Page:A New Zealand verse (1906).pdf/108
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72
The Old Place.
The greedy few will clamour loud and clamour to the end;
A dummy grabbing what he can is not the people’s friend.
And Heaven’s curse is on him still in all his schemes for gain;
He falls—and yet old Arlington will never rise again!
A dummy grabbing what he can is not the people’s friend.
And Heaven’s curse is on him still in all his schemes for gain;
He falls—and yet old Arlington will never rise again!
XL.
The Old Place.
So the last day’s come at last, the close of my fifteen year—
The end of the hope, an’ the struggles, an’ messes I’ve put in here.
All of the shearing’s over, the final mustering done,—
Eleven hundred and fifty for the incoming man, near on.
Over five thousand I drove ’em, mob by mob, down the coast;
Eleven-fifty in fifteen year . . . it isn’t much of a boast.
The end of the hope, an’ the struggles, an’ messes I’ve put in here.
All of the shearing’s over, the final mustering done,—
Eleven hundred and fifty for the incoming man, near on.
Over five thousand I drove ’em, mob by mob, down the coast;
Eleven-fifty in fifteen year . . . it isn’t much of a boast.
Oh, it’s a bad old place! Blown out o’ your bed half the nights,
And in summer the grass burnt shiny an’ bare as your hand, on the heights:
The creek dried up by November, and in May a thundering roar
That the carries down toll o’ your stock to salt ’em whole on shore.
And in summer the grass burnt shiny an’ bare as your hand, on the heights:
The creek dried up by November, and in May a thundering roar
That the carries down toll o’ your stock to salt ’em whole on shore.