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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/213-0.txt b/213-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..edb81c2 --- /dev/null +++ b/213-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4162 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Man from Snowy River, by +Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Man from Snowy River + +Author: Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson + +Posting Date: July 11, 2008 [EBook #213] +Release Date: February, 1995 +Last Updated: March 9, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER *** + + + + +Produced by A. Light, and Sheridan Ash + + + + + +THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER AND OTHER VERSES + +(Second edition) + +by Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson + +[Australian Poet, Reporter -- 1864-1941.] + + +[Note on text: Italicized stanzas will be indented 5 spaces. +Italicized words or phrases will be capitalized. +Lines longer than 75 characters have been broken according to metre, +and the continuation is indented two spaces. Also, +some obvious errors, after being confirmed against other sources, +have been corrected.] + + +[Note on content: Banjo Paterson and Henry Lawson were writing for +the Sydney 'Bulletin' in 1892 when Lawson suggested a 'duel' of poetry +to increase the number of poems they could sell to the paper. +It was apparently entered into in all fun, though there are reports +that Lawson was bitter about it later. 'In Defence of the Bush', +included in this selection, was one of Paterson's replies to Lawson.] + + +[The 1913 printing (Sydney, Fifty-third Thousand) of the Second Edition +(first published in 1902) was used in the preparation of this etext. +First edition was first published in 1895.] + + + + +THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER AND OTHER VERSES + +by A. B. Paterson (“The Banjo”) + +with preface by Rolf Boldrewood + + + + + +Preface + + + +It is not so easy to write ballads descriptive of the bushland of Australia +as on light consideration would appear. Reasonably good verse +on the subject has been supplied in sufficient quantity. +But the maker of folksongs for our newborn nation requires +a somewhat rare combination of gifts and experiences. +Dowered with the poet's heart, he must yet have passed his 'wander-jaehre' +amid the stern solitude of the Austral waste -- must have ridden the race +in the back-block township, guided the reckless stock-horse +adown the mountain spur, and followed the night-long moving, +spectral-seeming herd 'in the droving days'. Amid such scarce +congenial surroundings comes oft that finer sense which renders visible +bright gleams of humour, pathos, and romance, which, +like undiscovered gold, await the fortunate adventurer. +That the author has touched this treasure-trove, not less delicately +than distinctly, no true Australian will deny. In my opinion +this collection comprises the best bush ballads written +since the death of Lindsay Gordon. + +Rolf Boldrewood + + +A number of these verses are now published for the first time, +most of the others were written for and appeared in “The Bulletin” + (Sydney, N.S.W.), and are therefore already widely known +to readers in Australasia. + +A. B. Paterson + + + + + + +Prelude + + + + I have gathered these stories afar, + In the wind and the rain, + In the land where the cattle camps are, + On the edge of the plain. + On the overland routes of the west, + When the watches were long, + I have fashioned in earnest and jest + These fragments of song. + + They are just the rude stories one hears + In sadness and mirth, + The records of wandering years, + And scant is their worth + Though their merits indeed are but slight, + I shall not repine, + If they give you one moment's delight, + Old comrades of mine. + + + + + + +Contents with First Lines: + + + + Prelude + I have gathered these stories afar, + + The Man from Snowy River + There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around + + Old Pardon, the Son of Reprieve + You never heard tell of the story? + + Clancy of the Overflow + I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better + + Conroy's Gap + This was the way of it, don't you know -- + + Our New Horse + The boys had come back from the races + + An Idyll of Dandaloo + On Western plains, where shade is not, + + The Geebung Polo Club + It was somewhere up the country, in a land of rock and scrub, + + The Travelling Post Office + The roving breezes come and go, the reed beds sweep and sway, + + Saltbush Bill + Now this is the law of the Overland that all in the West obey, + + A Mountain Station + I bought a run a while ago, + + Been There Before + There came a stranger to Walgett town, + + The Man Who Was Away + The widow sought the lawyer's room with children three in tow, + + The Man from Ironbark + It was the man from Ironbark who struck the Sydney town, + + The Open Steeplechase + I had ridden over hurdles up the country once or twice, + + The Amateur Rider + _HIM_ going to ride for us! _HIM_ -- + with the pants and the eyeglass and all. + + On Kiley's Run + The roving breezes come and go + + Frying Pan's Theology + Scene: On Monaro. + + The Two Devines + It was shearing-time at the Myall Lake, + + In the Droving Days + 'Only a pound,' said the auctioneer, + + Lost + 'He ought to be home,' said the old man, + 'without there's something amiss. + + Over the Range + Little bush maiden, wondering-eyed, + + Only a Jockey + Out in the grey cheerless chill of the morning light, + + How M'Ginnis Went Missing + Let us cease our idle chatter, + + A Voice from the Town + I thought, in the days of the droving, + + A Bunch of Roses + Roses ruddy and roses white, + + Black Swans + As I lie at rest on a patch of clover + + The All Right 'Un + He came from 'further out', + + The Boss of the 'Admiral Lynch' + Did you ever hear tell of Chili? I was readin' the other day + + A Bushman's Song + I'm travellin' down the Castlereagh, and I'm a station hand, + + How Gilbert Died + There's never a stone at the sleeper's head, + + The Flying Gang + I served my time, in the days gone by, + + Shearing at Castlereagh + The bell is set a-ringing, and the engine gives a toot, + + The Wind's Message + There came a whisper down the Bland between the dawn and dark, + + Johnson's Antidote + Down along the Snakebite River, where the overlanders camp, + + Ambition and Art + I am the maid of the lustrous eyes + + The Daylight is Dying + The daylight is dying + + In Defence of the Bush + So you're back from up the country, Mister Townsman, where you went, + + Last Week + Oh, the new-chum went to the back block run, + + Those Names + The shearers sat in the firelight, hearty and hale and strong, + + A Bush Christening + On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few, + + How the Favourite Beat Us + 'Aye,' said the boozer, 'I tell you it's true, sir, + + The Great Calamity + MacFierce'un came to Whiskeyhurst + + Come-by-Chance + As I pondered very weary o'er a volume long and dreary -- + + Under the Shadow of Kiley's Hill + This is the place where they all were bred; + + Jim Carew + Born of a thoroughbred English race, + + The Swagman's Rest + We buried old Bob where the bloodwoods wave + + + + + +THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER AND OTHER VERSES + + + + + +The Man from Snowy River + + + + There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around + That the colt from old Regret had got away, + And had joined the wild bush horses -- he was worth a thousand pound, + So all the cracks had gathered to the fray. + All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far + Had mustered at the homestead overnight, + For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are, + And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight. + + There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup, + The old man with his hair as white as snow; + But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up -- + He would go wherever horse and man could go. + And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand, + No better horseman ever held the reins; + For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand, + He learnt to ride while droving on the plains. + + And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast, + He was something like a racehorse undersized, + With a touch of Timor pony -- three parts thoroughbred at least -- + And such as are by mountain horsemen prized. + He was hard and tough and wiry -- just the sort that won't say die -- + There was courage in his quick impatient tread; + And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye, + And the proud and lofty carriage of his head. + + But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay, + And the old man said, 'That horse will never do + For a long and tiring gallop -- lad, you'd better stop away, + Those hills are far too rough for such as you.' + So he waited sad and wistful -- only Clancy stood his friend -- + 'I think we ought to let him come,' he said; + 'I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end, + For both his horse and he are mountain bred. + + 'He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side, + Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough, + Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride, + The man that holds his own is good