RHYMES OF OUR OWN LAND.

Otago Witness, Issue 2376, 14 September 1899, Page 47

RHYMES OF OUR OWN LAND.

By David M'Kee Wbight.

No. B.— THE DESERTED HOMESTEAD The snow-grass thatch is mossed and green, The walls are in decay ; The willows bend to touch the creek That sings along its way; The garden fence is broken down, The stakes are pulled away; And the ghosts are flitting, flitting where tha grass is growing green, And the ewes and lambs are bleating whet* I the flower-beds have been. The grand new homestead lies below, All painted clean and bright; A wool-shed, big and lip to date, Stands full and fair in sight; And the little pine plantations Lie around to left and right, And the ghosts are flitting, flitting in tUS shadow and the sun, — The ghosts of men I used to know, and tb" things that once were done. The bushes round the garden plots We used to know so well; The paddock where the horses ran, Where Wally Stephens fell; The gate that led to Walley's hut, Have each a tale to tell; And the ghosts are flitting, flitting where th» grass is growing green, And the ewes and lambr are bleating wherfl t the men I knew have been. I see the chaps I used to know All round the water-hole, The daily hunt there used to bo For soap the woodhens stole; They used to laugh and barrack then — ■ The station had a soul ; And, while the ghosts are flitting out of dayl o£ long ago, The brand new station grinds away like sorafl machine below. There's not a sound except the creek That babbles on its way, Where laughter used to wing the night After the working day: The boys are scattered far and wide, And moat of them are grey — For the ghosts are flitting, flitting where w« used to laugh so load, And the gully's full of sunshine that is heavX as ft cloud.