If they missed my face in Farmers’ Arms
When the landlord lit the lamp,
They would grin and say in their country way,
The stamp of Scotland is on his face,
But he sailed to the South a lad,
And he does not think of the black bleak hills
Old acquaintance unforgotten,
Though you may be “ugly brutes”—
Though your leather’s cracked and rotten,
Worn-out pair of Blucher boots.
A bushman got lost in a scrub in the North,
And all the long morning the searchers went forth.
They swore at the rain that had washed out the tracks
And left not a trace for the eyes of the blacks;
THE SAND was heavy on our feet,
A Christmas sky was o’er us,
And half a mile through dust and heat
Lake ’Liza lay before us.
We, three men of commerce,
Striving wealth to raise,
See but little promise
In the coming days;
Comes the British bulldog first—solid as a log—
He’s so ugly in repose that he’s a handsome dog;
Full of mild benevolence as his years increase;
Silent as a china dog on the mantelpiece.
Jack Cornstalk as a drover born,
Jack Cornstalk gaunt and tan,
Jack Cornstalk leaves his love forlorn,
Jack Cornstalk man to man.
Wide solemn eyes that question me,
Wee hand that pats my head—
Where only two have stroked before,
And both of them are dead.