Page:Where the Dead Men Lie.djvu/115



I love the ancient boundary-fence— That mouldering chock-and-log: When I go ride the boundary I let the old horse jog, And take his pleasure in and out Where sandalwood grows dense, And tender pines clasp hands across The log that tops the fence.

’Tis pleasant on the boundary-fence These sultry summer days; A mile away, outside the scrub, The plain is all ablaze. The sheep are panting on the camps— The heat is so intense; But here the shade is cool and sweet Along the boundary-fence.