New Country
By Mary Hannay Foott
Cond had come with us all the way,
Eight hundred miles, but the fortnights rest
Made him fresh as a youngster, the sturdy bay!
And Lurline was looking her very best.
Weary and footsore, the cattle strayed
Mid the silvery saltbush well content;
Where the creeks lay cool neath the gidyas1 shade
The stock-horses clustered, travel-spent.
In the bright spring morning we left them all
Camp, and cattle, and white, and black
And rode for the Ranges westward fall,
Where the dingos trail was the only track.
Slow through the clay-pans,2 wet to the knee,
With the cane-grass rustling overhead;
Swift oer the plains with never a tree;
Up the cliffs by a torrents bed.
Bridle on arm for a mile or more
We toiled, ere we reached Bindannas verge
And saw, as one sees a far-off shore,
The blue hills bounding the forest surge.
An ocean of trees, by the west wind stirred,
Rolled, ever rolled, to the great cliffs base;
And its sound like the noise of waves was heard
Mid the rocks and the caves of that lonely place.
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We recked not of wealth in stream or soil
As we heard on the heights the breezes sing;
We felt no longer our travel-toil;
We feared no more what the years might bring.