And the most enchanting visions come
To his thirsty spirit of Queensland rum,
While the sun rays strike through his garments scant—
Is it there, dear mother, this wond'rous plant?
"Not there—not there, my child."
Or Southward, down where our brethren hold
Those keys of power, rich mines of gold—
That land of rumour and vague reports,
Alluvial diggings, and reefs of quartz—
Where brokers give you the straightest "tip,"