enough. + And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home, + Where the river runs those giant hills between; + I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam, + But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen.' + + So he went -- they found the horses by the big mimosa clump -- + They raced away towards the mountain's brow, + And the old man gave his orders, 'Boys, go at them from the jump, + No use to try for fancy riding now. + And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right. + Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills, + For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight, + If once they gain the shelter of those hills.' + + So Clancy rode to wheel them -- he was racing on the wing + Where the best and boldest riders take their place, + And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring + With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face. + Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash, + But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view, + And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash, + And off into the mountain scrub they flew. + + Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black + Resounded to the thunder of their tread, + And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back + From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead. + And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way, + Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide; + And the old man muttered fiercely, 'We may bid the mob good day, + _NO_ man can hold them down the other side.' + + When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull, + It well might make the boldest hold their breath, + The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full + Of wombat holes, and any slip was death. + But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head, + And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer, + And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed, + While the others stood and watched in very fear. + + He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet, + He cleared the fallen timber in his stride, + And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat -- + It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride. + Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground, + Down the hillside at a racing pace he went; + And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound, + At the bottom of that terrible descent. + + He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill, + And the watchers on the mountain standing mute, + Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still, + As he raced across the clearing in pursuit. + Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met + In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals + On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet, + With the man from Snowy River at their heels. + + And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam. + He followed like a bloodhound on their track, + Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home, + And alone and unassisted brought them back. + But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot, + He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur; + But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot, + For never yet was mountain horse a cur. + + And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise + Their torn and rugged battlements on high, + Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze + At midnight in the cold and frosty sky, + And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway + To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide, + The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day, + And the stockmen tell the story of his ride. + + + + +Old Pardon, the Son of Reprieve + + + + You never heard tell of the story? + Well, now, I can hardly believe! + Never heard of the honour and glory + Of Pardon, the son of Reprieve? + But maybe you're only a Johnnie + And don't know a horse from a hoe? + Well, well, don't get angry, my sonny, + But, really, a young un should know. + + They bred him out back on the 'Never', + His mother was Mameluke breed. + To the front -- and then stay there -- was ever + The root of the Mameluke creed. + He seemed to inherit their wiry + Strong frames -- and their pluck to receive -- + As hard as a flint and as fiery + Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve. + + We ran him at many a meeting + At crossing and gully and town, + And nothing could give him a beating -- + At least when our money was down. + For weight wouldn't stop him, nor distance, + Nor odds, though the others were fast, + He'd race with a dogged persistence, + And wear them all down at the last. + + At the Turon the Yattendon filly + Led by lengths at the mile-and-a-half, + And we all began to look silly, + While _HER_ crowd were starting to laugh; + But the old horse came faster and faster, + His pluck told its tale, and his strength, + He gained on her, caught her, and passed her, + And won it, hands-down, by a length. + + And then we swooped down on Menindie + To run for the President's Cup -- + Oh! that's a sweet township -- a shindy + To them is board, lodging, and sup. + Eye-openers they are, and their system + Is never to suffer defeat; + It's 'win, tie, or wrangle' -- to best 'em + You must lose 'em, or else it's 'dead heat'. + + We strolled down the township and found 'em + At drinking and gaming and play; + If sorrows they had, why they drowned 'em, + And betting was soon under way. + Their horses were good 'uns and fit 'uns, + There was plenty of cash in the town; + They backed their own horses like Britons, + And, Lord! how _WE_ rattled it down! + + With gladness we thought of the morrow, + We counted our wagers with glee, + A simile homely to borrow -- + 'There was plenty of milk in our tea.' + You see we were green; and we never + Had even a thought of foul play, + Though we well might have known that the clever + Division would 'put us away'. + + Experience 'docet', they tell us, + At least so I've frequently heard, + But, 'dosing' or 'stuffing', those fellows + Were up to each move on the board: + They got to his stall -- it is sinful + To think what such villains would do -- + And they gave him a regular skinful + Of barley -- green barley -- to chew. + + He munched it all night, and we found him + Next morning as full as a hog -- + The girths wouldn't nearly meet round him; + He looked like an overfed frog. + We saw we were done like a dinner -- + The odds were a thousand to one + Against Pardon turning up winner, + 'Twas cruel to ask him to run. + + We got to the course with our troubles, + A crestfallen couple were we; + And we heard the 'books' calling the doubles -- + A roar like the surf of the sea; + And over the tumult and louder + Rang 'Any price Pardon, I lay!' + Says Jimmy, 'The children of Judah + Are out on the warpath to-day.' + + Three miles in three heats: -- Ah, my sonny, + The horses in those days were stout, + They had to run well to win money; + I don't see such horses about. + Your six-furlong vermin that scamper + Half-a-mile with their feather-weight up; + They wouldn't earn much of their damper + In a race like the President's Cup. + + The first heat was soon set a-going; + The Dancer went off to the front; + The Don on his quarters was showing, + With Pardon right out of the hunt. + He rolled and he weltered and wallowed -- + You'd kick your hat faster, I'll bet; + They finished all bunched, and he followed + All lathered and dripping with sweat. + + But troubles came thicker upon us, + For while we were rubbing him dry + The stewards came over to warn us: + 'We hear you are running a bye! + If Pardon don't spiel like tarnation + And win the next heat -- if he can -- + He'll earn a disqualification; + Just think over _THAT_, now, my man!' + + Our money all gone and our credit, + Our horse couldn't gallop a yard; + And then people thought that _WE_ did it! + It really was terribly hard. + We were objects of mirth and derision + To folk in the lawn and the stand, + And the yells of the clever division + Of 'Any price Pardon!' were grand. + + We still had a chance for the money, + Two heats still remained to be run; + If both fell to us -- why, my sonny, + The clever division were done. + And Pardon was better, we reckoned, + His sickness was passing away, + So he went to the post for the second + And principal heat of the day. + + They're off and away with a rattle, + Like dogs from the leashes let slip, + And right at the back of the battle + He followed them under the whip. + They gained ten good lengths on him quickly + He dropped right away from the pack; + I tell you it made me feel sickly + To see the blue jacket fall back. + + Our very last hope had departed -- + We thought the old fellow was done, + When all of a sudden he started + To go like a shot from a gun. + His chances seemed slight to embolden + Our hearts; but, with teeth firmly set, + We thought, 'Now or never! The old 'un + May reckon with some of 'em yet.' + + Then loud rose the war-cry for Pardon; + He swept like the wind down the dip, + And over the rise by the garden, + The jockey was done with the whip + The field were at sixes and sevens -- + The pace at the first had been fast -- + And hope seemed to drop from the heavens, + For Pardon was coming at last. + + And how he did come! It was splendid; + He gained on them yards every bound, + Stretching out like a greyhound extended, + His girth laid right down on the ground. + A shimmer of silk in the cedars + As into the running they wheeled, + And out flashed the whips on the leaders, + For Pardon had collared the field. + + Then right through the ruck he came sailing -- + I knew that the battle was won -- + The son of Haphazard was failing, + The Yattendon filly was done; + He cut down the Don and the Dancer, + He raced clean away from the mare -- + He's in front! Catch him now if you can, sir! + And up went my hat in the air! + + Then loud from the lawn and the garden + Rose offers of 'Ten to one _ON!