A cosy little cottage lying lonely in the scrub,
Far from the noise and bustle of the township and the pub;
Where seldom there’s a happening to make the heart rejoice –
The same old story over in the Big Scrub’s mournful voice.
There sometimes comes a swagman, if he’s thirst or tucker pushed;
Few are the other callers and as a rule they all are bushed
The days are long and dreary, and when darkness takes her seat,
Then Myall Grove is laden with a loneliness complete.
The bush birds cease their singing in the branches over head,
They seek their nightly perches and the night birds come instead;
The moon is slowly rising, making all a ghostly white,
And I sit with spirits drooping and I listen to the night.
I hear the horse bells tinkling across the myall flats;
I hear the wagtail’s night song and the flitting of the bats;
I hear the night-owls’ hooting as they from their slumbers wake;
A sad old curlew crying, too, as if his heart would break.
I hear the old ewes bleating to their lambs out on the plain;
A flock of wood ducks winging on their way towards the drain;
I hear the night wind sobbing out its sorrows to the trees,
And sounds I can’t account for come drifting on the breeze.
And then old “Roy” starts barking loud at something he can hear,
For signs of someone coming then I strain an eager ear.
Another disappointment. “Blast the dog; clear out somewhere”, And old “Roy” seems to wonder why I look at him and swear.
And so the horsebells tinkle and the night birds sound their G’s;
The night wind goes on sobbing out its sorrows in the trees;
The curlew wails his story till the heart cannot but move;
And so the night goes over out at lonely Myall Grove.
© Jim Low
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