On the Boundary

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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.

I love to loaf along the fence: So does my collie dog:He often finds a spotted cat Hid in a hollow log.He's very near as old as I And ought to have more sense--I've hammered him so many times Along the boundary-fence.

My mother says that boundary-fence Must surely be bewitched;The old man says that through that fence The neighbours are enriched;It's always down, and through the gaps Our stock all get them hence--It takes me half my time to watch The doings of that fence.

But should you seek the reason You won't travel very far:'Tis hid a mile away among The murmuring belar:The Jones's block joins on to ours, And so, in consequence,It's part of Polly's work to ride Their side the boundary-fence.

© Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake