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Out Boulia Way

Lonely is our little shanty,
Dull the rooms each summer day;
Brightened ne’er with song or laughter,
Now that Jim’s out Boulia way.

On the colt he ran last races—
At the pub two years ago—
From our gate he rode one morning,
Far away where bushmen go.

How I miss his daily greeting,
Manly help and merry play,
While I wonder if he rambles
In the dusk out Boulia way.

As I step along the valleys,
Where I used to walk with him,
Each sweet flow’ret gazing at me,
Mutely seems to ask for Jim.

On my bended knees I kiss it,
And to it sweet nothings say—
“Waft your sweetness, pretty petals,
To my Jim out Boulia way.”

Every night beside the table,
By the light I sit and pore,
O’er the likeness of my brother,
Gone, perhaps, for evermore.

And his dear eyes seem to watch me;
I can almost hear him say,
“You will love me more, my sister,
After years out Boulia way,”

On the wall before me resting,
In their long and silent tiers,
Are the books he loved to study
In his happy boyhood years.

And the mandoline is silent,
That he loved so well to play,
Though he taught me in the evenings
Ere he went out Boulia way.

As I take it from its moorings,
Sweetest memories unfold,
And its strings give out his favourite
“Silver Threads Among the Gold.”

I can fancy he is speaking,
In those rhythmic notes to me;
When I play it in the gloaming,
‘Neath the dear old apple-tree.

Oh! ye zephyrs, softly blowing,
O’er those hillocks-round and gray,
Bear with thee some homely music
To that one out Boulia way.

Tell him that his sister’s waiting
Ever him to welcome back,
That she hopes to ere next Christmas,
Hear him canter up the track.

Tell him that she will be watching
For the mailman every-day,
Hoping for a welcome letter,
That will come from Boulia way.

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