THE NIGHT CAMP.
The song goes round, we yarn and chaff,
And cheerily the bushman's laugh
Rolls through the forest glade.
The hobbled horses feed around,
We hear the horse-bell's tinkling sound;
The sand beneath their feet is ground,
As in the creek they wade.
We hear them crunch the juicy grass—
The water gleams like polished glass,
Beneath the moon's bright ray.
Mosquitos form in solid cloud—
They sting and sing, both sharp and loud;
Around the prostrate forms they crowd,
And keep repose at bay.
We watch the stars shine over head,
And lounge upon the bushman's bed—
A blanket on the ground.
Each feels himself Dame Nature's guest,
Our heads upon our saddles rest;
At length, with weariness oppressed,
We sink in sleep profound.
We sleep as only weary ones
Among hard-handed labour's sons,
With minds at rest from debts and duns—
As only these can do—
Until the daylight's first faint streak
Has lightly touched the distant peak,
And o'er us where the branches creak,
Is slowly creeping through.
Reluctantly with sleep we strive,
And hear the call to "look alive"!
We soon desert the camp.
The horses caught and blankets rolled,
The "Super's" brief instructions told—
We mount, and scarce our steeds can hold,
Impatiently they stamp.