Camped by the Creek

All day a strong sun has been drinking     The ponds in the Wattletree Glen;     And now as theyre puddles, Im thinking     We were wise to head hitherwards, men!     The country is heavy to norard,     But Lord, how you rattled along!     Jacks chestnuts best leg was put forard,     And the bay from the start galloped strong;     But for bottom, Id stake my existence,     Theres none of the lot like the mare;     For look! she has come the whole distance     With never the turn of a hair.     But now let us stop, for the super     Will want us to-morrow by noon;     And as he can swear like a trooper,     We cant be a minute too soon.     Here, Dick, you can hobble the filly     And chestnut, but dont take a week;     And, Jack, hurry off with the billy     And fill it. Well camp by the creek.     So spoke the old stockman, and quickly     We made ourselves snug for the night;     The smoke-wreaths above us curled thickly,     For our pipes were the first thing a-light!     As we sat round a fire that only     A well-seasoned bushman can make,     Far forests grew silent and lonely,     Though the paw was astir in the brake,     But not till our supper was ended,     And not till old Bill was asleep,     Did wild things by wonder attended     In shot of our camping-ground creep.     Scared eyes from thick tuft and tree-hollow     Gleamed out thro the forest-boles stark;     And ever a hurry would follow     Of fugitive feet in the dark.     While Dick and I yarned and talked over     Old times that had gone like the sun,     The wail of the desolate plover     Came up from the swamps in the run.     And sniffing our supper, elated,     From his den the red dingo crawled out;     But skulked in the darkness, and waited,     Like a cunning but cowardly scout.     Thereafter came sleep that soon falls on     A man who has ridden all day;     And when midnight had deepened the palls on     The hills, we were snoring away.     But ere we dozed off, the wild noises     Of forest, of fen, and of stream,     Grew strange, and were one with the voices     That died with a sweet semi-dream.     And the tones of the waterfall, blended     With the song of the wind on the shore,     Became a soft psalm that ascended,     Grew far, and we heard it no more.