_' + 'Who'll bet on the field? I back Pardon!' + No use; all the money was gone. + He came for the third heat light-hearted, + A-jumping and dancing about; + The others were done ere they started + Crestfallen, and tired, and worn out. + + He won it, and ran it much faster + Than even the first, I believe + Oh, he was the daddy, the master, + Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve. + He showed 'em the method to travel -- + The boy sat as still as a stone -- + They never could see him for gravel; + He came in hard-held, and alone. + + . . . . . + + But he's old -- and his eyes are grown hollow; + Like me, with my thatch of the snow; + When he dies, then I hope I may follow, + And go where the racehorses go. + I don't want no harping nor singing -- + Such things with my style don't agree; + Where the hoofs of the horses are ringing + There's music sufficient for me. + + And surely the thoroughbred horses + Will rise up again and begin + Fresh races on far-away courses, + And p'raps they might let me slip in. + It would look rather well the race-card on + 'Mongst Cherubs and Seraphs and things, + 'Angel Harrison's black gelding Pardon, + Blue halo, white body and wings.' + + And if they have racing hereafter, + (And who is to say they will not?) + When the cheers and the shouting and laughter + Proclaim that the battle grows hot; + As they come down the racecourse a-steering, + He'll rush to the front, I believe; + And you'll hear the great multitude cheering + For Pardon, the son of Reprieve. + + + + +Clancy of the Overflow + + + + I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better + Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago, + He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him, + Just 'on spec', addressed as follows, 'Clancy, of The Overflow'. + + And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected, + (And I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar) + 'Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it: + 'Clancy's gone to Queensland droving, and we don't know where he are.' + + . . . . . + + In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy + Gone a-droving 'down the Cooper' where the Western drovers go; + As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing, + For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know. + + And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him + In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars, + And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended, + And at night the wond'rous glory of the everlasting stars. + + . . . . . + + I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy + Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall, + And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city + Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all + + And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle + Of the tramways and the 'buses making hurry down the street, + And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting, + Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet. + + And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me + As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste, + With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy, + For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste. + + And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy, + Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go, + While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal -- + But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of 'The Overflow'. + + + + +Conroy's Gap + + + + This was the way of it, don't you know -- + Ryan was 'wanted' for stealing sheep, + And never a trooper, high or low, + Could find him -- catch a weasel asleep! + Till Trooper Scott, from the Stockman's Ford -- + A bushman, too, as I've heard them tell -- + Chanced to find him drunk as a lord + Round at the Shadow of Death Hotel. + + D'you know the place? It's a wayside inn, + A low grog-shanty -- a bushman trap, + Hiding away in its shame and sin + Under the shelter of Conroy's Gap -- + Under the shade of that frowning range, + The roughest crowd that ever drew breath -- + Thieves and rowdies, uncouth and strange, + Were mustered round at the Shadow of Death. + + The trooper knew that his man would slide + Like a dingo pup, if he saw the chance; + And with half a start on the mountain side + Ryan would lead him a merry dance. + Drunk as he was when the trooper came, + To him that did not matter a rap -- + Drunk or sober, he was the same, + The boldest rider in Conroy's Gap. + + 'I want you, Ryan,' the trooper said, + 'And listen to me, if you dare resist, + So help me heaven, I'll shoot you dead!' + He snapped the steel on his prisoner's wrist, + And Ryan, hearing the handcuffs click, + Recovered his wits as they turned to go, + For fright will sober a man as quick + As all the drugs that the doctors know. + + There was a girl in that rough bar + Went by the name of Kate Carew, + Quiet and shy as the bush girls are, + But ready-witted and plucky, too. + She loved this Ryan, or so they say, + And passing by, while her eyes were dim + With tears, she said in a careless way, + 'The Swagman's round in the stable, Jim.' + + Spoken too low for the trooper's ear, + Why should she care if he heard or not? + Plenty of swagmen far and near, + And yet to Ryan it meant a lot. + That was the name of the grandest horse + In all the district from east to west + In every show ring, on every course + They always counted the Swagman best. + + He was a wonder, a raking bay -- + One of the grand old Snowdon strain -- + One of the sort that could race and stay + With his mighty limbs and his length of rein. + Born and bred on the mountain side, + He could race through scrub like a kangaroo, + The girl herself on his back might ride, + And the Swagman would carry her safely through. + + He would travel gaily from daylight's flush + Till after the stars hung out their lamps, + There was never his like in the open bush, + And never his match on the cattle-camps. + For faster horses might well be found + On racing tracks, or a plain's extent, + But few, if any, on broken ground + Could see the way that the Swagman went. + + When this girl's father, old Jim Carew, + Was droving out on the Castlereagh + With Conroy's cattle, a wire came through + To say that his wife couldn't live the day. + And he was a hundred miles from home, + As flies the crow, with never a track, + Through plains as pathless as ocean's foam, + He mounted straight on the Swagman's back. + + He left the camp by the sundown light, + And the settlers out on the Marthaguy + Awoke and heard, in the dead of night, + A single horseman hurrying by. + He crossed the Bogan at Dandaloo, + And many a mile of the silent plain + That lonely rider behind him threw + Before they settled to sleep again. + + He rode all night and he steered his course + By the shining stars with a bushman's skill, + And every time that he pressed his horse + The Swagman answered him gamely still. + He neared his home as the east was bright, + The doctor met him outside the town: + 'Carew! How far did you come last night?' + 'A hundred miles since the sun went down.' + + And his wife got round, and an oath he passed, + So long as he or one of his breed + Could raise a coin, though it took their last + The Swagman never should want a feed. + And Kate Carew, when her father died, + She kept the horse and she kept him well: + The pride of the district far and wide, + He lived in style at the bush hotel. + + Such was the Swagman; and Ryan knew + Nothing about could pace the crack; + Little he'd care for the man in blue + If once he got on the Swagman's back. + But how to do it? A word let fall + Gave him the hint as the girl passed by; + Nothing but 'Swagman -- stable-wall; + 'Go to the stable and mind your eye.' + + He caught her meaning, and quickly turned + To the trooper: 'Reckon you'll gain a stripe + By arresting me, and it's easily earned; + Let's go to the stable and get my pipe, + The Swagman has it.' So off they went, + And soon as ever they turned their backs + The girl slipped down, on some errand bent + Behind the stable, and seized an axe. + + The trooper stood at the stable door + While Ryan went in quite cool and slow, + And then (the trick had been played before) + The girl outside gave the wall a blow. + Three slabs fell out of the stable wall -- + 'Twas done 'fore ever the trooper knew -- + And Ryan, as soon as he saw them fall, + Mounted the Swagman and rushed him through. + + The trooper heard the hoof-beats ring + In the stable yard, and he slammed the gate, + But the Swagman rose with a mighty spring + At the fence, and the trooper fired too late, + As they raced away and his shots flew wide + And Ryan no longer need care a rap, + For never a horse that was lapped in hide + Could catch the Swagman in Conroy's Gap. + + And that's the story. You want to know + If Ryan came back to his Kate Carew; + Of course he should have, as stories go, + But the worst of it is, this story's true: + And in real life it's a certain rule, + Whatever poets and authors say + Of high-toned robbers and all their school, + These horsethief fellows aren't built that way. + + Come back! Don't hope it -- the slinking hound, + He sloped across to the Queensland side, + And sold the Swagman for fifty pound, + And stole the money, and more beside. + And took to drink, and by some good chance + Was killed -- thrown out of a stolen trap. + And that was the end of this small romance, + The end of the story of Conroy's Gap. + + + + +Our New Horse + + + + The boys had come back from the races + All silent and down on their luck; + They'd backed 'em, straight out and for places, + But never a winner they struck. + They lost their good money on Slogan, + And fell, most uncommonly flat, + When Partner, the pride of the Bogan, + Was beaten by Aristocrat. + + And one said, 'I move that instanter + We sell out our horses and quit, + The brutes ought to win in a canter, + Such trials they do when they're fit. + The last one they ran was a snorter -- + A gallop to gladden one's heart -- + Two-twelve for a mile and a quarter, + And finished as straight as a dart. + + 'And then when I think that they're ready + To win me a nice little swag, + They are licked like the veriest neddy -- + They're licked from the fall of the flag. + The mare held her own to the stable, + She died out to nothing at that, + And Partner he never seemed able + To pace it with Aristocrat. + + 'And times have been bad, and the seasons + Don't promise to be of the best; + In short, boys, there's plenty of reasons + For giving the racing a rest. + The mare can be kept on the station -- + Her breeding is good as can be -- + But Partner, his next destination + Is rather a trouble to me. + + 'We can't sell him here, for they know him + As well as the clerk of the course; + He's raced and won races till, blow him, + He's done as a handicap horse. + A jady, uncertain performer, + They weight him right out of the hunt, + And clap it on warmer and warmer + Whenever he gets near the front. + + 'It's no use to paint him or dot him + Or put any 'fake' on his brand, + For bushmen are smart, and they'd spot him + In any sale-yard in the land. + The folk about here could all tell him, + Could swear to each separate hair; + Let us send him to Sydney and sell him, + There's plenty of Jugginses there. + + 'We'll call him a maiden, and treat 'em + To trials will open their eyes, + We'll run their best horses and beat 'em, + And then won't they think him a prize. + I pity the fellow that buys him, + He'll find in a very short space, + No matter how highly he tries him, + The beggar won't _RACE_ in a race.' + + . . . . . + + Next week, under 'Seller and Buyer', + Appeared in the _DAILY GAZETTE_: + 'A racehorse for sale, and a flyer; + Has never been started as yet; + A trial will show what his pace is; + The buyer can get him in light, + And win all the handicap races. + Apply here before Wednesday night.' + + He sold for a hundred and thirty, + Because of a gallop he had + One morning with Bluefish and Bertie, + And donkey-licked both of 'em bad. + And when the old horse had departed, + The life on the station grew tame; + The race-track was dull and deserted, + The boys had gone back on the game. + + . . . . . + + The winter rolled by, and the station + Was green with the garland of spring + A spirit of glad exultation + Awoke in each animate thing. + And all the old love, the old longing, + Broke out in the breasts of the boys, + The visions of racing came thronging + With all its delirious joys. + + The rushing of floods in their courses, + The rattle of rain on the roofs + Recalled the fierce rush of the horses, + The thunder of galloping hoofs. + And soon one broke out: 'I can suffer + No longer the life of a slug, + The man that don't race is a duffer, + Let's have one more run for the mug. + + 'Why, _EVERYTHING_ races, no matter + Whatever its method may be: + The waterfowl hold a regatta; + The 'possums run heats up a tree; + The emus are constantly sprinting + A handicap out on the plain; + It seems like all nature was hinting, + 'Tis time to be at it again. + + 'The cockatoo parrots are talking + Of races to far away lands; + The native companions are walking + A go-as-you-please on the sands; + The little foals gallop for pastime; + The wallabies race down the gap; + Let's try it once more for the last time, + Bring out the old jacket and cap. + + 'And now for a horse; we might try one + Of those that are bred on the place, + But I think it better to buy one, + A horse that has proved he can race. + Let us send down to Sydney to Skinner, + A thorough good judge who can ride, + And ask him to buy us a spinner + To clean out the whole countryside.' + + They wrote him a letter as follows: + 'We want you to buy us a horse; + He must have the speed to catch swallows, + And stamina with it of course. + The price ain't a thing that'll grieve us, + It's getting a bad 'un annoys + The undersigned blokes, and believe us, + We're yours to a cinder, 'the boys'.' + + He answered: 'I've bought you a hummer, + A horse that has never been raced; + I saw him run over the Drummer, + He held him outclassed and outpaced. + His breeding's not known, but they state he + Is born of a thoroughbred strain, + I paid them a hundred and eighty, + And started the horse in the train.' + + They met him -- alas, that these verses + Aren't up to the subject's demands -- + Can't set forth their eloquent curses, + _FOR PARTNER WAS BACK ON THEIR HANDS_. + They went in to meet him in gladness, + They opened his box with delight -- + A silent procession of sadness + They crept to the station at night. + + And life has grown dull on the station, + The boys are all silent and slow; + Their work is a daily vexation, + And sport is unknown to them now. + Whenever they think how they stranded, + They squeal just like guinea-pigs squeal; + They bit their own hook, and were landed + With fifty pounds loss on the deal. + + + + +An Idyll of Dandaloo + + + + On Western plains, where shade is not, + 'Neath summer skies of cloudless blue, + Where all is dry and all is hot, + There stands the town of Dandaloo -- + A township where life's total sum + Is sleep, diversified with rum. + + It's grass-grown streets with dust are deep, + 'Twere vain endeavour to express + The dreamless silence of its sleep, + Its wide, expansive drunkenness. + The yearly races mostly drew + A lively crowd to Dandaloo. + + There came a sportsman from the East, + The eastern land where sportsmen blow, + And brought with him a speedy beast -- + A speedy beast as horses go. + He came afar in hope to 'do' + The little town of Dandaloo. + + Now this was weak of him, I wot -- + Exceeding weak, it seemed to me -- + For we in Dandaloo were not + The Jugginses we seemed to be; + In fact, we rather thought we knew + Our book by heart in Dandaloo. + + We held a meeting at the bar, + And met the question fair and square -- + 'We've stumped the country near and far + To raise the cash for races here; + We've got a hundred pounds or two -- + Not half so bad for Dandaloo. + + 'And now, it seems, we have to be + Cleaned out by this here Sydney bloke, + With his imported horse; and he + Will scoop the pool and leave us broke + Shall we sit still, and make no fuss + While this chap climbs all over us?' + + . . . . . + + The races came to Dandaloo, + And all the cornstalks from the West, + On ev'ry kind of moke and screw, + Came forth in all their glory drest. + The stranger's horse, as hard as nails, + Look'd fit to run for New South Wales. + + He won the race by half a length -- + _QUITE_ half a length, it seemed to me -- + But Dandaloo, with all its strength, + Roared out 'Dead heat!' most fervently; + And, after hesitation meet, + The judge's verdict was 'Dead heat!' + + And many men there were could tell + What gave the verdict extra force: + The stewards, and the judge as well -- + They all had backed the second horse. + For things like this they sometimes do + In larger towns than Dandaloo. + + They ran it off; the stranger won, + Hands down, by near a hundred yards + He smiled to think his troubles done; + But Dandaloo held all the cards. + They went to scale and -- cruel fate! -- + His jockey turned out under-weight. + + Perhaps they'd tampered with the scale! + I cannot tell. I only know + It weighed him _OUT_ all right. I fail + To paint that Sydney sportsman's woe. + He said the stewards were a crew + Of low-lived thieves in Dandaloo. + + He lifted up his voice, irate, + And swore till all the air was blue; + So then we rose to vindicate + The dignity of Dandaloo. + 'Look here,' said we, 'you must not poke + Such oaths at us poor country folk.' + + We rode him softly on a rail, + We shied at him, in careless glee, + Some large tomatoes, rank and stale, + And eggs of great antiquity -- + Their wild, unholy fragrance flew + About the town of Dandaloo. + + He left the town at break of day, + He led his race-horse through the streets, + And now he tells the tale, they say, + To every racing man he meets. + And Sydney sportsmen all eschew + The atmosphere of Dandaloo. + + + + +The Geebung Polo Club + + + + It was