ST MARYS by George Sullivan (about 1920)

Nine and twenty miles from Sydney,               It could tell of all the bullocks
    As you go by road or train,                              That were roasted on its green;
    There's a little valley township ;                      Of the glorious games of football
    St Marys is it's name.                                     By sportsmen strong and clean.

'Tis built upon the South Creek's banks,            It could tell of games of cricket,
    That lively, oak-clad, winding stream,              Of how the wickets soon did fall
    That flows its way through fertile lands,          When demon bowlers, Royal and Tolhurst,
    So peaceful and serene.                                    Did send down the ball.

If you care for landscape scenes,                      Oft in the Park, I sit and ponder,
    You will surely get your fill                            Underneath the shady trees,
    When you look down on that valley                 And hear the voices long departed
    From Church or Quarry Hill.                           Murmur in the leaves.

The town was famed for wool and leather,        I seem to hear their voices calling,
    In the days that have decayed,                         Seem to see them sitting there,
    And the waggons, drays and lorries                   And to hear the good old yarns they told
    The Bennett brothers made.                             On Sundays in the Square.

In that very splendid district                            But soon, now, we old men must follow;
    Many million bricks were made                        Of joys and cares we've had our fill,
    In the days now past and gone                         To sleep, with friends departed, in
    When that was quite a trade.                           The Churchyard on the Hill.

If only Victoria Park could speak
    What woundrous tales from it you'd share,
    About those careless, happy days
    When it was called 'The Square'.