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THE
swagman sat upon a log beside a waterhole
And eyed Matilda on the ground with anguish in his soul.
He drew his hand across his eyes as far across the plain
Came wafted down the forest aisles the whistle of a train.
Again
he looked to where she lay insensate on the clay,
While slow the lengthened shadows barred the even of the day.
He saw how shrunken was her form, how wrinkled, old and worn,
And felt a tugging at his heart as if its strings were torn.
“Farewell,
Matilda! you have been my partner all these years
Upon life’s journey through the west, with all its smiles and tears;
But now, alas! the times are changed, and this can never be,
For where your form was welcome once you now meet obloquy.”
The
swagman paused and bared his head beneath the darkened sky;
Then raised Matilda in his arms and breathed a last good-bye.
The brand of Cain was on his brow, but anguish in his soul,
As, with a frenzied cry, he cast her in the waterhole.
A startled night-bird gave a scream and Happed across his sight –
"Matilda’s ghost!” he gasped, and fled, a madman through the
night.
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