At noon I passed some labourers in a field. The sweat ran down upon each sunburnt face, Which shone like copper in the ardent glow. And one looked up, with envy unconcealed, Beholding my cool cheeks and listless pace, Yet he was happier, though he did not know.

Fain would I shake thee off, but weak am I Thy strong solicitations to withstand. Plenty of work lies ready to my hand, Which rests irresolute, and lets it lie.

How can I work, when that seductive sky Smiles through the window, beautiful and bland, And seems to half entreat and half command My presence out of doors beneath its eye?

Will not the air be fresh, the water blue, The smell of beanfields, blowing to the shore, Better than these poor drooping purchased flowers? Good-bye, dull books! Hot room, good-bye to you! And think it strange if I return before The sea grows purple in the evening hours.

I hear a twittering of birds, And now they burst in song. How sweet, although it wants the words! It shall not want them long, For I will set some to the note Which bubbles from the thrush's throat.

O jewelled night, that reign'st on high, Where is thy crescent moon? Thy stars have faded from the sky, The sun is coming soon. The summer night is passed away, Sing welcome to the summer day.

CAIRNSMILL DEN--TUNE: `A ROVING'

As I, with hopeless love o'erthrown, With love o'erthrown, with love o'erthrown, And this is truth I tell, As I, with hopeless love o'erthrown, Was sadly walking all alone,