You may lay me in my bed, mother,—my head is throbbing sore;
And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before;
And, if you’d do a kindness to your poor desponding child,
Draw me a pot of beer, mother—and, mother, draw it mild!
The Convict and the Australian Lady.
Thy skin is dark as jet, ladye,
Thy cheek is sharp and high,
And there’s a cruel leer, love,
Within thy rolling eye:
These tangled ebon tresses
No comb hath e’er gone through;
And thy forehead, it is furrowed by
The elegant tattoo!
I love thee,—oh, I love thee,
Thou strangely-feeding maid!
Nay, lift not thus thy boomerang,
I meant not to upbraid!
Come, let me taste those yellow lips
That ne’er were tasted yet,
Save when the shipwrecked mariner
Passed through them for a whet.
Nay, squeeze me not so tightly!
For I am gaunt and thin;
There’s little flesh to tempt thee
Beneath a convict’s skin.
I came not to be eaten;
I sought thee, love, to woo;
Besides, bethink thee, dearest,
Thou’st dined on cockatoo.
Thy father is a chieftain!
Why, that’s the very thing!
Within my native country
I too have been a king.
Behold this branded letter,
Which nothing can efface!
It is the royal emblem,
The token of my race!