Part 22

All that he has, in camp or homestead, proffers To stranger guest at once a stranger host, Proudest to see accepted what he offers, Given without a boast.

Pass, if you can, the drover's cattle stringing Along the miles of the wide travelled road, Without a challenge through the hot dust ringing, Kind though abrupt the mode.

A cloud of dust where polish'd wheels are flashing Passes along, and in it rolls the mail. Comes from the box as on the coach goes dashing The lonely driver's hail.

Or in the track a station youngster mounted Sits in his saddle smoking for a "spell", Rides a while onward; then, his news recounted, Parts with a brief farewell.

To-day these plains may seem a face defiant, Turn'd to a mortal foe, yet scorning fear; As when, with heaven at war, an Earth-born giant Saw the Olympian near.

Come yet again! No child's fair face is sweeter With young delight than this cool blooming land, Silent no more, for songs than wings are fleeter, No blaze, but sunshine bland.

Thus in her likeness that strange nature moulding Makes man as moody, sad and savage too; Yet in his heart, like her, a passion holding, Unselfish, kind and true.

Therefore, while many turn with love and longing To wan lands lying on the grey North Sea, To-day possessed by other mem'ries thronging We turn, wild West, to thee!

23rd December, 1891.

Patrick Edward Quinn.

A Girl's Grave

"Aged 17, OF A BROKEN HEART, January 1st, 1841."

What story is here of broken love, What idyllic sad romance, What arrow fretted the silken dove That met with such grim mischance?

I picture you, sleeper of long ago, When you trifled and danced and smiled, All golden laughter and beauty's glow In a girl life sweet and wild.

Hair with the red gold's luring tinge, Fine as the finest silk, Violet eyes with a golden fringe And cheeks of roses and milk.

Something of this you must have been, Something gentle and sweet, To have broken your heart at seventeen And died in such sad defeat.

Hardly one of your kinsfolk live, It was all so long ago, The tale of the cruel love to give That laid you here so low.

Loving, trusting, and foully paid -- The story is easily guessed, A blotted sun and skies that fade And this grass-grown grave the rest.

Whatever the cynic may sourly say, With a dash of truth, I ween, Of the girls of the period, in your day They had hearts at seventeen.

Dead of a fashion out of date, Such folly has passed away Like the hoop and patch and modish gait That went out with an older day.

The stone is battered and all awry, The words can be scarcely read, The rank reeds clustering thick and high Over your buried head.

I pluck one straight as a Paynim's lance To keep your memory green, For the lordly sake of old Romance And your own, sad seventeen.

John Sandes.

`With Death's Prophetic Ear'

Lay my rifle here beside me, set my Bible on my breast, For a moment let the warning bugles cease; As the century is closing I am going to my rest, Lord, lettest Thou Thy servant go in peace. But loud through all the bugles rings a cadence in mine ear, And on the winds my hopes of peace are strowed. Those winds that waft the voices that already I can hear Of the rooi-baatjes singing on the road.

Yes, the red-coats are returning, I can hear the steady tramp, After twenty years of waiting, lulled to sleep, Since rank and file at Potchefstroom we hemmed them in their camp, And cut them up at Bronkerspruit like sheep. They shelled us at Ingogo, but we galloped into range, And we shot the British gunners where they showed. I guessed they would return to us, I knew the chance must change -- Hark! the rooi-baatjes singing on the road!

But now from snow-swept Canada, from India's torrid plains, From lone Australian outposts, hither led, Obeying their commando, as they heard the bugle's strains, The men in brown have joined the men in red. They come to find the colours at Majuba left and lost, They come to pay us back the debt they owed; And I hear new voices lifted, and I see strange colours tossed, 'Mid the rooi-baatjes singing on the road.

The old, old faiths must falter, and the old, old creeds must fail -- I hear it in that distant murmur low -- The old, old order changes, and 'tis vain for us to rail, The great world does not want us -- we must go. And veldt, and spruit, and kopje to the stranger will belong, No more to trek before him we shall load; Too well, too well, I know it, for I hear it in the song Of the rooi-baatjes singing on the road.