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,...
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 First a twinkle, then a sprinkle, and a drip, drip, drip. ...
Brookong station lay half-asleep Dozed in the waning western glare ('Twas before the run had stocked with sheep And only cattle depastured there) As the Bluccap mob reined up at the door...
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! Ride hard and fail not! there's the devil to pay:...
Tis a song of the Never Never land Set to the tune of a scorching gale On the sandhills red, When the grasses dead Loudly rustle, and bow the head To the breath of its dusty hail: ...
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,...
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, Her father, my mate in the Crackenback claim. ...