“Gooday,” said Bill; “Gooday,” said Joe
And sat upon a log;
“Nice day,” said Joe; “Nice day,” said Bill;
“The flies are bad, my wife's been ill.”
He threw a gibber at a crow
And sat down on the log.
They lit their pipes and smoked a bit
And stared into the sky.
They heard the magpie's liquid note
And saw the throbbing of its throat:
They felt just then they wouldn't spit
And then they wondered why.
They listened to a mountain stream
That tumbled through the stones.
It laughed and sang a pleasant air,
And trout were rising here and there
And all the world became a dream
In rhythm with its tones.
They stirred and lit their pipes again
And brushed away the flies;
The shadows of the blue-gum trees
Were lengthening, the evening breeze
Was laden with the scent of rain;
They stared into the skies.
“It looks like rain,” said Bill and knocked
His pipe out on the log.
“Well so long Joe”—“Oh, so long Bill
I'm sorry that your wife's been ill.”
The distant gum-trees slowly rocked;
He whistled to his dog.