And Byng, the best of the lot, who was broke in the Derby of fifty-eight,

Is keeping sheep with Harry Lepell somewhere on the River Plate.

Do they ever think of me at all, and the fun we used to share? It gives me a pleasant hour or so and I've none too many to spare.

This dull blood runs as it used to run, and the spent flame flickers up,

As I think on the cheers that rang in my ears when I won the Garrison Cup!

And how the regiment roared to a man, while the voice of the fielders shook,

As I swung in my stride, six lengths to the good, hard held, over Brixworth Brook:

Instead of the parrot's screech, I seem to hear the twang of the horn,

As once again from Barkley Holt I set the pick of the Quorn.

Well, those were harmless pleasures enough; for I hold him worse than an ass

Who shakes his head at a "neck on the post" or a quick thing over the grass.

Go for yourself, and go to win, and you can't very well go wrong

Gad! if I'd only stuck to that I'd be singing a different song!

As to the one I'm singing, it's pretty well known to all. We knew too much, but not quite enough, and so we went to the wall;

While those who cared not, if their work was done, how dirty their hands might be,

Went

up on our shoulders and kicked us down, when they got to the top of the tree.

But though it's one's mind at times, there's little good in

a curse.

One comfort is, though it's not very well, it might be a great deal worse.

A roof to my head, and a bite to my mouth, and no one likely to know

I'm "Bill the Bushman," the dandy who went to the dogs long years ago.

Out there on the station among the lads I get along pretty well;

It's only when I come down into town that I feel this life such a hell.

Booted and bearded and burned to a brick, I loaf along the street;

And I watch the ladies tripping by, and bless their dainty feet.

I watch them here and there with a bitter feeling of pain, Ah! what wouldn't I give to feel a lady's hand again! They used to be glad to see me once; they might have been so to-day;

But we never know the worth of a thing until we have thrown it away.

I watch them but from afar; and I pull my old cap over my eyes,

Partly to hide the tears, that rude and rough as I am, will rise,

And partly because I cannot bear that such as they should see

The man that I am, when I know, though they don't, the man that I ought to be.

Puff! with the last whiff of my pipe I blow these fancies

away,

For I must be jogging along if I want to get down into town to-day.

As I know I shall reach my journey's end though I travel

not over fast,

So the end of my longer journey will come in its own good time at last,

AUSTRAL

[A nom-de-plume of Mrs. J. G. Wilson, of Wellington, New Zealand, née Miss Adams, of St. Enoch's, Victoria-a constant contributor to the Australasian.]

COMPENSATION,

FRET not that in thy dwelling-place
The street is silent, the field is bare,
Nor canst thou forth to brighter space,
Nor sail where summer seas are fair,
For night by night thy dusky lattice-bars
Are visited by the journeying host of stars.

Scorn not our nature's narrow bound,
An atom blown about in vain ;
One thought contains yon shining round,
And circles o'er the circling plain.
Each vanishing life that o'er the dust is bent
Is nourished by the boundless firmament.

Mourn not our fading, transient day,

For over us a dream will shine,

A vision of eternity,

That makes one little hour divine;

Through this dim window we look out of doors,

On purple hills and seas, and endless happy shores.

THE FORTY MILE BUSH.

FAR in the forest's aromatic shade

We rode, one afternoon of golden ease;

The long road ran through sunshine and through shade, Lulled by the somnolent stories of the trees.

Sometimes a bell-bird fluted far away,

Sometimes the murmur of the leafy deep,
Rising and falling all the autumnal day,
Rolled on the hills and sank again to sleep.

Mile after mile the same, The sky grew red,
And through the trees we saw a snowy gleam
Of phantom peak, and spectral mountain-head,
And gulfs that nurse the glacier and the stream.
Before us lay the pinewood's sombre miles,

Thick laid with moss, like furs upon the floor;
Behind, the woodland's green monotonous aisles,
Closed in the west by sunset's amber door.

This is the Snow King's threshold and dominion!
The frozen ranges white, without a stain,
Like icy wings outspread, and flying pinion,
Ready to soar above the cloudy plain.

Deep in the glen the hollow waters, racing,
Sent forth their turbulent voices to the night,
The stars above began their solemn pacing,
And homely shone the distant village light.

Mysterious forest! In this humming city
I seem to hear thy music-breathing tree;
Thy branches wave and beckon me, in pity,
To seek again thy hospitality!

A SPRING AFTERNOON, N. Z.

WE rode in the shadowy place of pines,
The wind went whispering here and there
Like whispers in a house of prayer.
The sunshine stole in narrow lines,

And sweet was the resinous atmosphere.
The shrill cicada, far and near,
Piped on his high exultant third.

Summer! Summer! he seems to say-
Summer! he knows no other word,

But trills on it the livelong day;

The little hawker of the green,

Who calls his wares through all the solemn forest

scene.

A shadowy land of deep repose!

Here where the loud nor'-wester blows,
How sweet, to soothe a trivial care,
The pine-tree's ever-murmured prayer!
To shake the scented powder down
From stooping boughs that bar the way,
And see the vistas, golden brown,
Stretch to the sky-line far away!
But on and upward still we ride,
Whither the furze, an outlaw bold,
Scatters along the bare hillside

Handfuls of free uncounted gold,
And breaths of nutty, wild perfume
Salute us from the flowering broom.
I love this narrow sandy road,

That idly gads o'er hill and vale, Twisting where once a rivulet flowed, With as many turns as a gossip's tale.