Page:Where the Dead Men Lie.djvu/28

6 Then the laugh and the banter, as gaily we canter, With a pause for the nags at a miniature lake, Where the yellowtop catches the sunlight in patches, And lies like a mirror of gold in our wake.

O, the rush and the rattle of fast-fleeing cattle, Whose hoofs beat a mad rataplan on the earth! Their hot-headed flight in! Who would not delight in The gallop that seems to hold all life is worth?

And over the rolling plains slowly patrolling To the sound of the cattle’s monotonous tramp, Till we hear the sharp pealing of stockwhips, revealing The fact that our comrades have put on the camp.

From the spot where they're drafting the wind rises, wafting The dust till it hides man and beast from our gaze, Till, suddenly lifting and easterly drifting, We catch a short glimpse of the scene through the haze—

A blending and blurring of swiftly recurring Colour and movement, that pass on their way; An intricate weaving of sights and sounds, leaving An eager desire to take part in the fray;

A dusty procession, in circling succession, Of bullocks that bellow in impotent rage; A bright panorama, a soul-stirring drama— The sky for its background, the earth for its stage.