Edgar-and-Lil-Johnston

Poems of Rev. Edgar Johnston

Ode to a butterfly

Where beauty walks in fields of asphodel,
Or haunts, a lovely star, dim ether’s hall,
Or nestles in love’s eyes with amorous spell,
Or shines within the rainbowed waterfall,
Or shrouds the mountain with a glistening pall
Of snow, from whence she bids the kneeling morn,
Arise and shower her beauty over all,
There, pretty wanderer, there wast thou born
When a bright fragment from her trailing dress was torn.

Or was it when some dreamy shepherd lad –
Urged by great visions, teeming in his brain,
Of Nature’s pageantries with brilliance clad, -
Took from the ground bright coloured stones to stain
His visions onto parchment for our gain,
A breeze swept by, and with it fled away
A painted slip of paper that in vain
He chased until the gods admired its play
And gave its freedom life, was that thy first birthday?

Where is thy home, oh happy wanderer?
Perhaps an unknown isle, of halcyon days,
Where flower-scented breezes softly stir,
And never a storm disturbs its placid bays,
But rains descend as gentle as the rays
Of the mild sun, enfolds thy budded bower?
And unprotected when the black storms lower,
With but the breeze a crystal plant and thee its flower?
E M Johnston (undated)

My mother Machree

There’s an old Irish home,
Far across oceans three,
Where I lived so secure
With my mother Machree.
How my heart sadly aches
For that sheltering home
Where a loved one awaits
For her wanderer to come.

Oh, how foolish I’ve been
Since I came to this land!
When I should have worked hard,
Why, I acted so grand!
And the friends that I made
Urged me on a mad spree,
And disaster soon came
From such wild company.

Now a prison’s my home,
And the clothes that I wear
Take the pride out of me,
And would leave me despair,
But my hope as I wait
Are the prayers said for me
That fly up to heaven
Of my mother Machree.

Copyright. © Rev. E. M. Johnston.

Pioneers

Dedicated to the men and women who bravely but vainly built the now deserted homesteads and towns in the north of South Australia.

Sweetheart, you must cease your weeping!
Soon the Hawker coach will come.
We must let our grief lie sleeping,
And our voices of pain be dumb.
We will build a home together
In some southern sheltered vale,
And the God who marks the sparrow,
Will not always let us fail.

Yes, I know the dreams we cherished,
And the joy in all we planned,
Precious dreams – how quickly perished
When the drought raged through the land,
Then the fires that swept upon us,
And our home that went in flames!
But we’re young and must keep dreaming,
Dreams are hopes, and hopes have claims.

O my lov'd one, you inspired me
As I toiled to build and farm,
I did all that you desired me,
And we never dreamed of harm.
But we’ve still our hopes and courage
Which we’ll take to Adelaide –
Here’s the coach! And thank you, darling,
That’s the smile for which I prayed.

Copyright. © Rev. E. M. Johnston.