Where is his dwelling on old Monaro?—
Buckley’s Crossing, or Jindaboine?
Dry Plain is it, or sweet Bolaro?
P’r’aps ‘tis near where the rivers join.
Where is he making for? Down the River!
When, oh, when will he turn him back?
Soft sighs follow him down the River:
Moist eyes gaze at his fading track.
See! behind him the pack-horse, ambling,
Bears the weight of his master’s kit—
Oft and oft from the pathway rambling,
Crops unhampered by cruel bit.
Where is he making for, equine rover?—
Sturdy nag from the Eucumbene,
Tempted down by the thought of clover
Springing luscious in Riverine.
Dreams of life and its future chances;
Snatch of song to beguile the way—
Through green crannies the sunlight glances,
Silver-gilding the bright jack-shay.
‘So long, mate! I can stay no longer.
So long, mate! I’ve no time to stop:
Pens are waiting me at Mahonga,
Bluegong, Grubben, and Pullitop.
‘What! you say that the River’s risen?
What! that the melted snow has come?
What! that it locks and bars our prison?—
Many’s the mountain stream I’ve swum.
