THE SPLITTER'S SONG.

Evening Post, Volume LIV, Issue 141, 11 December 1897, Page 2 (Supplement)

THE SPLITTER'S SONG.

The long day's nearly over, and the cool, calm night's at hand, It's time for givm' over work, I know ; .. Peace is craepin' down the valley, silence settles on the land, The shadows they are length 'nin' down below. Far away the sun is shinin' on the eastern headland still, On rugged rocks and sheets of glitterin' foam; Here the wekas 'gin to answer one another 'from the hill, And the wood-sph'tters are making tracks for home. For day is done, and night's begun, And dreamless sleep's a-oomin' 1 As the last man stumbles wharewards the moreporks harshly hoot, And sleepy molds rustle in the bush ; From the tangled mass of lawyer^ and supplejack and tute, He hears below the oreek's half-muffled rush; Now stars begin to twinkle in the clear sky , • one by one ; All's silent save for bleat of mother-sheep And cry of young lambs answerin' — with settin' of the snn The valley seems to sink in quiet sleep. For day is done, and night's begun, And dreamless sleep's a-comin' 1 There streams a flood 6f fire-light from the open whare doors ; The cook's had suppifiiv ready long ago. Fling the logs upon the hearth till the wooden chimney roars— Black pine, a gai-stioks, and matipo ! Supper over, smoke begins ; then a yarn, a song maybe, The splitter tumbles early into bunk — Up before the break of day, little time for dreams has he : Soon in deepest depths of slumber he is sunk. ' ' For song is sung, and day is done, And dreamless sleep's a-comin' 1 O my brothers, O my sisters, by the bitter bond of fjraft, By sweat of brow, by salt of scalding tears, Who seem doomed to travel forward, while the lucky journey aft— To toil and moil and struggle all the years ; Quiet night comes down at length on the longest working-day, And eweet and deep is sleep when grind is past; There's at least a rest before us, and the landlord asks no pay For the bed that welcomes weary bones at last! When day is done, and night's begun, There's dreamless Bleep a-oomin 1 —Do»A Wilcox, in the Bulletin.