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| I’M sick of fog and yellow gloom, | |
| Of faces strange, and alien eyes, | |
| Your London is a vault, a tomb, | |
| To those born ’neath Australian skies. | |
| O land of gold and burning blue, | 5 |
| I’m crying like a child for you! | |
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| The trees are tossing in the park | |
| Against the banked-up amethyst, | |
| At four o’clock it will be dark, | |
| And I a blind man in the mist. | 10 |
| Hark to old London’s smothered roar, | |
| Gruff jailer growling at my door! | |
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| Each day I see Fate’s wheel whirl round, | |
| And yet my fortunes are the same, | |
| My hopes are trodden in the ground, | 15 |
| Good luck has never heard my name, | |
| O friends, O home, beyond the seas, | |
| Alone in darkness here I freeze! | |
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| The day is dead: night falls apace; | |
| I reach my hand to draw the blind, | 20 |
| To hide old London’s frowning face, | |
| And then (alas) I call to mind | |
| The shining ways we used to roam | |
| Those long, light evenings at home. | |
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| I hate this fog and yellow gloom, | 25 |
| These days of grey and amethyst; | |
| I want to see the roses bloom, | |
| The smiling fields by sunshine kissed— | |
| O land of gold and burning blue! | |
| I’m crying like a child for you! | 30 |
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