Old Jim Shore

He prospered in an olden day When down the rutted waggon track, Thro' scenes that seem a world away, His bullocks lumbered forth and back; A tall old man, deep voiced, erect Despite the load of years he bore, His patriarchal beard, grey flecked, He won from all men deep respect, Doyen of drivers - old Jim Shore. 'Gee-off, Headman. Come here, Tony. Darkey, Redman! Woo there, Roany.' Goad upraised in stern pretending Writhed aloft, yet ne'er descending To fulfilment of the threat. Men have said that never yet Had Jim's whip-lash marked a hide Of the sleek beasts that were his pride. 'Get on, Rodney! Steady, Moonlight!' Thro' the disk or dappled moonlight, Down the deep green ways of yore Went the team of old Jim Shore. The times have changed; it could not last, The glamor of those halcyon days. The loud exhaust, the siren's blast Wake echoes now by old bush ways. Yet oft, when dusk steals down the sky, I sit again by my house door To hear a ghostly team go by, And, mingling with the night wind's sigh, That rich deep voice of old Jim Shore. 'Gee-off, Headman. Stand up, Tony. Darkey, Redman! Come here Roany!' At the yoke I see them straining; Waggon timbers are complaining; As, from some vague spirit land, I see the driver wave a hand, As long ago he used to wave Ere the years claimed him, and the grave. 'Up there , Major! Darby! Drummer!' Again, as on some long lost summer, The team drifts by and disappears Down the green aisles of vanished years.