We condole with our George when he misses the ‘bus,
But still from the fuss we e’er turn to discuss—
Oh, where shall the capital be?
‘Thas seen many parliaments, Federal and State,
Recorded in historee;
Claimed “hon’rable mention” of each candidate
At many a-canvassing spree;
It’s caused the bush towns their near neighbors to hate,
If listed as “sites” on the Ministers’ slate.
For the theme of debate has been early and late,
Oh, where shall the capital be?
Speculators have waited agog to Invest
Through years of its historee;
Job-hunters have buttoned the east and the west,
All eager to earn them a fee;
And the diligent cocky’s been coupled with jest
Since he asked an extortionate price for his nest,
That handy might rest at the end of the quest;
Oh, where shall the capital be?
Now, the up-to-date whaler, all spruce and contrite,
And versed in its historee,
Pretends to the cocky he’s after that site,
And has lost his colleagues and his ‘gee’;
So he’s shown round the hut, and regaled with a bite;
Then another lost Mission turns up like a sprite,
Till the victim of skite does this legend indite:
“Where the L will the capital B?”
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