Poem: Rude Rhymes by Horace Stubbs

Away up near the Bowen Hills,
   Hard by the Exhibition, 
Are gardens placed by cunning hands
   In excellent position;
And thither in the spring-time sweet,
   As well as in the autumn,
I go to hunt for errant rhymes,
   And tarry till I've caught 'em.

Tis hard to woo them from the shade
   Wherein they love to gambol;
As if each tree of sounding name
   Were but a wayside bramble;
They round the Pittospori skip,
   Or in Gardiniæ dally;
Or from Convolvulaceæ sip,
   Or from the bush-house sally.

I think they tread upon the beds ---
   'Tis very wrong -- in fact
I Agree to punish them -- when caught ---
   With prickles of the Cacti.
They fan themselves with broad palm leaves,
   Crack jokes about the fig-tree;
They fight the genii of the place,
   And always claim the vict'ry.

At length each rude and errant rhyme
   Along the pathway lumbers,
Too tired for play, yet loth to help
   This minstrel with, his numbers.
Yes! Life is full of trouble -- but
   Of all the plagues that meet us
The greatest for a weary Bard
   Are certainly -- mosquitoes!

First published in The Queenslander, 16 July 1887