Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake

(26 March 1866 – May 1892 / Sydney / Australia)

Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake Poems

1. Where The Dead Men Lie 1/1/2004
2. 'Twixt The Wings Of The Yard 1/1/2004
3. To A Hatpeg 4/9/2010
4. The Digger's Song 1/1/2004
5. The Demon Snow-Shoes (A Legend Of Kiandra) 1/1/2004
6. The Box-Tree's Love 4/9/2010
7. The Babes In The Bush 4/9/2010
8. Skeeta ( An Old Servant's Tale ) 1/1/2004
9. Our Visitor 1/1/2004
10. On The Range 1/1/2004
11. On The Boundary 1/1/2004
12. Kitty Mccrae - A Galloping Rhyme 1/1/2004
13. Kelly's Conversion 4/9/2010
14. Josephus Riley 4/9/2010
15. Jim's Whip 1/1/2004
16. Jimmy Wood 1/1/2004
17. Jack's Last Muster 1/1/2004
18. Jack Corrigan 1/1/2004
19. How Polly Paid For Her Keep 1/1/2004
20. How Babs Malone Cut Down The Field 1/1/2004
21. From The Far West 4/9/2010
22. Fogarty's Gin 4/9/2010
23. Featherstonhaugh 1/1/2004
24. Down The River 1/1/2004
25. Desiree 4/9/2010
26. Babs Malone 4/9/2010
27. At The "J. C." 1/1/2004
28. At Devlin's Siding 1/1/2004
29. An Easter Rhyme 4/9/2010
30. An Allegory 1/1/2004
31. A Wayside Queen 4/9/2010
32. A Vision Out West 4/9/2010
33. A Valentine 4/9/2010
34. A Song From A Sandhill 4/9/2010
35. A Song 1/1/2004
36. A Memory 1/1/2004
37. A Bushman's Love 1/1/2004
Best Poem of Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake

A Song From A Sandhill

Drip, drip, drip! It tinkles on the fly—
The pitiless outpouring of an overburdened sky:
Each drooping frond of pine has got a jewel at its tip—
First a twinkle, then a sprinkle, and a drip, drip, drip.

Drip, drip, drip! They must be shearing up on high.
Can't you see the snowy fleeces that are rolling, rolling by?
How many bales, I wonder, are they branding to the clip?
P'r'aps the Boss is keeping tally with this drip, drip, drip.

Drip, drip, drip! while the sodden branches sigh:
The jovial jackass dare not laugh for fear that he should cry:
The...

Read the full of A Song From A Sandhill

A Bushman's Love

You say we bushmen cannot love—
Our lives are too prosaic: hence
We lose or lack that finer sense
That raises some few men above
Their fellows, setting them apart
As vessels of a finer make—
The acme of the potter’s art—
Are placed apart upon the shelf.
So he is more than common delf,

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