The Darling of the Downs - Poem - 1856

Here I reprint a poem about sheep and love on the Darling Downs published in 1856.  I do this for reasons which I do not understand.

The poem is a 15 verse work with quatrain (four line) verses mostly following the rhyming pattern AABB. 

S. G. Mee clearly loves their em-dashes. I came to Mee after tidying up one of their articles urging temperance and calling out the evils of grog (I may blog that at another time).  But to be honest, reading this poem I do wonder what they were on :-).  Perhaps they were different S. G. Mees but if that is the case they both had a fascination with em-dashes and literary obscurity. Perhaps they were on something in 1856 and then in 1862 by declaring the evils of grog they are attempting to exorcise their shame. Have provided a link to the original ... just in case you want to confirm I haven't doctored it to be weirder than it should be.

I am also somewhat frustrated by the unrequited asterisk in line seven (see image above), which I can only imagine is a note that they have failed to employ the AABB pattern. Except they committed that error twice and failed to asterisk it the second time.

Here is 'Darling of the Downs', make of it what you will.

ORIGINAL POETRY.

THE DARLING OF THE DOWNS.

Morn floodeth yon orient mountain with gold;
My sheep now look wistfully forth from the fold:
"I see you, old ladies, sweet freedom for ye —
Now the gate is wide open,—there, go!—ye are free!"

Yet musing awhile with glad bleatings they stand;
Some bid me good morn with love-licks of the hand.
For the salt I — to my sheep a true Arab am I, *
And the kinder I treat them the greater my joy.

And now move we on to the glorious day,
'Midst wild thyme and flowers to the mountains away;
Hurrah for a race! — my glad lambkins now see,
Steeple-chasing, avaunt! — a bright lamb-chase for me.

A thousand, wild-bounding, as wavelets of light,
Now take in the sunbeams an ecstacy — light!
Their astounded old mothers, with marvelling stare,
Stretch their necks as to say, "Well I never! — look there!"

But who cometh hither? the last time she came
Her mamma tried to scold me, and that was a shame;
She glides as a sunbeam — (would'st give her the slip?) —
One hand on her pinafore, finger on lip.

I'll try and look solemn: now nothing I see,
But those eyes of soft blue which are speaking to me;
Enchantress! — I'm going, — that dimple! I'm gone, —
She knows it, the puss, and comes boundingly on.

"My sweet little Nelly, you've sure run away."
"Dear shepherd, I have'n--mamma says 'at I may;"

"Well then, my darling, whate'er ma' may say,
If I'm even hung for it, I'll steal you to-day!"

Then those eyes leap up to me — nor now doth she reck,
I shall loose the bright tendrils that cling to my neck;
And I view those pure pearls as their corals dispart,
And a kiss soft as snow-flake now melts in my heart.

Then she clappeth her hands in her innocent glee,
And we bound into sunshine — so happy are we;

She swingeth her hat, and the day is begun;
O glorious, golden-haired child of the sun!

My sheep know her voice, and forget their sweet food,
And listen afar in a rapturous mood;
Then they spring to her side with their gambolings wild,
And bleat forth their love for the beautiful child.

"See 'at 'ittle lame lamb, without mother, behind!"
I take it — the poor fractured limb gently bind:

From behind a grass-tree she peeps forth in the sun, —
"Dear shepherd, tell — tell me when it is all done!"

"Now, love;" — and all sobbing she springs to my side,

And a necklace of bluebells around it hath tied:—
"Dear, dear 'ittle lamby — I'll soon kiss it well!"
Still her sweet little bosom with sorrow doth swell.

Thus pass we the day amidst flowers and joy;
Nor my sheep think of food, their sweet shepherdess by;
At night they look doleful — those loving old dams!

And follow her far, with a stream of their lambs.

Sweet child of the desert! — thou wilderness star!
My sheep love me well, but love you better far;
Oh, who would not love thee, thou creature of light!
With thee I e'er wish it would never come night.

But I take her t'wards home, list! know I full well
Of the marvellous feats of her playmates she'll tell;
Now mamma calls to her — "Come love, be undrest:
Good night! one more kiss — say ye, am I not blest?"

S. G. MEE.

SOURCE

ORIGINAL POETRY. (1856, December 2). The North Australian, Ipswich and General Advertiser (Ipswich, Qld. : 1856 - 1862), p. 4. Retrieved February 13, 2022, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article78851091