While The Billy BoilsSearchBeaten back in sad dejection, After years of weary toilOn 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 reekWhere the water-holes receding Long had left the burning creek.
I must labour without pity-- I the pick and spade must wieldIn the streetways of the city Or upon another's field!
Can it be my reason's rocking, For I feel a burning hateFor 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!