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Riding To The Dance

Edward S. Sorenson

    ‘Twas pleasant in the moonlight, and ‘twas jolly in the dark,
While riding to the dance in Batten’s barn,
    With merry girls from bush and farm, all eager for a lark,
And older folk intent upon a yarn;
    With horses pacing briskly ‘long the winding bridle track,
    By clear lagoons that mocked the starry dome;
When every young man’s neddy seemed to love a lady’s hack—
    But ‘twasn’t always merry going home.

From scattered yards the couples and mixed parties sallied forth,
    A shadowland of charm before them spread;
O’er rippling creeks and gullies, riding east and riding north,
    When roving swans were calling overhead;
Through sweetly-scented valleys, where Love whispered to the fair,
    And laughter echoed clear from crag and comb,
While every heart was buoyant and romance was in the air—
    But ‘twasn’t always so when going home.

There was music in the hoof-beats on the litter-covered ground,
    In the creaking of the saddles as we rode
Across the starlit ridges, and it seemed that every sound
    Was a symphony attuned to Cupid’s code,
Whilst fancy sprinkled fairies ‘mong the nodding forest flowers,
    With here and there a grubby little gnome;
For the bushland was entrancing in those happy fleeting hours—
    But ‘twasn’t so entrancing going home.

A night bird calling softly from some cloister far away.
    To the jesting of a tantalising lass,
The perfume of rare blossoms that half-tempted us to stay,
    Commingling with the scent of trodden grass,
Impressed that time of promise on the chart of memory
    That made the book of life a treasure tome;
For love and hope and joyance rode upon the saddle-tree—
    But ‘twasn’t always joyous going home.

Where level ways invited, with the horses at a prance,
    With champing bits and clink of stirrup-bars,
One led a sudden gallop with a challenge in her glance,
    For there’s daring in the glamor of the stars.
Then merriment and laughter mingled all along the track,
    While swans were questing westward towards the Frome;
But weary, drowsy spirits stretched the dull miles riding back—
    ‘Twas never very merry going home.

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