somewhere up the country, in a land of rock and scrub, + That they formed an institution called the Geebung Polo Club. + They were long and wiry natives from the rugged mountain side, + And the horse was never saddled that the Geebungs couldn't ride; + But their style of playing polo was irregular and rash -- + They had mighty little science, but a mighty lot of dash: + And they played on mountain ponies that were muscular and strong, + Though their coats were quite unpolished, + and their manes and tails were long. + And they used to train those ponies wheeling cattle in the scrub: + They were demons, were the members of the Geebung Polo Club. + + It was somewhere down the country, in a city's smoke and steam, + That a polo club existed, called 'The Cuff and Collar Team'. + As a social institution 'twas a marvellous success, + For the members were distinguished by exclusiveness and dress. + They had natty little ponies that were nice, and smooth, and sleek, + For their cultivated owners only rode 'em once a week. + So they started up the country in pursuit of sport and fame, + For they meant to show the Geebungs how they ought to play the game; + And they took their valets with them -- just to give their boots a rub + Ere they started operations on the Geebung Polo Club. + + Now my readers can imagine how the contest ebbed and flowed, + When the Geebung boys got going it was time to clear the road; + And the game was so terrific that ere half the time was gone + A spectator's leg was broken -- just from merely looking on. + For they waddied one another till the plain was strewn with dead, + While the score was kept so even that they neither got ahead. + And the Cuff and Collar Captain, when he tumbled off to die, + Was the last surviving player -- so the game was called a tie. + + Then the Captain of the Geebungs raised him slowly from the ground, + Though his wounds were mostly mortal, yet he fiercely gazed around; + There was no one to oppose him -- all the rest were in a trance, + So he scrambled on his pony for his last expiring chance, + For he meant to make an effort to get victory to his side; + So he struck at goal -- and missed it -- then he tumbled off and died. + + . . . . . + + By the old Campaspe River, where the breezes shake the grass, + There's a row of little gravestones that the stockmen never pass, + For they bear a crude inscription saying, 'Stranger, drop a tear, + For the Cuff and Collar players and the Geebung boys lie here.' + And on misty moonlit evenings, while the dingoes howl around, + You can see their shadows flitting down that phantom polo ground; + You can hear the loud collisions as the flying players meet, + And the rattle of the mallets, and the rush of ponies' feet, + Till the terrified spectator rides like blazes to the pub -- + He's been haunted by the spectres of the Geebung Polo Club. + + + + +The Travelling Post Office + + + + The roving breezes come and go, the reed beds sweep and sway, + The sleepy river murmurs low, and loiters on its way, + It is the land of lots o' time along the Castlereagh. + + . . . . . + + The old man's son had left the farm, he found it dull and slow, + He drifted to the great North-west where all the rovers go. + 'He's gone so long,' the old man said, 'he's dropped right out of mind, + But if you'd write a line to him I'd take it very kind; + He's shearing here and fencing there, a kind of waif and stray, + He's droving now with Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh. + + 'The sheep are travelling for the grass, and travelling very slow; + They may be at Mundooran now, or past the Overflow, + Or tramping down the black soil flats across by Waddiwong, + But all those little country towns would send the letter wrong, + The mailman, if he's extra tired, would pass them in his sleep, + It's safest to address the note to 'Care of Conroy's sheep', + For five and twenty thousand head can scarcely go astray, + You write to 'Care of Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh'.' + + . . . . . + + By rock and ridge and riverside the western mail has gone, + Across the great Blue Mountain Range to take that letter on. + A moment on the topmost grade while open fire doors glare, + She pauses like a living thing to breathe the mountain air, + Then launches down the other side across the plains away + To bear that note to 'Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh'. + + And now by coach and mailman's bag it goes from town to town, + And Conroy's Gap and Conroy's Creek have marked it 'further down'. + Beneath a sky of deepest blue where never cloud abides, + A speck upon the waste of plain the lonely mailman rides. + Where fierce hot winds have set the pine and myall boughs asweep + He hails the shearers passing by for news of Conroy's sheep. + By big lagoons where wildfowl play and crested pigeons flock, + By camp fires where the drovers ride around their restless stock, + And past the teamster toiling down to fetch the wool away + My letter chases Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh. + + + + +Saltbush Bill + + + + Now this is the law of the Overland that all in the West obey, + A man must cover with travelling sheep a six-mile stage a day; + But this is the law which the drovers make, right easily understood, + They travel their stage where the grass is bad, + but they camp where the grass is good; + They camp, and they ravage the squatter's grass till never a blade remains, + Then they drift away as the white clouds drift + on the edge of the saltbush plains, + From camp to camp and from run to run they battle it hand to hand, + For a blade of grass and the right to pass on the track of the Overland. + For this is the law of the Great Stock Routes, + 'tis written in white and black -- + The man that goes with a travelling mob must keep to a half-mile track; + And the drovers keep to a half-mile track + on the runs where the grass is dead, + But they spread their sheep on a well-grassed run + till they go with a two-mile spread. + So the squatters hurry the drovers on from dawn till the fall of night, + And the squatters' dogs and the drovers' dogs get mixed in a deadly fight; + Yet the squatters' men, though they hunt the mob, + are willing the peace to keep, + For the drovers learn how to use their hands + when they go with the travelling sheep; + But this is the tale of a Jackaroo that came from a foreign strand, + And the fight that he fought with Saltbush Bill, the King of the Overland. + + Now Saltbush Bill was a drover tough, as ever the country knew, + He had fought his way on the Great Stock Routes + from the sea to the big Barcoo; + He could tell when he came to a friendly run + that gave him a chance to spread, + And he knew where the hungry owners were that hurried his sheep ahead; + He was drifting down in the Eighty drought + with a mob that could scarcely creep, + (When the kangaroos by the thousands starve, + it is rough on the travelling sheep), + And he camped one night at the crossing-place on the edge of the Wilga run, + 'We must manage a feed for them here,' he said, + 'or the half of the mob are done!' + So he spread them out when they left the camp wherever they liked to go, + Till he grew aware of a Jackaroo with a station-hand in tow, + And they set to work on the straggling sheep, + and with many a stockwhip crack + They forced them in where the grass was dead + in the space of the half-mile track; + So William prayed that the hand of fate might suddenly strike him blue + But he'd get some grass for his starving sheep + in the teeth of that Jackaroo. + So he turned and he cursed the Jackaroo, he cursed him alive or dead, + From the soles of his great unwieldy feet to the crown of his ugly head, + With an extra curse on the moke he rode and the cur at his heels that ran, + Till the Jackaroo from his horse got down and he went for the drover-man; + With the station-hand for his picker-up, + though the sheep ran loose the while, + They battled it out on the saltbush plain in the regular prize-ring style. + + Now, the new chum fought for his honour's sake + and the pride of the English race, + But the drover fought for his daily bread with a smile on his bearded face; + So he shifted ground and he sparred for wind and he made it a lengthy mill, + And from time to time as his scouts came in + they whispered to Saltbush Bill -- + 'We have spread the sheep with a two-mile spread, + and the grass it is something grand, + You must stick to him, Bill, for another round + for the pride of the Overland.' + The new chum made it a rushing fight, though never a blow got home, + Till the sun rode high in the cloudless sky + and glared on the brick-red loam, + Till the sheep drew in to the shelter-trees and settled them down to rest, + Then the drover said he would fight no more and he gave his opponent best. + + So the new chum rode to the homestead straight + and he told them a story grand + Of the desperate fight that he fought that day + with the King of the Overland. + And the tale went home to the Public Schools + of the pluck of the English swell, + How the drover fought for his very life, but blood in the end must tell. + But the travelling sheep and the Wilga sheep + were boxed on the Old Man Plain. + 'Twas a full week's work ere they drafted out and hunted them off again, + With a week's good grass in their wretched hides, + with a curse and a stockwhip crack, + They hunted them off on the road once more + to starve on the half-mile