Making Back Alone.

Maoriland Worker, Volume I, Issue 1, 15 September 1910, Page 10

Making Back Alone.

(Dedicated to the Memory of Frank Tully.) I hear the butcher bird's refrain, The notes so soft and sweet, And far out on. the grassy plain Once more the young lambs bleat. Replenished, now each station store, The season's wood is cut, And old friends daily meet once more In many a station hut. The golden fleece is waiting For machine or gleaming blades:; The lads are concentrating, Forming workable brigades; And I am making back to where The Lachlan waters flow, "Where you and I, a happy pair, Cast anchor long ago. Yes, I am making back, old mate, But making back alone; Our old camp at the 8-mile gate, I passed, all on my own ; Where stages ended and began, Full oft in days "Lang Syne," When what was mine was yours, old man, And what was yours was mine. But we as mates no more will ride Across the One Tree Plain, Nor in our gunyah, side by side, Dream our old dreams again. Oiir couch the verdant dewy sward, Our slumbers deep and sound, Oft thus kind Nature's sweet reward For trials endured we've found. We, sheltered by our leafy break, Or little canvas fly, Have heard from swamp and lapping lake* The wild fowl's midnight cry ; Or, sitting by the camp fire bright, 'Neath many a gleaming star, Have listened with a keen delight To tinkling bells afar. How well do I remember those Old yarns you used to tell 3 And every easy bushman's pose That suited you so well. And as some happy thought awoke. Arrayed in raiment bright, Oft has your cheery laughter broke The stillness of the night. Then as the dawn came peering o'er The green-clad eastern hills, Delightful 'twas to hear once more The bush birds' sweetest trills, As from some towering messmate linib, Or graceful wattle spray, Each sang its little morning hymn To greet the coming day. With early sheds secured all right, 'Twas grand to jos; along; Our future prospects looking bright, Our horses, fresh and strong. Still pushing onward day by day, Across plains green and wide, To where mates waited far away., , Out on the Lachlan side. Yes! that was where you loved to be, In those brave days of old, Where you could mingle with and see The men with " Hearts of Gold." Bronzed, and abrupt of manner, But brave comrades kind and true; Who marched beneath the banner Of the good old " A.S.TT." But they no more will greet you there, For yoti will never go. Back to the distant sandhills where The Emu bushes grow; At Tarrawong shed, on cut-otit day, Bid your old mates " So long," Or cross, when making into Hay, The old bridge at Corrong. Henceforth the Boss will never write Your name upon his list; In many a hut on " ticket njght " Frank Tully will be missed. But still by many a camper's fire, Throughout the Riverine, Tales will be told by chums of old, To keep his memory green. And though I know regrets are vain, Since long your soul has flown Beyond the bounds of man's domain-, Unto the Great Unknown, Whilst ever I remain Amidst life's dearest sights and sounds, We oft shall meet again In Memory's happy hunting grounds. Corrong. W. TULLY.