With eyes half-shut from the blinding dust, And necks to the yokes bent low, The beasts are pulling as bullocks must, Till the shining rims of the tire-rings rust; While the spokes are turning slow.

With face half hid 'neath a wide brimm'd hat That shades from the heat's white waves, And shoulder'd whip with its green-hide plat, The driver plods with a gait like that Of his weary, patient slaves.

He'll sometimes pause as a thing of form In front of a lonely door, And ask for a drink, and remark " 'Tis warm," Or say "There's signs of a thunder-storm;" But he seldom utters more.

there are other scenes than these; And, passing his lonely home, For weeks together the bushman sees The teams bogg'd down o'er the axletrees, Or ploughing the sodden loam.

And then when the roads are at their, worst, The bushman's children hear The cruel blows of the whips revers'd While bullocks pull as their hearts would burst, And bellow with pain and fear.