The Bloody fields of Wheogo
The moon rides high in a starry sky,
And, through the midnight gloom,
A faery scene of woodland green
Her silver rays illume.
Dark mountains show a ridge of snow
Against the deep blue sky,
And a winding stream with sparkling gleam
Flows merrily murmuring by.
Not a sound is heard, save a bough when stirred
By the night-wind's moaning sigh,
Or, piercing and shrill, echoed back by the hill,
A curlew's mournful cry.
And twinkling bright in the shadowy night
A lonely taper shines,
And seated there is a wanton fair
Who in amorous sadness pines.
For her lord is gone, and she sits alone,
Alone in her mountain home!
But 'twas not her lord that she deplored,
For she liked to see him roam.
The joy in her heart is a bushranger smart
Who, lion-like, prowls in the night;
And with supper all spread, and a four-post bed,
She waits by the flickering light.
Equipped for fight, in trappings bright,
Came a band of warriors there,
By gallant Sir Fred right gallantly led,
The 'ranger to seize in a snare.
They spread all around, and the house they surround,
Nine men with revolver and gun;
"A reward's on his head!" cried the gallant Sir Fred,
"And we're nine to the bushranger's one!"
Still gleamed the light in the shades of the night,
And still the pale moon shone;
But no 'ranger came to cheer the dame
As she sat by the window alone.
The warriors bold were freezing with cold,
And wished they were in their beds,
When the echoing beat of a horse's feet
Sent the blood in a rush to their heads!
At gentle speed on a snow-white steed
And singing a joyous song
To the beckoning light in the shadowy night
The bushranger rides along.
A stalwart man was he to scan
And flushed with ruffian pride;
In many a fray he had won the day
And the "New Police" defied.
Up started then Sir Fred and his men
With cocked carbines in hand
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poem by Anonymous Oceania
Added by Poetry Lover
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