Explore "Waiting for Water" by Edward Dyson on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
'Twas old Flynn, the identity, told us / That the creek always ran pretty high, / But that fossicking veteran sold us, / And he lied as his quality lie. / Through a tangle of ranges and ridges, / Down a track that is blazed with our hide, / Over creeks minus crossings and bridges, / High and low, mere impertinent midges / Trying falls with the mighty Divide,
We came, hauling the boxes and stampers, / Or just nipping them in with a winch; / Now and then in unfortunate scampers / Missing smash by the eighth of an inch; / Round the spurs very daintily crawling, / With one team pulling out in a row, / And another lot heavenward hauling, / Lest the whole bag-of-tricks should go sprawling / Into regions unheard of below,