Och! a charmin' young cratur' was Kitty O'Toole, The lily ov shwate Tipperary; Wid a voice like a thrish, and wid cheeks like a rose, An' a figger as nate as a fairy! Oi saw her wan noight--och! she look'd loike a quane In the glory ov shwate wan an' twinty-- As she sat wid McGinty's big arm round her waisht, Och! how I invied McGinty! Six months afther that, in the shwate summer days, The boys an' the girls wor' invoited By Micky O'Toole, ov the cabin beyant, To see Kate an' McGinty unoited; An' whin in the church they wor' made into wan, An' the priesht gave thim blissin's in plinty, An' Kitty look'd shwater than iver before-- Och! how I invied McGinty! But the years have gone by, an' McGinty is dead! Och! me heart was all broke up wid pity To see her so lonely, an' mournful, an' sad, An' I wint an' got married to Kitty! But now, whin I look where McGinty is laid, Wid a shtone o'er his head cowld an' flinty-- As he lies there so peaceful, an' quoiet, an' shtill-- Och! how I invy McGinty. W. L. LUMLEY. _THE BALLAD OF THE DROVER._ BY HENRY LAWSON. (_By kind permission of Messrs. Angus and Robertson, Publishers, Sydney and Melbourne._) Across the stony ridges, Across the rolling plain, Young Harry Dale, the drover, Comes riding home again. And well his stock-horse bears him, And light of heart is he, And stoutly his old pack-horse Is trotting by his knee. Up Queensland way with cattle He travelled regions vast; And many months have vanished Since home-folk saw him last. He hums a song of someone He hopes to marry soon; And hobble-chains and camp-ware Keep jingling to the tune. Beyond the hazy dado Against the lower skies, And yon blue line of ranges, The homestead station lies. And thitherward the drover Jogs through the lazy noon, While hobble-chains and camp-ware Are jingling to a tune. An hour has filled the heavens With storm-cloud inky black; At times the lightning trickles Around the drover's track, But Harry pushes onward; His horses' strength he tries In hope to reach the river Before the flood shall rise. The thunder from above him Goes rolling o'er the plain; And down on thirsty pastures In torrents fall the rain. And every creek and gully Sends forth its little flood, Till the river runs a banker, All stained with yellow mud. Now Harry speaks to Rover, The best dog on the plains; And to his hardy horses, And strokes their shaggy manes; "We've breasted bigger rivers When floods were at their height, Nor shall this gutter stop us From getting home to-night!"