by Adam Lindsay Gordon (1833 – 1870)
Lightly the breath of the spring wind blows,
Though laden with faint perfume;
Tis the fragrance rare that the bushman knows,
The scent of the wattle bloom.
Two-thirds of our journey at least are done,
Old horse! let us take a spell
In the shade from the glare of the noonday sun,
Thus far we have travelled well;
Your bridle Ill slip, your saddle ungirth,
And lay them beside this log,
For youll roll in that track of reddish earth,
And shake like a water-dog.
Upon yonder rise theres a clump of trees
Their shadows look cool and broad
You can crop the grass as fast as you please,
While I stretch my limbs on the sward;
Tis pleasant, I ween, with a leafy screen
Oer the weary head, to lie
On the mossy carpet of emerald green,
Neath the vault of the azure sky;
Thus all alone by the wood and wold,
I yield myself once again
To the memories old that, like tales fresh told,
Come flitting across the brain.
About the Author
See our page on Adam Lindsay Gordon. Includes a linked list of all his writing available on our website.