Poem by Andrew Barton Paterson

A Triolet

Of all the sickly forms of verse, 
Commend me to the triolet. 
It makes bad writers somewhat worse: 
Of all the sickly forms of verse, 
That fall beneath a reader’s curse, 
It is the feeblest jingle yet. 
Of all the sickly forms of verse, 
Commend me to the triolet.

1. A Grain of Desert Sand
2. That Half-Crown Sweep
3. Under the Shadow of Kiley’s Hill
4. White Cockatoos
5. Song of the Artesian Water

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