track. + And Saltbush Bill, on the Overland, will many a time recite + How the best day's work that ever he did + was the day that he lost the fight. + + + + +A Mountain Station + + + + I bought a run a while ago, + On country rough and ridgy, + Where wallaroos and wombats grow -- + The Upper Murrumbidgee. + The grass is rather scant, it's true, + But this a fair exchange is, + The sheep can see a lovely view + By climbing up the ranges. + + And She-oak Flat's the station's name, + I'm not surprised at that, sirs: + The oaks were there before I came, + And I supplied the flat, sirs. + A man would wonder how it's done, + The stock so soon decreases -- + They sometimes tumble off the run + And break themselves to pieces. + + I've tried to make expenses meet, + But wasted all my labours, + The sheep the dingoes didn't eat + Were stolen by the neighbours. + They stole my pears -- my native pears -- + Those thrice-convicted felons, + And ravished from me unawares + My crop of paddy-melons. + + And sometimes under sunny skies, + Without an explanation, + The Murrumbidgee used to rise + And overflow the station. + But this was caused (as now I know) + When summer sunshine glowing + Had melted all Kiandra's snow + And set the river going. + + And in the news, perhaps you read: + 'Stock passings. Puckawidgee, + Fat cattle: Seven hundred head + Swept down the Murrumbidgee; + Their destination's quite obscure, + But, somehow, there's a notion, + Unless the river falls, they're sure + To reach the Southern Ocean.' + + So after that I'll give it best; + No more with Fate I'll battle. + I'll let the river take the rest, + For those were all my cattle. + And with one comprehensive curse + I close my brief narration, + And advertise it in my verse -- + 'For Sale! A Mountain Station.' + + + + +Been There Before + + + + There came a stranger to Walgett town, + To Walgett town when the sun was low, + And he carried a thirst that was worth a crown, + Yet how to quench it he did not know; + But he thought he might take those yokels down, + The guileless yokels of Walgett town. + + They made him a bet in a private bar, + In a private bar when the talk was high, + And they bet him some pounds no matter how far + He could pelt a stone, yet he could not shy + A stone right over the river so brown, + The Darling river at Walgett town. + + He knew that the river from bank to bank + Was fifty yards, and he smiled a smile + As he trundled down, but his hopes they sank + For there wasn't a stone within fifty mile; + For the saltbush plain and the open down + Produce no quarries in Walgett town. + + The yokels laughed at his hopes o'erthrown, + And he stood awhile like a man in a dream; + Then out of his pocket he fetched a stone, + And pelted it over the silent stream -- + He had been there before: he had wandered down + On a previous visit to Walgett town. + + + + +The Man Who Was Away + + + + The widow sought the lawyer's room with children three in tow, + She told the lawyer man her tale in tones of deepest woe. + Said she, 'My husband took to drink for pains in his inside, + And never drew a sober breath from then until he died. + + 'He never drew a sober breath, he died without a will, + And I must sell the bit of land the childer's mouths to fill. + There's some is grown and gone away, but some is childer yet, + And times is very bad indeed -- a livin's hard to get. + + 'There's Min and Sis and little Chris, they stops at home with me, + And Sal has married Greenhide Bill that breaks for Bingeree. + And Fred is drovin' Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh, + And Charley's shearin' down the Bland, and Peter is away.' + + The lawyer wrote the details down in ink of legal blue -- + 'There's Minnie, Susan, Christopher, they stop at home with you; + There's Sarah, Frederick, and Charles, I'll write to them to-day, + But what about the other one -- the one who is away? + + 'You'll have to furnish his consent to sell the bit of land.' + The widow shuffled in her seat, 'Oh, don't you understand? + I thought a lawyer ought to know -- I don't know what to say -- + You'll have to do without him, boss, for Peter is away.' + + But here the little boy spoke up -- said he, 'We thought you knew; + He's done six months in Goulburn gaol -- he's got six more to do.' + Thus in one comprehensive flash he made it clear as day, + The mystery of Peter's life -- the man who was away. + + + + +The Man from Ironbark + + + + It was the man from Ironbark who struck the Sydney town, + He wandered over street and park, he wandered up and down. + He loitered here, he loitered there, till he was like to drop, + Until at last in sheer despair he sought a barber's shop. + ''Ere! shave my beard and whiskers off, I'll be a man of mark, + I'll go and do the Sydney toff up home in Ironbark.' + + The barber man was small and flash, as barbers mostly are, + He wore a strike-your-fancy sash, he smoked a huge cigar: + He was a humorist of note and keen at repartee, + He laid the odds and kept a 'tote', whatever that may be, + And when he saw our friend arrive, he whispered 'Here's a lark! + Just watch me catch him all alive, this man from Ironbark.' + + There were some gilded youths that sat along the barber's wall, + Their eyes were dull, their heads were flat, they had no brains at all; + To them the barber passed the wink, his dexter eyelid shut, + 'I'll make this bloomin' yokel think his bloomin' throat is cut.' + And as he soaped and rubbed it in he made a rude remark: + 'I s'pose the flats is pretty green up there in Ironbark.' + + A grunt was all reply he got; he shaved the bushman's chin, + Then made the water boiling hot and dipped the razor in. + He raised his hand, his brow grew black, he paused awhile to gloat, + Then slashed the red-hot razor-back across his victim's throat; + Upon the newly shaven skin it made a livid mark -- + No doubt it fairly took him in -- the man from Ironbark. + + He fetched a wild up-country yell might wake the dead to hear, + And though his throat, he knew full well, was cut from ear to ear, + He struggled gamely to his feet, and faced the murd'rous foe: + 'You've done for me! you dog, I'm beat! one hit before I go! + I only wish I had a knife, you blessed murdering shark! + But you'll remember all your life, the man from Ironbark.' + + He lifted up his hairy paw, with one tremendous clout + He landed on the barber's jaw, and knocked the barber out. + He set to work with tooth and nail, he made the place a wreck; + He grabbed the nearest gilded youth, and tried to break his neck. + And all the while his throat he held to save his vital spark, + And 'Murder! Bloody Murder!' yelled the man from Ironbark. + + A peeler man who heard the din came in to see the show; + He tried to run the bushman in, but he refused to go. + And when at last the barber spoke, and said, ''Twas all in fun -- + 'Twas just a little harmless joke, a trifle overdone.' + 'A joke!' he cried, 'By George, that's fine; a lively sort of lark; + I'd like to catch that murdering swine some night in Ironbark.' + + And now while round the shearing floor the list'ning shearers gape, + He tells the story o'er and o'er, and brags of his escape. + 'Them barber chaps what keeps a tote, By George, I've had enough, + One tried to cut my bloomin' throat, but thank the Lord it's tough.' + And whether he's believed or no, there's one thing to remark, + That flowing beards are all the go way up in Ironbark. + + + + +The Open Steeplechase + + + + I had ridden over hurdles up the country once or twice, + By the side of Snowy River with a horse they called 'The Ace'. + And we brought him down to Sydney, and our rider Jimmy Rice, + Got a fall and broke his shoulder, so they nabbed me in a trice -- + Me, that never wore the colours, for the Open Steeplechase. + + 'Make the running,' said the trainer, 'it's your only chance whatever, + Make it hot from start to finish, for the old black horse can stay, + And just think of how they'll take it, when they hear on Snowy River + That the country boy was plucky, and the country horse was clever. + You must ride for old Monaro and the mountain boys to-day.' + + 'Are you ready?' said the starter, as we held the horses back, + All ablazing with impatience, with excitement all aglow; + Before us like a ribbon stretched the steeplechasing track, + And the sun-rays glistened brightly on the chestnut and the black + As the starter's words came slowly, 'Are -- you -- ready? Go!' + + Well, I scarcely knew we'd started, I was stupid-like with wonder + Till the field closed up beside me and a jump appeared ahead. + And we flew it like a hurdle, not a baulk and not a blunder, + As we charged it all together, and it fairly whistled under, + And then some were pulled behind me and a few shot out and led. + + So we ran for half the distance, and I'm making no pretences + When I tell you I was feeling very nervous-like and queer, + For those jockeys rode like demons; + you would think they'd lost their senses + If you saw them rush their horses at those rasping five foot fences -- + And in place of making running I was falling to the rear. + + Till a chap came racing past me on a horse they called 'The Quiver', + And said he, 'My country joker, are you going to give it best? + Are you frightened of the fences? does their stoutness make you shiver? + Have they come to breeding cowards by the side of Snowy River? + Are there riders on Monaro? ----' but I never heard the rest. + + For I drove the Ace and sent him just as fast as he could pace it, + At the big black line of timber stretching fair across the track, + And he shot beside the Quiver. 