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The Station Mail

Edward S. Sorenson

Twice forty miles I had to ride
    O’er stony hill and dale,
With jogging packhorse by my side,
    To get the station mail.

No camp or hut stood by the way,
    The track was rough and hard;
But once we heard a bullock-dray,     
    And passed a broken yard.

We boiled the quartpot to beguile
    A half-hour where we found
A bound’ry man had stopped a while
    Upon his lonely round.

By tank and dam, where no one might
    Our faring see or hear,
We jogged from early morn till night,
    With ever creaking gear.

We met the coach, and started back
    ‘Neath morning’s greying dome,
With packer staunch and sturdy hack
    To bear the burden home.

And in the bag, well sealed and all
    Secure from travel ills,
Was nothing but a pamphlet small
    That told of someone’s pills.

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