The sun peers o’er you wooded ridge and thro’ the forest
dense,
Its golden edge o’er the mountain ledge looks down on the
stockyard fence,
Looks down, looks down, looks down on the stockyard fence;
And dark creeks rush thro’ the tangled brush, when their
shuddering shadows throng
Until they chime in the rude rough rhyme of the wild
goburra’s song.