BUSH BALLADS AND RHYMES 



And sickly, smoky shadows through the sleepy 

 sunlight swim, 

 And on the very sun's face weave their pall. 

 Let me slumber in the hollow where the wattle 

 blossoms wave, 

 With never stone or rail to fence my bed ; 

 Should the sturdy station children pull the 

 bush flowers on my grave, 

 I may chance to hear them romping over- 

 head. 



