THE PADDOCK
What a hand it seem’d to lend!....
Good times follow’d, wool and stock
Up, and steady as a rock—
Till we settled I could send
For poor Janet; yes, and still,
Step by step, we’ve gone up-hill,
Slow, but sure and steady; till
Andrew rode to Town, to pay
The last shilling, yesterday!
In the evening, coming back,
There I met him, on the track
That we took, those ten years since,
And we rode, this time, all round
That once rough-and-tumble ground.
No need, now, to sigh, or wince,
Choke the tears, or mend a moan—
There lay our Bush Section: grown,
Paddocks, You! and all our own.
When you’re climbing yonder peak—
Down the swamp, across the creek,
Up through Bush—the track is rough,
And the up-hill scramble tough;
When you’ve done it, and come out—
Up and down and round about,
Oh, the air! and such a view!
—From our hill-top of What Is,
So we view now What Has Been.
What a difference in the scene!
Friendly, smiling, now it lies,
Panting Past, from tranquil Present
Almost picturesque and pleasant.
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