BEATEN back in sad dejection,
After years of weary toil
On that burning hot selection
Where the drought has gorged his spoil.
All in vain gainst him, the vulture,
I have battled without rest
In the van of agriculture,
Marching out into the West.
Now the eagle-hawks are feeding
On my perished stock that reek
Where the water-holes receding
Long had left the burning creek.
I must labour without pity
I the pick and spade must wield
In the streetways of the city
Or upon anothers field!
Can it be my reasons rocking,
For I feel a burning hate
For the God who, only mocking,
Sent the prayed-for rain too late?
Pour, ye mocking rains, and rattle
On the bare, brown, grassless plain,
On the shrivelled hides of cattle
That shall neer want grass again!
Rush, ye yellow floods, to Murray,
Over thirsty creek-banks foam;
And oer all, ye black clouds, hurry;
Ye can bring not back my home!