'Now,' said I, 'my boy, we'll race it. + You can come with Snowy River if you're only game to face it, + Let us mend the pace a little and we'll see who cries a crack.' + + So we raced away together, and we left the others standing, + And the people cheered and shouted as we settled down to ride, + And we clung beside the Quiver. At his taking off and landing + I could see his scarlet nostril and his mighty ribs expanding, + And the Ace stretched out in earnest and we held him stride for stride. + + But the pace was so terrific that they soon ran out their tether -- + They were rolling in their gallop, they were fairly blown and beat -- + But they both were game as pebbles -- neither one would show the feather. + And we rushed them at the fences, and they cleared them both together, + Nearly every time they clouted, but they somehow kept their feet. + + Then the last jump rose before us, and they faced it game as ever -- + We were both at spur and whipcord, fetching blood at every bound -- + And above the people's cheering and the cries of 'Ace' and 'Quiver', + I could hear the trainer shouting, 'One more run for Snowy River.' + Then we struck the jump together and came smashing to the ground. + + Well, the Quiver ran to blazes, but the Ace stood still and waited, + Stood and waited like a statue while I scrambled on his back. + There was no one next or near me for the field was fairly slated, + So I cantered home a winner with my shoulder dislocated, + While the man that rode the Quiver followed limping down the track. + + And he shook my hand and told me that in all his days he never + Met a man who rode more gamely, and our last set to was prime, + And we wired them on Monaro how we chanced to beat the Quiver. + And they sent us back an answer, 'Good old sort from Snowy River: + Send us word each race you start in and we'll back you every time.' + + + + +The Amateur Rider + + + + _HIM_ going to ride for us! _HIM_ -- + with the pants and the eyeglass and all. + Amateur! don't he just look it -- it's twenty to one on a fall. + Boss must be gone off his head to be sending our steeplechase crack + Out over fences like these with an object like that on his back. + + Ride! Don't tell _ME_ he can ride. + With his pants just as loose as balloons, + How can he sit on his horse? and his spurs like a pair of harpoons; + Ought to be under the Dog Act, he ought, and be kept off the course. + Fall! why, he'd fall off a cart, let alone off a steeplechase horse. + + . . . . . + + Yessir! the 'orse is all ready -- I wish you'd have rode him before; + Nothing like knowing your 'orse, sir, and this chap's a terror to bore; + Battleaxe always could pull, and he rushes his fences like fun -- + Stands off his jump twenty feet, and then springs like a shot from a gun. + + Oh, he can jump 'em all right, sir, you make no mistake, 'e's a toff; + Clouts 'em in earnest, too, sometimes, + you mind that he don't clout you off -- + Don't seem to mind how he hits 'em, his shins is as hard as a nail, + Sometimes you'll see the fence shake + and the splinters fly up from the rail. + + All you can do is to hold him and just let him jump as he likes, + Give him his head at the fences, and hang on like death if he strikes; + Don't let him run himself out -- you can lie third or fourth in the race -- + Until you clear the stone wall, and from that you can put on the pace. + + Fell at that wall once, he did, and it gave him a regular spread, + Ever since that time he flies it -- he'll stop if you pull at his head, + Just let him race -- you can trust him -- + he'll take first-class care he don't fall, + And I think that's the lot -- but remember, + _HE MUST HAVE HIS HEAD AT THE WALL_. + + . . . . . + + Well, he's down safe as far as the start, + and he seems to sit on pretty neat, + Only his baggified breeches would ruinate anyone's seat -- + They're away -- here they come -- the first fence, + and he's head over heels for a crown! + Good for the new chum, he's over, and two of the others are down! + + Now for the treble, my hearty -- By Jove, he can ride, after all; + Whoop, that's your sort -- let him fly them! + He hasn't much fear of a fall. + Who in the world would have thought it? And aren't they just going a pace? + Little Recruit in the lead there will make it a stoutly-run race. + + Lord! But they're racing in earnest -- and down goes Recruit on his head, + Rolling clean over his boy -- it's a miracle if he ain't dead. + Battleaxe, Battleaxe, yet! By the Lord, he's got most of 'em beat -- + Ho! did you see how he struck, and the swell never moved in his seat? + + Second time round, and, by Jingo! he's holding his lead of 'em well; + Hark to him clouting the timber! It don't seem to trouble the swell. + Now for the wall -- let him rush it. A thirty-foot leap, I declare -- + Never a shift in his seat, and he's racing for home like a hare. + + What's that that's chasing him -- Rataplan -- regular demon to stay! + Sit down and ride for your life now! + Oh, good, that's the style -- come away! + Rataplan's certain to beat you, unless you can give him the slip; + Sit down and rub in the whalebone now -- give him the spurs and the whip! + + Battleaxe, Battleaxe, yet -- and it's Battleaxe wins for a crown; + Look at him rushing the fences, he wants to bring t'other chap down. + Rataplan never will catch him if only he keeps on his pins; + Now! the last fence! and he's over it! Battleaxe, Battleaxe wins! + + . . . . . + + Well, sir, you rode him just perfect -- + I knew from the first you could ride. + Some of the chaps said you couldn't, an' I says just like this a' one side: + Mark me, I says, that's a tradesman -- the saddle is where he was bred. + Weight! you're all right, sir, and thank you; + and them was the words that I said. + + + + +On Kiley's Run + + + + The roving breezes come and go + On Kiley's Run, + The sleepy river murmurs low, + And far away one dimly sees + Beyond the stretch of forest trees -- + Beyond the foothills dusk and dun -- + The ranges sleeping in the sun + On Kiley's Run. + + 'Tis many years since first I came + To Kiley's Run, + More years than I would care to name + Since I, a stripling, used to ride + For miles and miles at Kiley's side, + The while in stirring tones he told + The stories of the days of old + On Kiley's Run. + + I see the old bush homestead now + On Kiley's Run, + Just nestled down beneath the brow + Of one small ridge above the sweep + Of river-flat, where willows weep + And jasmine flowers and roses bloom, + The air was laden with perfume + On Kiley's Run. + + We lived the good old station life + On Kiley's Run, + With little thought of care or strife. + Old Kiley seldom used to roam, + He liked to make the Run his home, + The swagman never turned away + With empty hand at close of day + From Kiley's Run. + + We kept a racehorse now and then + On Kiley's Run, + And neighb'ring stations brought their men + To meetings where the sport was free, + And dainty ladies came to see + Their champions ride; with laugh and song + The old house rang the whole night long + On Kiley's Run. + + The station hands were friends I wot + On Kiley's Run, + A reckless, merry-hearted lot -- + All splendid riders, and they knew + The 'boss' was kindness through and through. + Old Kiley always stood their friend, + And so they served him to the end + On Kiley's Run. + + But droughts and losses came apace + To Kiley's Run, + Till ruin stared him in the face; + He toiled and toiled while lived the light, + He dreamed of overdrafts at night: + At length, because he could not pay, + His bankers took the stock away + From Kiley's Run. + + Old Kiley stood and saw them go + From Kiley's Run. + The well-bred cattle marching slow; + His stockmen, mates for many a day, + They wrung his hand and went away. + Too old to make another start, + Old Kiley died -- of broken heart, + On Kiley's Run. + + . . . . . + + The owner lives in England now + Of Kiley's Run. + He knows a racehorse from a cow; + But that is all he knows of stock: + His chiefest care is how to dock + Expenses, and he sends from town + To cut the shearers' wages down + On Kiley's Run. + + There are no neighbours anywhere + Near Kiley's Run. + The hospitable homes are bare, + The gardens gone; for no pretence + Must hinder cutting down expense: + The homestead that we held so dear + Contains a half-paid overseer + On Kiley's Run. + + All life and sport and hope have died + On Kiley's Run. + No longer there the stockmen ride; + For sour-faced boundary riders creep + On mongrel horses after sheep, + Through ranges where, at racing speed, + Old Kiley used to 'wheel the lead' + On Kiley's Run. + + There runs a lane for thirty miles + Through Kiley's Run. + On either side the herbage smiles, + But wretched trav'lling sheep must pass + Without a drink or blade of grass + Thro' that long lane of death and shame: + The weary drovers curse the name + Of Kiley's Run. + + The name itself is changed of late + Of Kiley's Run. + They call it 'Chandos Park Estate'. + The lonely swagman through the dark + Must hump his swag past Chandos Park. + The name is English, don't you see, + The old name sweeter sounds to me + Of 'Kiley's Run'. + + I cannot guess what fate will bring + To Kiley's Run -- + For chances come and changes ring -- + I scarcely think 'twill always be + Locked up to suit an