| |
| LIGHTLY the breath of the spring wind blows, | |
| Though laden with faint perfume; | |
| ’Tis the fragrance rare that the bushman knows, | |
| The scent of the wattle bloom. | |
| Two-thirds of our journey at least are done, | 5 |
| Old horse! let us take a spell | |
| In the shade from the glare of the noonday sun, | |
| Thus far we have travelled well; | |
| Your bridle I’ll slip, your saddle ungirth, | |
| And lay them beside this log, | 10 |
| For you’ll roll in that track of reddish earth, | |
| And shake like a water-dog. | |
| |
| Upon yonder rise there’s a clump of trees— | |
| Their shadows look cool and broad— | |
| You can crop the grass as fast as you please, | 15 |
| While I stretch my limbs on the sward; | |
| ’Tis pleasant, I ween, with a leafy screen | |
| O’er the weary head, to lie | |
| On the mossy carpet of emerald green, | |
| ’Neath the vault of the azure sky; | 20 |
| Thus all alone by the wood and wold, | |
| I yield myself once again | |
| To the memories old that, like tales fresh told, | |
| Come flitting across the brain. | |
| |
