I’m swarming and teeming with grass-seeds!
I’m sure the dashed things have struck root!
Here! let’s have a go at the bathroom;
And lend me an unseeded suit.
I tingle and burn worse than ever!
What’s that? Oh! the order for Perth—
I can’t hold a pencil for splinters—
Just order some best Fuller’s earth.
Some wadding and lint and carbolic,
Some needles and tweezers and oil.
Order Zam-Buk and eye-salve and Condy’s—
I’m all of a sizzle and boil.
I’ve fly-fever, blood-poison and snake-bite,
And sunstroke and measles.—Don’t laugh.
I’ll “write up” the cost of production—
You deserve a good price for your “chaff.”
Say, when can I get these dashed cure-alls?
Next week! via Johnson and Brown?
Good heavens, man! Order the sulky!
I’m back by the next train to town.
What’s that you say? Cream? Ah! that’s better—
Why Mary, you’re saving my life.
Here, some on my arms—ah! that’s heaven!
I think I must order a wife.
The Breaking of the Drought.
Morn, and the dust on red wings flying,
Where flowers are dead, and green grass dying;
The land-breeze like a spoilt child crying—
The Wongan Hills are sighing.
Noon, and the storm-wind fiercely dashing
Through bending forest the tall trees lashing;
The lightning’s eyes ’twixt thunders crashing,
Round the Wongan Hills are flashing.
Afternoon—through the creek-beds creeping
Soon rise the wakened waters leaping,
Till everywhere are torrents sweeping—
The Wongan Hills are weeping.
Evening, and cleansed from all defiling,
With playful drops the moments whiling;
Wrapped in the sunset’s robe beguiling.
The Wongan Hills are smiling.