Dargo

Dargo is a dark-haired lass Prone to independent ways; Few men know her, fewer pass, Where her pleasant river plays But the smile in her blue eye Promises a wealth of cheer For the tired passer-by Who would seek him respite here. Long forgot, the days of gold When the miners, crowding down, Stirred a turbulence of old Round about her pleasant town. Now the quiet cattle-men. Riding in from her high plains Seek her portals now and then With a tale of worthier gains. Riding up Insolvent Track, In the days before its change Many a digger came not back From that grim, forbidding range: Came not ever back to tell Olden tales of loss or gain Where Maroka's waters swell Many a stream that seeks the plain. Still the dark-haired Dargo thrives 'Mid her lands of range and rock, While blood horses bear men's lives In and out amongst the stock. And beside her pleasant streams. Willow hung, that wind about, Here the blue-eyed maiden dreams As she marks the leaping trout.