While The Billy BoilsSearchThe warrigal's lair is pent in bare,Black rocks at the gorge's mouth;It is set in ways where Summer straysWith the sprites of flame and drouth;But when the heights are touched with lightsOf hoar-frost, sleet, and shine,His bed is made of the dead grass-bladeAnd the leaves of the windy pine.
Through forest boles the storm-wind rolls,Vext of the sea-driv'n rain;And, up in the clift, through many a rift,The voices of torrents complain.The sad marsh-fowl and the lonely owlAre heard in the fog-wreaths grey,When the warrigal wakes, and listens, and takesTo the woods that shelter the prey.
In the gully-deeps the blind creek sleeps,And the silver, showery moonGlides over the hills, and floats, and fills,And dreams in the dark lagoon;While halting hard by the station yard,Aghast at the hut-flame nigh,The warrigal yells—and flats and fellsAre loud with his dismal cry.
On the topmost peak of mountains bleakThe south wind sobs, and straysThrough moaning pine and turpentine,And the rippling runnel ways;And strong streams flow, and great mists go,Where the warrigal starts to hearThe watch-dog's bark break sharp in the dark,And flees like a phantom of fear.
The swift rains beat, and the thunders fleetOn the wings of the fiery gale,And down in the glen of pool and fen,The wild gums whistle and wail,As over the plains and past the chainsOf waterholes glimmering deep,The warrigal flies from the shepherd's cries,And the clamour of dogs and sheep.
He roves through the lands of sultry sands,He hunts in the iron range,Untamed as surge of the far sea verge,And fierce and fickle and strange.The white man's track and the haunts of the blackHe shuns, and shudders to see;For his joy he tastes in lonely wastesWhere his mates are torrent and tree.