Barcroft Boake

Hear the loud swell of it, mighty pell mell of it, Thousands of voices all blent into one: See 'hell for leather' now trooping together, now

You say we bushmen cannot love, Our lives are too prosaic: hence We lose or lack that finer sense

Adown the grass-grown paths we strayed, The evening cowslips ope'd Their yellow eyes to look at her,

I've a kiss from a warmer lover Than maiden earth can be: She blew it up to the skies above her,

Drip, drip, drip! It tinkles on the fly The pitiless outpouring of an overburdened sky: Each drooping frond of pine has got a jewel at its tip

A Valentine The Bree was up; the floods were out Around the hut of Culgo Jim: The hand of God had broke the drought

Far reaching down's a solid sea sunk everlastingly to rest, And yet whose billows seem to be for ever heaving toward the west The tiny fieldmice make their nests, the summer insects buzz and hum

She was born in the season of fire, When a mantle of murkiness lay On the front of the crimson Destroyer:

The fight was over, and the battle won A soldier, who beneath his chieftain's eye Had done a might deed and done it well,

Easter Monday in the city, Rattle, rattle, rumble, rush; Tom and Jerry, Nell and Kitty,

What made the porter stare so hard? what made the porter stare And eye the tall young woman and the bundle that she bare? What made the tall young woman flush, and strive to hide her face,

None ever knew his name, Honoured, or one of shame, Highborn or lowly;

Will she spring with a blush from the arms of Dawn, When the sleepy songsters prune Their dewy vestments on bush and thorn,

Hark, the sound of it drawing nearer, Clink of hobble and brazen bell; Mark the passage of stalwart shearer,

Brookong station lay half-asleep Dozed in the waning western glare ('Twas before the run had stocked with sheep

A sweat-dripping horse and a half-naked myall, And a message: 'Come out to the back of the run Be out at the stake-yards by rising of sun!

Tis a song of the Never Never land Set to the tune of a scorching gale On the sandhills red,

Now the squatters and the 'cockies,' Shearers, trainers and their jockeys Had gathered them together for a meeting on the flat;

Do I know Polly Brown? Do I know her? Why, damme, You might as well ask if I know my own name? It's a wonder you never heard tell of old Sammy,

'It's my shout this time, boys, so come along and breast the bar, And kindly mention what you're going to take; I don't feel extra thirsty, so I'll sample that 'three-star',

Diamantina River, Western Queensland The first flush of grey light, the herald of daylight, Is dimly outlining the musterer's camp,

Yes, there it hangs upon the wall And never gives a sound, The hand that trimmed its greenhide fall

There came a lonely Briton to the town, A solitary Briton with a mission, He'd vowed a vow to put all 'shouting' down,

The rum was rich and rare, There were wagers in the air, The atmosphere was rosy, and the tongues were wagging free;

Kelly the Ranger half opened an eye To wink at the Army passing by, While his hot breath, thick with the taint of beer,

The western sun, ere he sought his lair, Skimm'd the treetops, and glancing thence, Rested awhile on the curling hair

I love the ancient boundary-fence, That mouldering chock-and-log. When I go ride the boundary

On Nungar the mists of the morning hung low, The beetle-browed hills brooded silent and black, Not yet warmed to life by the sun's loving glow,

There's a fellow on the station (He dropped in on a call, Just casual to stay a pleasant week),

Our Skeeta was married, our Skeeta! the tomboy and pet of the place, No more as a maiden we'd greet her, no more would her pert little face Light up the chill gloom of the parlour; no more would her deft little hands

Dozens of damp little curls; One little short upper lip; Two rows of teeth like diminutive pearls;

Long time beside the squatter's gate A great grey Box-Tree, early, late, Or shine or rain, in silence there

(A Legend of Kiandra) The snow lies deep on hill and dale, In rocky gulch and grassy vale,

Scrape the bottom of the hole: gather up the stuff, Fossick in the crannies, lest you leave a grain behind, Just another shovelful and that'll be enough,

There's a nice little hatpeg that hangs on the wall That long from its owner has parted, And though he is wandering far beyond call

Out on the wastes of the Never Never That's where the dead men lie! There where the heat-waves dance forever