BUSH BALLADS AND RHYMES 



To the south-west suddenly lay 

 On the brow of the Beetle, the chestnut reel'd, 



And I bid good-bye to M'Crea — 

 And I was alone when the mare fell lame, 



With a pointed flint in her shoe, 

 On the Stony Flats : I had lost the game. 



And what was a man to do ? 



I turned away with no fixed intent 



And headed for Hawthorndell ; 

 I could neither eat in the splitter's tent 



Nor drink at the splitter's well ; 

 I knew that they gloried in my mishap. 



And I cursed them between my teeth — 

 A blood-red sunset through Brayton's Gap 



Flung a lurid fire on the heath. 



Could I reach the Dell ? I had little reck, 

 And with scarce a choice of my own 



I threw the reins on Miladi's neck — 

 I had freed her foot from the stone. 



That season most of the swamps were dry, 

 And after so hard a burst 



In the sultry noon of so hot a sky 



She was keen to appease her thirst — 



198 



