Original Poetry. THE DYING BUSHRANGER. AN EPISODE OF THE OLDEN TIME.

Waikato Times, Volume XXIII, Issue 1899, 6 September 1884, Page 1 (Supplement)

Original Poetry. THE DYING BUSHRANGER. AN EPISODE OF THE OLDEN TIME.

Br ftojjf. P. Wjiitwortk. WiirTys azo ycu mates— <Jh where ? Where are yon Bill— Jfed— Jaofc ? Coo-co ! iVtM cats I ihongh my call Bring tho traps n|)on my traok ? AH** over with mo now, My day is nearly dono, 'Twas a merry one, lads, although 'twas Short ; My race is nearly run. Oh 1 but for this cursed chance, This buMet through my thigh ! Ah ! onrso— but no !— Xo use in that, I most just stay here anA die. Oh I this aching of my limb, This throbbing of my brain ; Is there nought to be dons a men may do, Bat lie groaning here in pain ? Why the Wombat h&s his hole, And the Dingo has his lair, And nought for mo, a human man, But a blank of dark demir 1 I didn't fire that shot, I didn't strike the blow, And yet my eyes seem fill'd with blood— Bah 1 'tis but the sunset's glow. The sun sinks through the trees, But when he shows again, When he gilds Maconbah'a rocky top, Ob 1 trborp 6hk\l I be ihen ? Tfas night wind sings anfi lulls, And whispers in my ear Tilings that I cannot"undorstand, Things that I would not hear. It sings in a mournful key, And the burden of its song ; Is, alas ! " How short thy life has been, Thy schedule of crime, how long." The death dew is on my brow, But deep into my brain ' Through bone and flesh burns hot and seaf, j The fearful brand of Gain. Oh Jack, oh Ked, oh Bill, ' I'd never have thought yon would : Have left me here laicl,on my back, And weltering in my Mood. \ Don't think I'm turning cur, Though the end i& dsawiftg near" * J>on't think i'm going to snivel and whine— Oh, no, of that no fear. ] But oh ! to be here— alone, To lie as I lie now, ■ With never a mats to wipe away The death sweat from my brow. It's hard to be here — alone, Alone— on the nest world's brink ; What If thereibe a heaven, and— no, Of that I dare not think ! If I could but say a prayer, Or whisper a Bible verso, Ah me 1 " Oun Father " dies on my lips', Or sounds like an awful curse. > They say.fhere's hope for al! Who appeal at Mercy's gate ; ' But for me, With hands imbrued in blood, Too late, oh God 1 too late.