"Gillian's dead, God rest her bier --
How I loved her many years syne;
Marion's married, but I sit here,
Alive and merry at three-score year,
Dipping my nose in Gascoigne wine." -- Wamba's Song -- Thackeray.



A mellower light doth Sol afford,
His meridian glare has pass'd,
And the trees on the broad and sloping sward
Their length'ning shadows cast.
"Time flies." The current will be no joke,
If swollen by recent rain,
To cross in the dark, so I'll have a smoke,
And then I'll be off again.

What's up, old horse? Your ears you prick,
And your eager eyeballs glisten;
'Tis the wild dog's note in the tea-tree thick,
By the river, to which you listen.
With head erect and tail flung out,
For a gallop you seem to beg,
But I feel the qualm of a chilling doubt,
As I glance at your fav'rite leg.

Let the dingo rest, 'tis all for the best;
In this world there's room enough
For him and you and me and the rest,
And the country is awful rough.