Song of the Old Boundary Rider
Fat and full of health are the valleys of the Condamine,
There the yellow maize and the green tobacco grow,
Through the little gardens runs the trailing passion-vine,
And softly to the North the white downs flow.
Here nothing changes, seed-time or harvest-time,
Mulga on the skyline, mulga round the place,
Riding round the fences I hear the bells of bullocks chime,
But homely sounds come rarer than a woman's face.
Lonely is the day and lonely is the firelight,
Lonely is the heart when the trees come creeping near,
When the bobock calls the very dogs are dumb with fright,
And when a voice starts singing it's my own voice that I hear.
Back let me ride to the valley of the Condamine,
There the little homesteads nestle in their green,
Opal where the mists rise, amber where the paddocks shine,
My own things round me and none to come between.
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Comments about this poem (Song of the Old Boundary Rider by Vance Palmer )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(22 July 1849 – 19 November 1887)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(November 9 - 1937)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
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