You will find, when over forty, man was made but to repine,
And I sadly sit reflecting on that sinful past of mine;
When the trade that I've forgotten paid far better than the pen,
And when I too, for a season, was a leader amongst men:
When in townships on the Mountains, in the nearer, dearer Bush,
I —by virtue of my “writin's”—was a captain of a push.

Then, the city pushes flourished—lived and flourished as they ought,
For they blanked the world they lived in, and they worked, and loved and fought;

I'm not standing on the platform for the gaping fools to see:
Every train that comes to Mudgee is an empty train to me.
Ah! me boy was quite contented to stay West and settle down,
Till the damned Pro-gress Committee brought the railway to the town.

I am sitting by the river, listening to the sad old song,
Where a sigh seems floating ever down the willowed Cudgegong.
O I hate the cruel cuttings an' embankments round Mount Frome,
For they took me sweetheart from me and they took me heart from home.

The Elder Son was a young man still,
Though toil and worry had told on him.
The land and the people were hard to till —
His back was bowed and his eyes were dim —
Dimmed by the long, long years of drought;
And his heart was tired of beating alone.
The home was barren within and without —
The ground was hard and the hearts were stone.

The Younger Son went to the world away
With a tenner, a horse, and a good rig-out —
(And his horse was stuffed with the last of the hay,
And he left the farm in a blazing drought.)

Behold yon hills. The one is fresh and fair;
The other rudely great. New-springing green
Mantles the one; and on its top the star
Of love, in all its tenderest light, is seen.
Island of joys! how sweet thy gentle rays
Issue from heaven's blue depths in evening's prime!
But round yon bolder height no softness plays,
Nor flower nor bud adorns its front sublime.
Rude, but in majesty, it mounts in air,
And on its summit Jove in glory burns;
'Mid all the stars that pour their radiant urns,
None with that lordly planet may compare.

Dire eighty-eight, ance mair took flight,
To ruin memorable,
O' Europe's Kings, Popes, Princes, Queens,
An' mankind toil and trouble:
First James third, by gun or sword,
Was slain at Milton Field, man;
An' English Dick was serv'd that trick,
By Richmond's sword an' shield, man.

A century more comes in my score,
When Scotland's royal Queen, man,
Fled in distress to cousin Bess,

The gallant ship is out at sea,
Proudly o'er the water going;
Along her sides the billows flee,
Back in her wake, a river, flowing:
She dips her stem to meet the wave,
And high the tossed foam curls before it;
As if she felt the cheers we gave,
She takes her flight,
Where the sea looks bright,
And the sun in sparkles flashes o'er it.

Gallantly on she cuts her way,
And now in distance far is fleeting;
There are some on board whose hearts are gay,
And some whose hearts are wildly beating:

Since, I set out there has been cold rain, and few of the days have been spent entirely in travel. Moreover, the autumn rains fall in torrents, and the mountain streams overflow. I cross the boundless waters against the current and travel along dangerous paths. On the cliffside roads I eat my meals under the stars; I spend my nights on lotus beds by the water. As a traveler, I am distressed and toil-worn. The rivers and roads are broad and immense. Thus, by mealtime today, I had only reached Dalei. I have traveled on this road for a thousand li ; my journey has taken more than ten days.

I found thee where the woods were wild,
And weeds and thorns had round thee grown;
No hunter's foot, no wandering child,
Had met thee, thou wert all so lone.

Above, the cypress and the yew
Had wreathed around their funeral shade,
And the still wind, that faintly blew,
A sound, like that of sorrow, made.

And ever, as it o'er thee swept,
Low-breathing melodies were heard,
As if a mourner sobbed and wept,
Or nightly sang the widowed bird.

And now, as fitfully the blast
Shook the tossed branches overhead,

In honour when your father seated high,
Ever he little rest acquir'd thereby;
Right noble Lord: but you his honour'd son,
O to your self morest then he hath won :
Moe rest and quiet to your minde attained,
Ever then he in all his life had gained.

With honour is attendant care and paine,
Ever almost, who one, doth other gaine:
Such happines is yours, to honour prest;
That notwithstanding, you do min moe rest .
O win moe rest still, till the heavens you gaine,
Never desist for rest to take some paine.

Where are now the flowers that once detained me,
Like a loiterer on my early way?
Where the fragrant wreaths that softly chained me,
When young life was like an infant's play?

Were they but the fancied dreams, that hover
Round the couch where tender hearts repose?
Only pictured veils, that brightly cover
With their skyey tints a world of woes?

They are gone, — but memory loves to cherish
All their sweetness in her deepest core.
Ah! the recollection cannot perish,
Though the eye may never meet them more.