While The Billy BoilsSearchIn the cave where I am livingI have quietude of life ;There is not a creature near me,Nor the hum of human strife.
I am resting where I would be,As I longed in years ago,And my dreamings are borne onwardBy the swollen river’s flow.
Oh ! the shriek of winter coming,And the hurricane I hear,And the rolling of the storm-cloudsThat proclaim the tempest near.
But I’m throned upon a mountain,In a hidden high retreat,With my thoughts turned to the heavens,And my cares beneath my feet.
For a guard against intruders,Or a screening for my door,Wattle and a mountain saplingDo the needful as of yore.
For I knew them when their branchesWore the beauty of their youth,How they watch my ageing moments,Friends of mine they are in truth.
In that corner, snug and cosy,Are the ferns I gathered when,In October last, I happenedTo be passing through the glen ;
When the waratahs were bloomingOn each rocky steep and fell,When the stringy-bark was flow’ringO’er the tiny mountain bell.
When the whistling of the loryTold that winter’s day was o’er,When the hours were longer, wooingAll the carols as of yore.
In a rough-and-ready fashionI have always made my bunkIn a cutting, where hangs o’er itAll my beef, a well-cured junk.
For I seldom go to marketFrom this paradise of mine,Where the retrospect of SummerHere has built for me its shrine.
Where my thoughts, with wings now folded,Are so busy pressing flowersWhich I gathered in the lowlandsIn my happy, sunny hours.
You may talk about your hammocks’Neath a mia-mia shade ;But the withered leaves are better,And much softer, if well laid.
You may call me “poor old nomad,”Or whatever name you please ;But our lives are not worth livingIf our minds are not at ease !
Yes, I know when I have Nature,With her arms around my breast ;I have comfort in my dwelling,And a deeper, sounder rest.
For her smile is ever kindlyOn the heart that loves her much,And my pulses flow the warmerWhen I feel her tender touch.
Oh ! my lamp is ever burningOn a bracket in the wall,And my fire is always glowingIn the centre of my hall.
There’s a smack of freedom in it ;For the rent is never due.Who like me can boast such freedomUnder heaven’s vaulted blue ?
Blue Mountains, May 31, 1892.