Fat and full of health are the valleys of the Condamine, <br />There the yellow maize and the green tobacco grow, <br />Through the little gardens runs the trailing passion-vine, <br />And softly to the North the white downs flow. <br /> <br />Here nothing changes, seed-time or harvest-time, <br />Mulga on the skyline, mulga round the place, <br />Riding round the fences I hear the bells of bullocks chime, <br />But homely sounds come rarer than a woman's face. <br /> <br />Lonely is the day and lonely is the firelight, <br />Lonely is the heart when the trees come creeping near, <br />When the bobock calls the very dogs are dumb with fright, <br />And when a voice starts singing it's my own voice that I hear. <br /> <br />Back let me ride to the valley of the Condamine, <br />There the little homesteads nestle in their green, <br />Opal where the mists rise, amber where the paddocks shine, <br />My own things round me and none to come between.<br /><br />Vance Palmer<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/song-of-the-old-boundary-rider/
