Just to glance through the letter you sent.
It is scarcely six months since I left Cooranbean,
But seems longer than all of last year;
And the moon ain’t so bright, and the grass ain’t so green,
And the sky, somehow, isn’t so clear:
Oh, I’d give all their towns, to the very last brick,
And their mines, with the forchins they yield,
Just to hear the old ripple of Cooranbean crick,
And the rustle of corn in the field.
There isn’t no “skirts” like the Cooranbean “skirts”!