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 What a hand it seem’d to lend!.... Good times follow’d, wool and stock Up, and steady as a rock— Till we settled I could send For poor Janet; yes, and still, Step by step, we’ve gone up-hill, Slow, but sure and steady; till Andrew rode to Town, to pay The last shilling, yesterday!

In the evening, coming back, There I met him, on the track That we took, those ten years since, And we rode, this time, all round That once rough-and-tumble ground. No need, now, to sigh, or wince, Choke the tears, or mend a moan— There lay our Bush Section: grown, Paddocks, You! and all our own.

When you’re climbing yonder peak— Down the swamp, across the creek, Up through Bush—the track is rough, And the up-hill scramble tough; When you’ve done it, and come out— Up and down and round about, Oh, the air! and such a view! —From our hill-top of What Is, So we view now What Has Been. What a difference in the scene! Friendly, smiling, now it lies, Panting Past, from tranquil Present Almost picturesque and pleasant.