  The late Mr. Palmer had some skill as a versifier, although the exigencies of his arduous life in the pioneering days would not permit of his adding the extra finish to the lines which, more often than not, were as he himself phrased it, “strung together as the result of sleepless hours passed during the nights while camping out on a large cattle run in the west.” A few of his efforts are here preserved:— THE GIDYA TREE. (Acacia Homoeophylla.) Where roll the great plains to the west, Near a homestead pleasant to see, With far-stretching limbs and spreading crest, Grows a grand old acacia tree. Nor winter winds, nor sun’s fierce heat Can change its staunch solidity, For many a century’s storms have beat On this great, grey, gidya tree. At early morn, their joyous lay, The butcher-birds sing in melody. And merrily pass the hours away, All under the gidya tree. The grey doves in its shade rejoice, From eyes of kites they’re free, And call their loves in plaintive voice, From under the gidya tree. In scarlet bloom, the mistletoe swings, From its branches droopingly; And all around its odour flings, Right under the gidya tree. The milk-plant twines its length along, As if ’twould hidden be; Creeping its way ’mong the leaves so strong, Of this ancient gidya tree. The panting cattle gladly come, And sheltered fain would be, From burning heat of noonday sun, Camped under the gidya tree. Like the shade from a great rock cast O’er the land so soothing lay; All Nature seeks some rest at last, Far under the gidya tree. When life is o’er and troubles past, How sweet that rest will be, For weary ones who come at last, Safe under the gidya tree. “Nunc dimittis,” my work is done, And soon from care set free; That peace I wish will soon be won, Deep under the gidya tree. MY OLD STOCK HORSE. (Norman.) “Norman,” a large bay horse, bred on Conobie about 1870, broken in three or four years after, and worked on till twenty-four or twenty-five years old as a stock horse, and then nearly as good and safe to ride as ever. A surer, better stock horse was never ridden, and always ridden by the writer. I have a friend—I’ve proved him so By many a task and token; I’ve ridden him long and found him true, Since first that he was broken. From Cooktown’s breezy seaborn site, By Palmer’s golden river; Where Mitchell’s waters clear and bright, Roll on their course for ever. Across the Lynd and Gilbert’s sands, And many a rocky river; Through trackless desert, forest lands, We’ve journeyed oft together. Then on the great grey plains so vast, Where the sun’s rays dance and quiver, Through scorching heat and south-east blast, We’ve toiled on Flinders River. Through tangled scrubs and broken ground, We have often had to scramble; To wheel the cunning brumbie’s round, From where they love to ramble. Old Norman ne’er was known to fail, Or in the camp to falter, And just as sound to-day and hale, As when he first wore halter. Good horse, you well have earned your rest, Your mustering days are over; For all your time you’ll have the best, And pass your life in clover. The Indian’s simple faith is plain, That in the land of shadows, He’ll have his faithful dog again To hunt in misty meadows. And should a steed a soul attain, This surely then will follow— I’ll meet that grand old horse again, And hail him “Good old fellow!” Conobie, October 8th, 1894. THE WATCHER. The night wind keen and chill is creeping Across the plains with moaning sound; A rider there his watch is keeping, Where cattle camp in peace around. The Southern Cross shines clear and bright, And marks the hour that speeds; While Nature’s sounds, borne on the night, Accustomed to, he little heeds. The hooting of the mopoke owl Floats on the midnight air; The prowling dingoe’s dismal howl Is chorused wide and far. The curlew’s cry, so wild and shrill, Pierces the air with startling sound; While o’er the waters calm and still, The wild fowl chase each other round. He cares not for the keen wind cold, Nor for the hour that’s past; For thoughts of other days still hold His memory to the last. He minds him of his youth time ever, And the farm where he was born; The meadows green, and the flowing river, And the fields of tasselled corn. The sweet perfume of the apple’s bloom, The sight of the mountain’s blue, The drooping willows and yellow broom, And waving wheatfields too. He sees the cows from the pasture land, As down the lane they come, And sister Nell, with pail in hand, To wait their coming home. He sees again his father ploughing, In the old-fashioned sturdy way, He hears again the cock’s shrill crowing, That waked him oft at break of day. His memory takes him back apace, To early manhood’s prime, When a gentle voice and pleasant face Impressed him for all time. For loving lass and wandering lad, Since ever the world began, Though parted in grief, the love they had, Will come to each again. His wayward life he ponders on With anguish deep and keen, And as the past he looks upon, Sadly thinks—it might have been. But vain regrets will help him not. Nor vanished hopes renew; He only knows his present lot Has duties stern to do. He cares not now whate’er befalls, His faith he still will keep; The next on watch in turn he calls, And folds himself in sleep. Conobie, June 21st, 1894. |
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