“I shan’t,” cried the maiden, “I shan’t!”
With a dear little petulant cry;
But the Moon, the old Moon, looked aslant,
With a comical twist in her eye;
And the mulga bush, lingering near,
Caught up the defiant refrain,
And “I shan’t! Oh, I shan’t!”
In a musical chant,
Was re-echoed again and again.
“But Lucretia, my dearest, you will!”
Our Superbus persisted—and soon
His soft accents came back from the hill,
In the mellowing light of the moon;
And the salmon-gums, clustering round,
Sent the melody dancing along,
And “You will! Oh, you will!”
Was repeated, until
They were all out of breath with their song.
But the maiden was adamant still,
Though her lips were an edible red;
And when Tarquin insisted, “You will!”
“Oh, I shan’t! you deceiver!” she said.
And the mulga and salmon-gums all,
In this star-gazing argument caught,
Sang, “You will!” “Oh, I shan’t!”
In a soul-wrecking chant—
But they thought in their hearts that she ought.
[Decoration: Mining with a windsail]