All in vain ’gainst him, the vulture,
    I have battled without rest—
In the van of agriculture,
    Marching out into the West.

Now the eagle-hawks are feeding
    On my perished stock that reek
Where the water-holes receding
    Long had left the burning creek.

I must labour without pity—
    I the pick and spade must wield
In the streetways of the city
    Or upon another’s field!

Can it be my reason’s rocking,
    For I feel a burning hate
For the God who, only mocking,
Sent the prayed-for rain too late?

Pour, ye mocking rains, and rattle
    On the bare, brown, grassless plain,
On the shrivelled hides of cattle
    That shall ne’er want grass again!

Rush, ye yellow floods, to Murray,
    Over thirsty creek-banks foam;
And o’er all, ye black clouds, hurry;
    Ye can bring not back my home!