She's milking in the rain and dark,
As did her mother in the past.
The wretched shed of poles and bark,
Rent by the wind, is leaking fast.
She sees the -home-roof� black and low,
Where, balefully, the hut-fire gleams-
And, like her mother, long ago,
She has her dreams; she has her dreams.
The daybreak haunts the dreary scene,
The brooding ridge, the blue-grey bush,
The -yard� where all her years have been,
Is ankle-deep in dung and slush;
She shivers as the hour drags on,
Her threadbare dress of sackcloth seems-
But, like her mother, years agone,
She has her dreams; she has her dreams.

The sullen -breakfast� where they cut
The blackened -junk.� The lowering face,
As though a crime were in the hut,
As though a curse was on the place;
The muttered question and reply,
The tread that shakes the rotting beams,
The nagging mother, thin and dry-
God help the girl! She has her dreams.

Then for -th- separator� start,
Most wretched hour in all her life,
With -horse� and harness, dress and cart,
No Chinaman would give his -wife�;
Her heart is sick for light and love,
Her face is often fair and sweet,
And her intelligence above
The minds of all she-s like to meet.

She reads, by slush-lamp light, may be,
When she has dragged her dreary round,
And dreams of cities by the sea
(Where butter-s up, so much the pound),
Of different men from those she knows,
Of shining tides and broad, bright streams;
Of theatres and city shows,
And her release! She has her dreams.

Could I gain her a little rest,
A little light, if but for one,
I think that it would be the best
Of any good I may have done.
But, after all, the paths we go
Are not so glorious as they seem,
And-if t-will help her heart to know-
I-ve had my dream. -Twas but a dream.