Coaching Days.

There's silence o'er the old coach inn, a silence sharp as pain,
No clatter comes from stable or from stall,
The weary walls have crumbled neath the sunshine and the rain
Of yearning years that fain we would recall;
Not a neighing nor a whinny under firm caressing hand,
Tells that there the old coach horses dreamt their dreams,
After days of sturdy striving—only those can understand
Who have seen them breast the swift and swollen streams.
There's no movement at the doorway, no invitation now
From the missus or the girl behind the bar
E'er the driver takes the “ribbons” in the hand that well knows how Curls his whip and cries “Whoa!
Steady! Right you are!“
Away they swing with “Goodbye Bill,” and “So long Cis and Kate”
The township boys are cheering, eyes agleam,
The leaders proud are prancing while the polers pull their weight,—
The good old mare, the chestnuts, and the cream.
Oh well do I remember the bush road winding white
Through Marsden from Kumara to The Grey,
The ford across the Greenstone, the view from No Name height
The bellbirds’ chime, the tuis’ carol gay.
Those times are gone for ever, the coaching days are o'er
And thoughts both sad and sweet are homing fast,
To my mind where hallowed mem'ries of those that are no more
Are woven in the loom of joys long past.

—Ehoa-o-te-manu.