| Timmins.
|
A real gentleman, and no mistake,
Has done the business, Mivins, for my sake;
I tip him very regular, you must know—
A brace of lambs I send, or else a ewe;
And thus you see it comes about,
That I have not been purchased out.
|
| Mivins.
|
I do not envy you, but wonder how,
Or why, they have got up this blessed row;
The ewes and lambs I am too weak to drive,
And fear I'll bring off very few alive;
The weakest lambs I put upon the dray,
But still I save but few—alas the day!
A score of them are dead in yonder spot,
The very finest too of all the lot.
The overseer, I recollect, fortold
That all this run of ours would soon be sold;
Such croaking prophecies I sent to h——;
But, Timmins, tell us something of this swell.
|
| Timmins.
|
The city they call Sydney, I once thought
Was like this town of Melbourne, where we brought
Our wedders oft for sale; so ewes to lambs
Resemblance show, and cubs are like their dams:
But Sydney does this town of ours surpass,
As does the tall white gum the burnt up grass.
|
| Mivins.
|
What was it brought you up to Sydney, pray?
|
| Timmins.
|
To get my freedom, which, with some delay,
I did obtain at last ; but while away
I saw the swell I mentioned: and I tell you
There are no flies about him, my good fellow;
And when I asked him if I were secure
My run should not be purchased, "To be sure,"
Says he: "Don't be in such a fright;
You pay the tip, and I'll make it all right."
|
| Mivins.
|
A fortunate old chap you surely are;
For though the run may seem a little bare,
And dotted over here and there with rock,
Yet still it is sufficient for your stock;
And by the river is so well protected,
There is no danger of its being infected.
But some of us must go to Portland Bay,
Others to Gipps's land or Goulburn way;
Or else to South Australia and the plains
North of the Pyrenees and Grampians.
I wonder if I ever shall again
Behold the spot which once was my domain;
The door against the Bushman never shut,
And the bark covering of my humble hut.
Some half-pay officer will reap my corn,
Some sailor shear my flocks—may I be shorn,
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