Wangaratta

At the meeting of the waters Where the dark tree shadows play Wangaratta's sons and daughters Dream the drowsy hours away; Placid see the season's greeting Winter storm and summer sun Wed, to flow henceforth as one. Where two northbound rivers meeting, Long since prone to sudden dangers When, to dim her dawning pride, Morgan and his wild bushrangers Thronged her pleasant countryside, Now in her quiet graveyard resting Lies old shame and that rash lad, Where a mate, on tin attesting, Pleads that 'he was not all bad.' Crime and she are almost strangers Now, since those ill doers died. Bishops reign where once bushrangers Slew her peace and shamed her pride. And content within her waxes In this pious atmosphere Where naught now save threat-worn taxes Wakens echoes of past fear. At the meeting of the waters Where tree shadows shift and sway, Nothing lingers here that slaughters Her bucolic calm away. Done at last with Youth's adventure Quiet lady slow to move, And wealthier grown she lives down censure As she drifts in one straight groove.