Then the laugh and the banter, as gaily we canter,
With a pause for the nags at a miniature lake,
Where the yellowtop catches the sunlight in patches,
And lies like a mirror of gold in our wake.
O, the rush and the rattle of fast-fleeing cattle,
Whose hoofs beat a mad rataplan on the earth!
Their hot-headed flight in! Who would not delight in
The gallop that seems to hold all life is worth?
And over the rolling plains slowly patrolling
To the sound of the cattle’s monotonous tramp,
Till we hear the sharp pealing of stockwhips, revealing
The fact that our comrades have put on the camp.
From the spot where they're drafting the wind rises, wafting
The dust till it hides man and beast from our gaze,
Till, suddenly lifting and easterly drifting,
We catch a short glimpse of the scene through the haze—
A blending and blurring of swiftly recurring
Colour and movement, that pass on their way;
An intricate weaving of sights and sounds, leaving
An eager desire to take part in the fray;
A dusty procession, in circling succession,
Of bullocks that bellow in impotent rage;
A bright panorama, a soul-stirring drama—
The sky for its background, the earth for its stage.
