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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=357723" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Old Town Types No. 25 - Black Peter Myloh</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=357723" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">A man was Peter Myloh, strong-browed and black of face,<br>Australian Aboriginal, son of a dark doomed race.<br>And even I, an urchin then, read grief in his soft eye <br>Deep grief, that came with knowledge for a people who must die,<br>For he was 'educated.' But he came of no meek race<br>Whining, 'Gibbit tickpen', mister,' with a shamed averted face.<br> And he was proud, quick with a blow for some fool's sneering slight,<br> And how I grinned and hugged myself. For, lordy! Could he fight!</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=357723" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Old Connors took him as a boy from some wild Murray tribe<br>And thought to educate him as a scholar and a scribe,<br>First at school, and then at college. 'Twas a venture ill begun,<br>For Connors soon grew tired of it; and left him on the run,<br>A sort of favoured hanger-on, whom every breed forsook,<br>To be the butt of shearers there, less than the Chinese cook.<br>And after he'd half-killed a man, and seemed hell-bound for doom,<br>'Twas my father gave him sanctu'ry as handyman and groom.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=357723" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Black Myloh loved my father; but the service of a slave<br>Was nought beside the hero-worship I, a stripling, gave<br>This lithe, dark-skinned Ulysses with the low, soft school-bred voice<br>And proudly then I would have changed my colour, had I choice.<br>For we were mates as men were mates on some forgotten day<br>Ere 'progress' came with all its care, and life was mostly play.<br>He taught me then the wise bush-lore learned centuries ago<br>By a simple, carefree people versed in arts no 'white' may know.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=357723" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">I learned how souls 'go walkabout', of dreams that are no dreams;<br>We ranged the plains, the scrub-clad hills, we fished the gum-lined streams,<br>And much I gained that served me well when from that home I ran,<br>And chose to act the prodigal, and learned to be a man…<br>And then, the white-scourge took him. Well do I mind my grief -<br>Fierce, childish grief, the questionings, the shaking of belief…<br>But that was very long ago; yet, even now, much truth<br>I winnow from Black Myloh's lore, the real friend of my youth.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Clarence+Michael+James+Stanislaus+Dennis">Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis</a></strong></div>