To keep them for his pains.

So, off to scour the mountain-side
With eager eyes aglow,
To strongholds where the wild mobs hide
The gully-rakers go.

A rush of horses through the trees,
A red shirt making play;
A sound of stockwhips on the breeze,
They vanish far away!

. . . . .

Ah, me! before our day is done
We long with bitter pain
To ride once more on Brumby's Run
And yard his mob again.




Saltbush Bill on the Patriarchs



Come all you little rouseabouts and climb upon my knee;
To-day, you see, is Christmas Day, and so it's up to me
To give you some instruction like -- a kind of Christmas tale --
So name your yarn, and off she goes. What, "Jonah and the Whale"?