An hour before the sun goes downBehind the ragged boughs,I go across the little runAnd bring the dusty cows;And once I used to sit and restBeneath the fading dome,For there was one that I loved bestWho'd bring the cattle home.
Our yard is fixed with double bails,Round one the grass is green,The bush is growing through the rails,The spike is rusted in;And 'twas from there his freckled faceWould turn and smile at me—He'd milk a dozen in the raceWhile I was milking three.
I milk eleven cows myselfWhere once I milked but four;I set the dishes on the shelfAnd close the dairy door;And when the glaring sunlight failsAnd the fire shines through the cracks,I climb the broken stockyard railsAnd watch the bridle-tracks.
He kissed me twice and once againAnd rode across the hill,The pint-pots and the hobble-chainI hear them jingling still;He'll come at night or not at all—He left in dust and heat,And when the soft, cool shadows fallIs the best time to meet.
And he is coming back again,He wrote to let me know,The floods were in the Darling then—It seems so long ago;He'd come through miles of slush and mud,And it was weary work,The creeks were bankers, and the floodWas forty miles round Bourke.
He said the floods had formed a block,The plains could not be crossed,And there was foot-rot in the flockAnd hundreds had been lost;The sheep were falling thick and fastA hundred miles from town,And when he reached the line at lastHe trucked the remnant down.
And so he'll have to stand the cost;His luck was always bad,Instead of making more, he lostThe money that he had;And how he'll manage, heaven knows(My eyes are getting dim),He says—he says—he don't—supposeI'll want—to—marry—him.
As if I wouldn't take his handWithout a golden glove—Oh! Jack, you men won't understandHow much a girl can love.I long to see his face once more—Jack's dog! thank God, it's Jack!—(I never thought I'd faint before)He's coming—up—the track.