Then on the great grey plains so vast, Where the sun's rays dance and quiver, Through scorching heat and south-east blast, We've toiled on Flinders River. Through tangled scrubs and broken ground, We have often had to scramble; To wheel the cunning brumbie's round, From where they love to ramble. Old Norman ne'er was known to fail, Or in the camp to falter, And just as sound to-day and hale, As when he first wore halter. Good horse, you well have earned your rest, Your mustering days are over; For all your time you'll have the best, And pass your life in clover. The Indian's simple faith is plain, That in the land of shadows, He'll have his faithful dog again To hunt in misty meadows. And should a steed a soul attain, This surely then will follow-- I'll meet that grand old horse again, And hail him "Good old fellow!" Conobie, October 8th, 1894. THE WATCHER. The night wind keen and chill is creeping Across the plains with moaning sound; A rider there his watch is keeping, Where cattle camp in peace around. The Southern Cross shines clear and bright, And marks the hour that speeds; While Nature's sounds, borne on the night, Accustomed to, he little heeds. The hooting of the mopoke owl Floats on the midnight air; The prowling dingoe's dismal howl Is chorused wide and far. The curlew's cry, so wild and shrill, Pierces the air with startling sound; While o'er the waters calm and still, The wild fowl chase each other round. He cares not for the keen wind cold, Nor for the hour that's past; For thoughts of other days still hold His memory to the last. He minds him of his youth time ever, And the farm where he was born; The meadows green, and the flowing river, And the fields of tasselled corn. The sweet perfume of the apple's bloom, The sight of the mountain's blue, The drooping willows and yellow broom, And waving wheatfields too. He sees the cows from the pasture land, As down the lane they come, And sister Nell, with pail in hand, To wait their coming home. He sees again his father ploughing, In the old-fashioned sturdy way, He hears again the cock's shrill crowing, That waked him oft at break of day. His memory takes him back apace, To early manhood's prime, When a gentle voice and pleasant face Impressed him for all time. For loving lass and wandering lad, Since ever the world began, Though parted in grief, the love they had, Will come to each again. His wayward life he ponders on With anguish deep and keen, And as the past he looks upon, Sadly thinks--it might have been. But vain regrets will help him not. Nor vanished hopes renew; He only knows his present lot Has duties stern to do.