BEATEN back in sad dejection,
After years of weary toil
On that burning hot selection
Where the drought has gorged his spoil.

All in vain -gainst him, the vulture,
I have battled without rest-
In the van of agriculture,
Marching out into the West.

Now the eagle-hawks are feeding
On my perished stock that reek
Where the water-holes receding
Long had left the burning creek.

I must labour without pity-
I the pick and spade must wield
In the streetways of the city
Or upon another-s field!

Can it be my reason-s rocking,
For I feel a burning hate
For the God who, only mocking,
Sent the prayed-for rain too late?

Pour, ye mocking rains, and rattle
On the bare, brown, grassless plain,
On the shrivelled hides of cattle
That shall ne-er want grass again!

Rush, ye yellow floods, to Murray,
Over thirsty creek-banks foam;
And o-er all, ye black clouds, hurry;
Ye can bring not back my home!