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Down the Maranoa

Edward S. Sorenson

We’re drifting down the Maranoar through lazy summer days,
    With cattle bound for far away Moree;
From dawn to dusk they dawdle where the cypress sighs and sways,
    Through greying grasses swishing to the knee,
Ever steadily we follow, often sitting half astride;
    We rarely raise a canter while it’s light.
But how oft for weary watchmen there’s a wild and reckless ride
    When some trifle scares those bullocks in the night!

The eerie cry of some wild bird, the flutter of its wings,
    The snapping of a twig beside the camp,
The groan and creak of lapping limbs, the wind’s shrill murmurings
    Through bending boughs when midnight’s dark and damp,
Though common sounds on road and run that never boded harm,
    Will fill the pent-up mob with sudden fear;
And in the hours when nothing stirs they rush in wild alarm
    From ghosts that humans neither see nor hear.

There’s a rumble on the night-camp sends a tremor through our roofs,
    A sound of terror and a blur of dust.
Fear-mad the cattle gallop with a thunder-roar of hoofs,
    And speed with them the crouching rider must,
Hard through a dusty darkness that enshrouds the runaways,
    And hides the drooping limb, the jutting root,
Until he heads the leaders and their wild flight turns and stays,
    While forest litter rattles underfoot.

Between the river crossings, where the waters rush and roar,
    And horses plunge and halt with half a load,
It’s dull and drowsy droving ‘long the sandy Maranoar,
    With beasts that seem the quietest on the road.
They’re scared of nothing living and afraid of nothing dead,
    We pelt the brutes with sticks and bits of bark;
But round the camp at night-time we are careful where we tread,
    For they’re rowdy, touchy cattle after dark.

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