HIS MAJESTY'S MAIL.

King Country Chronicle, Volume XVIII, Issue 1859, 8 September 1923, Page 3

HIS MAJESTY'S MAIL.

Eight o'clock on a winter's morn and a frosty nip in the air, His Majesty's Mail goes rolling away, and the coachman wears no care On a face that smiles through every storm and laughs at the mention of mud ; There's a mind behind will carry him through though half the way be flood. The horses pull, for they love to work, and the driver holds them back, For lie knows to an ounce how much they can stand, and knows how stiff is the track. « Humble over the rickety bridge, and rattle over the stones, r !Jie llelds are green and the cattle fat, but where are the county loans? Mud grows deep, and the horses walk, and the vehicle sways and rocks, And the painted lady swoons on your knee, with one of her nervous shocks.

And the driver cracks no whip, but a joke, and you're trotting along once more, While the agent for motors creeps into his shell, like a winkle, and shuts the door. Here drops a baker's crusty loaf, and there's a butcher's roast Neatly thrown on a cream-can stand, or laid on a gateway post. Now it's a needful hundred of Hour, and again a pound of tea. And you wonder if ever lived messenger boy trusted and happy as he. Before you've had time to tire of the road, or weary of the viaw, Tho sleepy station looms ahead, where the tram is almost due, The horses know it's here they shine, as they trot up the metalled strip, And, just by way of looking the part, the driver cracks his whip; Curves through the gate with a. flourish grand, and someone gives him a hail, And you wish you were friend who might shake the hand that drives His Majesty's Mail. A. Evaline Morrison.