Dear Kitty, I’ve just read the letter you sent—
It was brought by the man from the store;
And I’m writin’ straight back, as I lay in my tent,
Sprawlin’ out at full length on the floor.
But the pen ’ll scarce write for the thinkin’ of you—
Oh, I’m sorry that ever I went!
And I have to knock off every minute or two,
Just to glance through the letter you sent.
It is scarcely six months since I left Cooranbean,
But seems longer than all of last year;
And the moon ain’t so bright, and the grass ain’t so green,
And the sky, somehow, isn’t so clear:
Oh, I’d give all their towns, to the very last brick,
And their mines, with the forchins they yield,
Just to hear the old ripple of Cooranbean crick,
And the rustle of corn in the field.
There isn’t no “skirts” like the Cooranbean “skirts”!
Or no boys like the Cooranbean boys!
And there isn’t no parties for fellers and flirts,
And there isn’t no dance at Mulroy’s!
And there isn’t no chance for a couple to spin
Like the wind acrost Cherrytree Plain!
Where the best of the prizes were kisses to win—
And ... there isn’t no Kitty M‘Lean.
I can’t find no nuggets, and can’t see no charm,
As I wander about in the street;
And I long to be back once again on the farm,
With the rabbits and rust in the wheat.
Oh, then life would want neither a whip or a spur—
With a “string,” and a trigger to pull,
And just you at my side, and the possums astir,
And the moon, our old moon! at the full ...
But if I am dull, and my letters are crook,
It is certain that you should know why:
For you’ll find Charley’s heart, if you’re carin’ to look,
At the gate where he kissed you “Good-bye!”
And say, if in a month, on the home-comin’ track,
There is anyone’s eyes charnster skim,
And they see a young chap with a “port” on his back—
That most likely, Dear Kit., ’ll be him.