Ten miles down Reedy RiverA pool of water lies,And all the year it mirrorsThe changes in the skies,And in that pool’s broad bosomIs room for all the stars;Its bed of sand has driftedO’er countless rocky bars.
Around the lower edgesThere waves a bed of reeds,Where water rats are hiddenAnd where the wild duck breeds;And grassy slopes rise gentlyTo ridges long and low,Where groves of wattle flourishAnd native bluebells grow.
Beneath the granite ridgesThe eye may just discernWhere Rocky Creek emergesFrom deep green banks of fern;And standing tall between them,The grassy sheoaks coolThe hard, blue-tinted watersBefore they reach the pool.
Ten miles down Reedy RiverOne Sunday afternoon,I rode with Mary CampbellTo that broad bright lagoon;We left our horses grazingTill shadows climbed the peak,And strolled beneath the sheoaksOn the banks of Rocky Creek.
Then home along the riverThat night we rode a race,And the moonlight lent a gloryTo Mary Campbell’s face;And I pleaded for my futureAll thro’ that moonlight ride,Until our weary horsesDrew closer side by side.
Ten miles from Ryan’s crossingAnd five below the peak,I built a little homesteadOn the banks of Rocky Creek;I cleared the land and fenced itAnd ploughed the rich red loam,And my first crop was goldenWhen I brought Mary home.. . . . . . . . . .Now still down Reedy RiverThe grassy sheoaks sigh,And the waterholes still mirrorThe pictures in the sky;And over all for everGo sun and moon and stars,While the golden sand is driftingAcross the rocky bars;
But of the hut I buildedThere are no traces now.And many rains have levelledThe furrows of the plough;And my bright days are olden,For the twisted branches waveAnd the wattle blossoms goldenOn the hill by Mary’s grave.