From the runs of the Narran, wide-dotted with sheep, <br />And loud with the lowing of cattle, <br />We speed for a land where the strange forests sleep <br />And the hidden creeks bubble and brattle! <br />Now call on the horses, and leave the blind courses <br />And sources of rivers that all of us know; <br />For, crossing the ridges, and passing the ledges, <br />And running up gorges, we'll come to the verges <br />Of gullies where waters eternally flow. <br />Oh! the herds they will rush down the spurs of the hill <br />To feed on the grasses so cool and so sweet; <br />And I think that my life with delight will stand still <br />When we halt with the pleasant Barcoo at our feet. <br /> <br />Good-bye to the Barwon, and brigalow scrubs, <br />Adieu to the Culgoa ranges, <br />But look for the mulga and salt-bitten shrubs, <br />Though the face of the forest-land changes. <br />The leagues we may travel down beds of hot gravel, <br />And clay-crusted reaches where moisture hath been, <br />While searching for waters, may vex us and thwart us, <br />Yet who would be quailing, or fainting, or failing? <br />Not you, who are men of the Narran, I ween! <br />When we leave the dry channels away to the south, <br />And reach the far plains we are journeying to, <br />We will cry, though our lips may be glued with the drouth, <br />Hip, hip, and hurrah for the pleasant Barcoo! <br /><br /><br />Henry Kendall<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-barcoo/
