The gum has no shade,
And the wattle no fruit;
The parrot don’t warble
In trolls like the flute;
The cockatoo cooeth
Not much like a dove,
Yet fear not to ride
To my station my love.
Four hundred miles off
Is the goal of our way,
It is done in a week
At but sixty a day.
The plains are all dusty,
The creeks are all dried,
’Tis the fairest of weather
To bring home my bride.
The blue vault of heaven
Shall curtain thy form,
One side of the Gum tree
The moonbeam must warm;
The whizzing mosquito
Shall dance o’er thy head,
And the goanna shall squat
At the foot of thy bed;
The brave laughing jackass
Shall sing thee to sleep,
And the snake o’er thy slumbers
His vigils shall keep.
Then sleep, lady, sleep
Without dreaming of pain,
Till the frost of the morning
Shall wake thee again
Robert Lowe