Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake(26 March 1866 - May 1892 / Sydney / Australia)
A Song From A Sandhill
- by Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake44
Drip, drip, drip! It tinkles on the fly— The pitiless outpouring of an overburdened sky: Each drooping frond of pine has got a jewel at its tip— First a twinkle, then a sprinkle, and a drip, drip, drip.
Drip, drip, drip! They must be shearing up on high. Can't you see the snowy fleeces that are rolling, rolling by? How many bales, I wonder, are they branding to the clip? P'r'aps the Boss is keeping tally with this drip, drip, drip.
Drip, drip, drip! while the sodden branches sigh: The jovial jackass dare not laugh for fear that he should cry: The merry magpie's melody is frozen on his lip; He glowers at the showers, with their drip, drip, drip.
Drip, drip, drip! and one's ‘nap' is far from dry: 'Tis hard to keep the water out, however one may try: I'd sell myself to Satan for three fingers of a nip: There's cramps and vile rheumatics in that drip, drip, drip.
Pat, pat, pat! how it patters on the land! 'Tis certainly consoling to be camped upon the sand: There's naught but mud and water over yonder on the flat, Where the spots of rain are splashing with their pat, pat, pat.
Rain, rain, rain! and the day is nearly done: I wonder shall we see another rising of the sun? Has the sky shut down and stifled him; or will he come again And stop the cursed clatter of this rain, rain, rain?
Drop, drop, drop! monotonous as Life, With now and then a western breeze that cuts one like a knife: Sputter on the fire: is it never going to stop? Has the weather-clerk gone crazy, with his drop, drop, drop?
Drip, drip, drip! the squatter wouldn't say ‘Thank God!' so earnestly if he were camped in it to-day. 'Tis in at last: I knew it! there's a pool about my hip: Oh, 'tis maddening and sadd'ning, with its drip, drip, drip!
A Bushman's Love
- by Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake39
You say we bushmen cannot love— Our lives are too prosaic: hence We lose or lack that finer sense That raises some few men above Their fellows, setting them apart As vessels of a finer make— The acme of the potter's art— Are placed apart upon the shelf. So he is more than common delf, And, more than brute in human guise, Who, seeking, finds his nobler self Twin-mirrored in a woman's eyes! Yet these things bring their penalty: For oft the merest touch will break These vessels of a finer make; And throats attuned to noblest key A draught of air will set awry, And stifle in an ulcerous sore The voice that floated to the sky And silence it for evermore . . .
You say we bushmen cannot love— That, like our foe, the fire-fiend, We blaze, until a river-bend— Nay, less, a pebble-graven groove Where waters thread—doth bid us stay: Our passions for a month, a week Flare out and then they die away— For separation, like the creek That stays the bush fire, bars the way.
You say we bushmen cannot love. Well, have it so! but this I swear— That she possessed a power to move The dullest boor to do or dare. But I, as being somewhat shy, Became the target for her wit How oft in wantonness she'd pit The blazing lances of her eye And keener rapier of her tongue, That carelessly made lightning play, Until to action I was stung, And, like a dumb beast, stood at bay . . .
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