I know the land of the far, far west, Where the bower-bird builds her playhouse nest; Where the dusky savage from day to day, Hunts with his tribe in their old wild way.
’Tis a land of vastness and solitude deep, Where the dry hot winds their revels keep; The land of mirage that cheats the eye, The land of cloudless and burning sky.
’Tis a land of drought and pastures grey, Where flock-pigeons rise in vast array; Where the “nardoo” spreads its silvery sheen Over the plains where the floods have been.
’Tis a land of gidya and dark boree, Extended o’er plains like an inland sea, Boundless and vast, where the wild winds pass, O’er the long rollers and billows of grass.
I made my home in that thirsty land, Where rivers for water are filled with sand; Where glare and heat and storms sweep by, Where the prairie rolls to the western sky.
—“Loranthus.”
Cloncurry, 1897.
W. C. Penfold & Co., Printers, Sydney.