Beaten Back

Beaten back in sad dejection,     After years of weary toil     On that burning hot selection     Where the drought has gorged his spoil.     All in vain gainst him, the vulture,     I have battled without rest,     In the van of agriculture,     Marching out into the West.     Now the eagle-hawks are feeding     On my perished stock that reek     Where the water-holes receding     Long had left the burning creek.     I must labour without pity,     I the pick and spade must wield     In the streetways of the city     Or upon anothers field!     Can it be my reasons rocking,     For I feel a burning hate     For the God who, only mocking,     Sent the prayed-for rain too late?     Pour, ye mocking rains, and rattle     On the bare, brown, grassless plain,     On the shrivelled hides of cattle     That shall neer want grass again!     Rush, ye yellow floods, to Murray,     Over thirsty creek-banks foam;     And oer all, ye black clouds, hurry;     Ye can bring not back my home!