THE MUSTER.
We ford the creek and need no bridge,
And climb a steep and scrubby ridge,
And then, boys, there's a sight!—
The "gully," by the sun unkist,
Beneath lies rolled in gleaming mist
And flowing waves of light;
As yet untouched by noon-tide heat,
Like rocks where broken waters meet,
'Tis wrapped as by a winding sheet
In billows fleecy white.
Onward, and soon the sun's fierce rays
Will dissipate the morning haze—
He soars in fiery pomp.
We skirt the shallow "clay-pan's" marge,
Force "lignum" thickets, dense and large,
And often-times we briskly charge
Some dark "Yapunya-swamp."
We gather first a quiet lot,
Then off again with hurried trot
Upon our toilsome tramp.
Each gully, range, and hill we beat,
Charge every horned thing we meet—
With ringing shout and gallop fleet—
And "run" then "on the camp."
The shaggy herd increases fast;
We know by lengthened shadows cast
Time too has galloped hard;
'Twill try our powers, howe'er we strive,
This most rebellious mob to drive,
E're night-fall, to the yard.