The Road To Erewhon.

There is a winding road I know
By which the swaggers often go,
And station cooks lay down the law
And then fill tucker bags some more;
A road with banks to rest upon,
A road that leads to Erewhon.
Up that old route across the range
I've met with swaggers quaint and
strange,
And with them up the pinches toiled,
And sat by creeks while billies boiled;
And yarned until the sun had gone,
Along the road to Erewhon.
But now by Boyd's and Ngamatea
Soon swaggers may no more appear,
For I have heard a roadman say
That Bob's to build a new highway,
A road for cars to speed upon
And scoot and hoot past Erewhon.
Though Erewhon may read nowhere,
And swagger men get old and rare,
Yet still I know I'll often pine
To see a swagger's secret sign;
And logs and banks I've rested on
Along that road to Erewhon.

—L. M.

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