You say we bushmen cannot love, Our lives are too prosaic: hence We lose or lack that finer sense That raises some few men above Their fellows, setting them apart As vessels of a finer make,...
Now the squatters and the 'cockies,' Shearers, trainers and their jockeys Had gathered them together for a meeting on the flat; They had mustered all their forces, Owners brought their fastest horses,...
I love the ancient boundary-fence, That mouldering chock-and-log. When I go ride the boundary I let the old horse jog And take his pleasure in and out Where the sandalwood grows dense,...
Dozens of damp little curls; One little short upper lip; Two rows of teeth like diminutive pearls; Eyes clear and grey as the creek where it swirls Over the ledges that's Tip! With a skip!...
Long time beside the squatter's gate A great grey Box-Tree, early, late, Or shine or rain, in silence there Had stood and watched the seasons fare: Had seen the wind upon the plain...