'Far below us in a hollow <br />Slumber'ing in the morning haze, <br />Lay the quaint, old mining township, <br />Relic of the Roaring Days. <br />Through its empty streets we cantered <br />And our reins we never drew, <br />For our thoughts were in the future, <br />Riding o'er the hills of Whroo.' <br />'Aye; 'tis verdant green, old comrade, <br />But - your grave is verdant, too! <br />And we'll go no more together, <br />Riding o'er the hills of Whroo.'<br /><br />Edward Harrington<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hills-of-whroo/
