POETRY.

ROADS FROM TOWN.

Ur the hill at Hotham,—straining, moody, slow,

Steaming in the frost and fog, whore do the waggons go ? Rumbled the wheels and clattered chain traces against the shaft, The teamster puffed a little pipe, picked his road and laughed At those stoop-shouldered townies going into graft.

Underneath the twisted box camping on the road, Listen to the horses munch beside their idle load ! Starlight, oh starlight, so cool in the hills and white, Flashing the wheels of heavy drays riding the Rocks to-night, Playing round the silent guns with the vagrant firelight Fourfold collars sevenpence each,

Three for one and a sack; Rainbow lies, reseda, peach, Mauve or mourning black. None in the universe wear like these—

Socks? We've an excellent range ; Yes, Sir! No, Sir ! Ninepence, please, Change, Willie, change!

Crimson briar-barrios burn all along the day, • White bridges in the moonlight gleam out the safer way. Watch the dodging bunnies around the ferns and rocks, Hear the dim wind playing death with the children's clocks, Hear the crack of saplings and thunder of falling box • Long leaves stroke the passing van as cool bands bless, The waggoner feels upon his hair the wattle's soft caress, He stands in the sunlight solemnly, where the clear creek runs aeross, • Wondering if the towns died out whatever would be the loss; For men live high on the things they Shoot, and sleep well on the

MOM.

Can't disarrange the window, Sir, This is the same, exact,

Tested, handsewn, durab/er

Than cast-iron, treble-backed. Raittfalls make the footpaths wet ;

The moon is a trifle strange ; Seven and elevenpence, thank you, net,

Change, Willie, change !

On the end of a naked branch the cheeky "Johnny" sits,

Swift, in flashes of black and white, the Willie Wagtail flits, A hungry thrush turns quick to nip a beetle as she goes, A lonely poddy at the fence lifts a thick head and lows Into the stream of viewless light where a tinctured silence flows.

Real unshrinkables, just the thing, Fit the boy to a This style favoured by the King.

Shirts? or trousery ?

No more ? Nothing else ? Now we've these Caps ex the'Mooning Grange,'—

Twelve and elevenpence halfpenny, please, Change, Willie, change !

White in the sun are the rivers, the hills and the flats are green, Yet what is it calls us oftenost but tho solemn road between?

Oh, grand it would be going without desire or goad,

Without regret of any kind and only a moderate load, Drowned in glory and in dust along the old grey road.

Up the hill at Hotham, swaying, moody, slow, Turning out to Bogie or 'round to Bondigo!

Fourfold collars sevenpence each, Three for one and a rack; Rainbow ties, reseda, peach,

Mauve or mourning black. None in the universe wear like these—

Socks? We've an excellent range ;

Yes, Sir ! No, Sir ! Ninepence, please, Change, Willie, change PURNLEY MeuRicE.