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