老弗林，那个身份，告诉我们这条河的水位一直很高，但是那个老朽的老兵出卖了我们，他撒谎了，因为他的品质。我们穿过杂乱的山脉和山脊，沿着我们的兽皮燃烧的小径，越过没有十字路口和桥梁的小溪，高高低低，就像不顾一切的小蚊，试图与大分水岭一起坠落，我们来了，拖着箱子和模子，或者只是用绞车把它们塞进去;偶尔在不幸的跳跃中，与八分之一英寸的距离失之毫厘;我们小心翼翼地绕着马刺爬行，一队人排成一排拉着，另一队人往上拉着，生怕这一套把戏会漫天飞到下面闻所未闻的地方，我们带着小腿、轴、框架和奇妙的轮子走了过去;然后我们花了一个月的时间进行艰苦的嫁接，才敲定了最后一笔交易。她咚咚地敲打着，几乎没有一点震动，我们选她为磨坊女王，当她的鼓声在山间响起时，从广阔的荒凉中传来一阵推动力，进入我们的欢乐。现在凸轮轴上的圆盘生锈了，盒子里的邮票还在，一片寂静?它又深又恶心，就像磨坊上的一层棺盖。她才跑了两个星期?然后她休息了，我们呢?除了抱怨，我没有什么可做的;因为一只鸟在进水管里筑巢，而我们呢?ve spent every stiver invested, And are praying for tucker and rain. Billy?s Creek?theme of eloquent fables? Drips like sweat on the breast of the wheel, And the blankets are dry on the tables, And the sluice-box is warped like an eel; Sudden dust-clouds run lunatic races In the red, rocky bed down below, And the porcupine scrambles in places Where Flinn swears by the faith he embraces, Fourteen inches of water should flow. For a time we were proof against sorrow, And we harboured a cheerful belief In the plenteous rains of to-morrow As we belted away at the reef. We piled quartz in the paddocks and hopper, And the pack-horse came in once a week: Now our credit is not worth a copper At the township, and highly improper Is the language the storekeepers speak. We no longer talk brightly, or snivel Of our luck, but we loaf very hard, Too disgusted to care to be civil, And too lazy to look at a card. Only George finds some slight consolation Crushing prospects?a couple a day? And then proving by multiplication How much metal is in the formation, And the `divvies? she?ll probably pay. But our leisure is qualified slightly By the cattle from over the Fly? Who have taken to pegging out nightly In our limited water supply. And the snakes have assisted in keeping Things alive, for the man, you?ll agree, Will be spry who may find he?s been sleeping With a tiger?or chance on one creeping In the water he wanted for tea. Though our sweltering sky never changes, Squatter Clark, up at Crowfoot, complains That prospectors out over the ranges Have been chased out of camp by the rains. Veal, the Methodist preacher at Spence?s, Who the Cousin Jacks say is `some tuss? As a rain-making parson commences To enlarge on our sins and offences, And to blame all his failures on us. We don?t go to his church down the mountain: Seven miles is a wearisome trot, With the glass playing up like a fountain, And the prayers correspondingly hot. So on Sunday each suffering sinner Has a simple, convivial spree,? A roast porcupine, maybe, for dinner; For we daily grow thinner and thinner On the week?s bread and treacle and tea. We?ve been scared, too, of late by Golightly, Him who kept up his chin best of all, And predicted with confidence nightly Heavy rains that neglected to fall, And enlarged on the sure indications (While we listened, and wearily groaned) Of tremendous climatic sensations, Fearful tempests, and great inundations, That, it happened, were always postponed. He?s gone daft through our many reverses, Or the sun has got on to his brain, For he cowers all day, and he curses To a fretful and wearing refrain; And at midnight he dolefully screeches In the gloom of the desolate mill; Or he goes in his shirt, making speeches To the man in the moon, whom he reaches From the summit of Poverty Hill. So we?re waiting, and watching, and longing With an impotent, bitter desire, And new troubles and old ones come thronging, Drought, and fever, and famine, and fire; And we know?our misfortunes reviewing? All the pangs that in Hades betide, Where the damned sit eternally stewing, And, through days never ending, are suing For the water that?s ever denied.