(From 'An Idyll of the Wimmera.')

On the geodetic line, where the parish boundaries join
At a level and interminable lane
You can see it there, alone, standing calmly on its own,
Like an iceberg in a solitary main.
It's a topographic base, and each near or distant place
Is located from the Schoolhouse on the Plain.

It lies open to the road, in the usual country mode,
With a few old waster posts to bridge the drain;
The reserve is clean and dry, being several inches high,
The building standing back about a chain.
Nothing could excel the stand, and it's worth its bit of land,
That inexpensive Schoolhouse on the Plain.

It requires a lick of paint, to correct the weather-taint,
And its windows should have here and there a pane;
The open-jointed floor swallows pencils by the score,
And the veteran desks are inked with many a stain;
Still it's proof against the wet, and there's lots of service yet
In that unpretentious Schoolhouse on the Plain.

Such eventual wear and tear, with contingent disrepair,
Is appointed unto everything mundane ?
Bear in mind it braves with ease the fanatic and the breeze,
Spreading influence that nothing can restrain ?
Think how superstitions yield, and sectarian feuds are heal'd,
In that nation-building Schoolhouse on the Plain.

All the district, far and near, has a postal centre here,
So suitable that no one can complain;
Here the local Rechabites, on alternate Thursday nights,
Renew their solemn davy to abstain;
Also that improvement class, call'd the Literary Ass,
Holds its meetings at the Schoolhouse on the Plain.

When election time draws near, then the hayseeds rally here,
To catechise the candidate urbane;
To demand a cockspur line, and an open port for twine,
With reduction of the railway freight on grain.
Here on polling day they meet, to discomfort Lygon Street,
No nonsense with the Schoolhouse on the Plain!

Here the missionary man, fresh from Indian or Japan,
Unblushingly takes on him to maintain
That he labours day and night in a harvest field that's white,
With other statements shaky and inane;
But his magic-lantern show makes the entertainment go,
Till applauses fill the Schoolhouse on the Plain.

Every Sunday, after two, there's an old-man rendezvous,
And the edifice becomes a sacred fane;
Then along the fence, each side, stands a line of horses tied,
And the seats within hold all they can contain;
While some good, well-meaning man, as per local-preachers'plan,
Holds Service in the Schoolhouse on the Plain.

And as he exhorts or prays, or the flock their voices raise
In rendition of some Sankey-book refrain,
A dozen dogs, and more, hold possession of the floor,
Dumbly showing how they need insectibane ?
Nor are such things taken ill, for there's no superfluous frill
At those preachings in the Schoolhouse on the Plain.

There the boys deal glances fond, and the girls, of course, respond,
In spite of the indifference they feign;
Whilst the mothers of the youth listen to the word of truth,
Till they feel about as innocent as Cain;
And the toddlers play bo-peep, and the rude forefathers sleep,
Being bosses of the Schoolhouse on the Plain.

But the Monday, coming round, as by ancient usage bound,
Sees our jossless system under way again;
Then the hopefuls mobilize, and the droning murmurs rise,
Whilst the tree of knowledge creaks beneath the strain;
And the R's extend their roots, and the young idea shoots,
Under cover of that Schoolhouse on the Plain.

There are stories carted here, from the Northern Hemisphere,
And design'd to cause a thrill through every vein,
Of monarch's, grave or gay, each distinguish'd in his day
By being feeble-minded or insane ?
But here the kids compete for the scorner's sinful seat.
Their troubles at the Schoolhouse on the Plain!

As becometh Jim and Bill, their solicitude is nil
Touching Mary Queen of Scots or Anne Boleyn,
But the ructions of the kings, when their docile underlings
Made a many-figured tally of the slain,
Are consider'd worth review, for the sporting instinct true
Is powerful at the Schoolhouse on the Plain.

There are lessons setting forth how an islet somewhere north
Knock'd the stuffing out of Holland, France and Spain;
How, from east to west, its drum makes our planet fairly hum,
And the sunrise follow meekly in its train;
How that spadeful, all alone, gave us everything we own,
Especially this Schoolhouse on the Plain.

And the lydy-teacher there, comes from heaven alone knows where,
Like some angel they're vouchsafed to entertain.
She controls her motley drove by the gentle power of love,
Emphasising her affection with a cane ?
True, she cavils all the while at the rough, untidy style
Of her pupils in the Schoo