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.