And the dingo howls through the sultry night;
Where the native gathers the nardoo-seed
For his frugal meal; and the centipede—
While the worn-out traveller lies inert,
Invades the folds of his flannel shirt?
"Not there—not there, my child."
Is it where yon death-like stillness reigns
O'er the vast expanse of the salt-bush plains,
Where the shepherd leaveth his Leicester ewes
For the firm embrace of his noon-tide snooze,