absentee; + And if he lets it out in farms + His tenants soon will carry arms + On Kiley's Run. + + + + +Frying Pan's Theology + + + + Scene: On Monaro. + _DRAMATIS PERSONAE_: + Shock-headed blackfellow, + Boy (on a pony). + Snowflakes are falling + So gentle and slow, + Youngster says, 'Frying Pan, + What makes it snow?' + Frying Pan confident + Makes the reply -- + 'Shake 'em big flour bag + Up in the sky!' + 'What! when there's miles of it! + Sur'ly that's brag. + Who is there strong enough + Shake such a bag?' + 'What parson tellin' you, + Ole Mister Dodd, + Tell you in Sunday-school? + Big feller God! + He drive His bullock dray, + Then thunder go, + He shake His flour bag -- + Tumble down snow!' + + + + +The Two Devines + + + + It was shearing-time at the Myall Lake, + And there rose the sound thro' the livelong day + Of the constant clash that the shear-blades make + When the fastest shearers are making play, + But there wasn't a man in the shearers' lines + That could shear a sheep with the two Devines. + + They had rung the sheds of the east and west, + Had beaten the cracks of the Walgett side, + And the Cooma shearers had giv'n them best -- + When they saw them shear, they were satisfied. + From the southern slopes to the western pines + They were noted men, were the two Devines. + + 'Twas a wether flock that had come to hand, + Great struggling brutes, that the shearers shirk, + For the fleece was filled with the grass and sand, + And seventy sheep was a big day's work. + 'At a pound a hundred it's dashed hard lines + To shear such sheep,' said the two Devines. + + But the shearers knew that they'd make a cheque + When they came to deal with the station ewes; + They were bare of belly and bare of neck + With a fleece as light as a kangaroo's. + 'We will show the boss how a shear-blade shines + When we reach those ewes,' said the two Devines. + + But it chanced next day when the stunted pines + Were swayed and stirred with the dawn-wind's breath, + That a message came for the two Devines + That their father lay at the point of death. + So away at speed through the whispering pines + Down the bridle track rode the two Devines. + + It was fifty miles to their father's hut, + And the dawn was bright when they rode away; + At the fall of night when the shed was shut + And the men had rest from the toilsome day, + To the shed once more through the dark'ning pines + On their weary steeds came the two Devines. + + 'Well, you're back right sudden,' the super. said; + 'Is the old man dead and the funeral done?' + 'Well, no, sir, he ain't not exactly dead, + But as good as dead,' said the eldest son -- + 'And we couldn't bear such a chance to lose, + So we came straight back to tackle the ewes.' + + . . . . . + + They are shearing ewes at the Myall Lake, + And the shed is merry the livelong day + With the clashing sound that the shear-blades make + When the fastest shearers are making play, + And a couple of 'hundred and ninety-nines' + Are the tallies made by the two Devines. + + + + +In the Droving Days + + + + 'Only a pound,' said the auctioneer, + 'Only a pound; and I'm standing here + Selling this animal, gain or loss. + Only a pound for the drover's horse; + One of the sort that was never afraid, + One of the boys of the Old Brigade; + Thoroughly honest and game, I'll swear, + Only a little the worse for wear; + Plenty as bad to be seen in town, + Give me a bid and I'll knock him down; + Sold as he stands, and without recourse, + Give me a bid for the drover's horse.' + + Loitering there in an aimless way + Somehow I noticed the poor old grey, + Weary and battered and screwed, of course, + Yet when I noticed the old grey horse, + The rough bush saddle, and single rein + Of the bridle laid on his tangled mane, + Straightway the crowd and the auctioneer + Seemed on a sudden to disappear, + Melted away in a kind of haze, + For my heart went back to the droving days. + + Back to the road, and I crossed again + Over the miles of the saltbush plain -- + The shining plain that is said to be + The dried-up bed of an inland sea, + Where the air so dry and so clear and bright + Refracts the sun with a wondrous light, + And out in the dim horizon makes + The deep blue gleam of the phantom lakes. + + At dawn of day we would feel the breeze + That stirred the boughs of the sleeping trees, + And brought a breath of the fragrance rare + That comes and goes in that scented air; + For the trees and grass and the shrubs contain + A dry sweet scent on the saltbush plain. + For those that love it and understand, + The saltbush plain is a wonderland. + A wondrous country, where Nature's ways + Were revealed to me in the droving days. + + We saw the fleet wild horses pass, + And the kangaroos through the Mitchell grass, + The emu ran with her frightened brood + All unmolested and unpursued. + But there rose a shout and a wild hubbub + When the dingo raced for his native scrub, + And he paid right dear for his stolen meals + With the drover's dogs at his wretched heels. + For we ran him down at a rattling pace, + While the packhorse joined in the stirring chase. + And a wild halloo at the kill we'd raise -- + We were light of heart in the droving days. + + 'Twas a drover's horse, and my hand again + Made a move to close on a fancied rein. + For I felt the swing and the easy stride + Of the grand old horse that I used to ride + In drought or plenty, in good or ill, + That same old steed was my comrade still; + The old grey horse with his honest ways + Was a mate to me in the droving days. + + When we kept our watch in the cold and damp, + If the cattle broke from the sleeping camp, + Over the flats and across the plain, + With my head bent down on his waving mane, + Through the boughs above and the stumps below + On the darkest night I could let him go + At a racing speed; he would choose his course, + And my life was safe with the old grey horse. + But man and horse had a favourite job, + When an outlaw broke from a station mob, + With a right good will was the stockwhip plied, + As the old horse raced at the straggler's side, + And the greenhide whip such a weal would raise, + We could use the whip in the droving days. + + . . . . . + + 'Only a pound!' and was this the end -- + Only a pound for the drover's friend. + The drover's friend that had seen his day, + And now was worthless, and cast away + With a broken knee and a broken heart + To be flogged and starved in a hawker's cart. + Well, I made a bid for a sense of shame + And the memories dear of the good old game. + + 'Thank you? Guinea! and cheap at that! + Against you there in the curly hat! + Only a guinea, and one more chance, + Down he goes if there's no advance, + Third, and the last time, one! two! three!' + And the old grey horse was knocked down to me. + And now he's wandering, fat and sleek, + On the lucerne flats by the Homestead Creek; + I dare not ride him for fear he'd fall, + But he does a journey to beat them all, + For though he scarcely a trot can raise, + He can take me back to the droving days. + + + + +Lost + + + + 'He ought to be home,' said the old man, 'without there's something amiss. + He only went to the Two-mile -- he ought to be back by this. + He _WOULD_ ride the Reckless filly, he _WOULD_ have his wilful way; + And, here, he's not back at sundown -- and what will his mother say? + + 'He was always his mother's idol, since ever his father died; + And there isn't a horse on the station that he isn't game to ride. + But that Reckless mare is vicious, and if once she gets away + He hasn't got strength to hold her -- and what will his mother say?' + + The old man walked to the sliprail, and peered up the dark'ning track, + And looked and longed for the rider that would never more come back; + And the mother came and clutched him, with sudden, spasmodic fright: + 'What has become of my Willie? -- why isn't he home to-night?' + + Away in the gloomy ranges, at the foot of an ironbark, + The bonnie, winsome laddie was lying stiff and stark; + For the Reckless mare had smashed him against a leaning limb, + And his comely face was battered, and his merry eyes were dim. + + And the thoroughbred chestnut filly, the saddle beneath her flanks, + Was away like fire through the ranges to join the wild mob's ranks; + And a broken-hearted woman and an old man worn and grey + Were searching all night in the ranges till the sunrise brought the day. + + And the mother kept feebly calling, with a hope that would not die, + 'Willie! where are you, Willie?' But how can the dead reply; + And hope died out with the daylight, and the darkness brought despair, + God pity the stricken mother, and answer the widow's prayer! + + Though far and wide they sought him, they found not where he fell; + For the ranges held him precious, and guarded their treasure well. + The wattle blooms above him, and the blue bells blow close by, + And the brown bees buzz the secret, and the wild birds sing reply. + + But the mother pined and faded, and cried, and took no rest, + And rode each day to the ranges on her hopeless, weary quest. + Seeking her loved one ever, she faded and pined away, + But with strength of her great affection she still sought every day. + + 'I know that sooner or later I shall find my boy,' she said. + But she came not home one evening, and they found her lying dead, + And stamped on the poor pale features, as the spirit homeward pass'd, + Was an angel smile of gladness -- she had found the boy at last. + + + + +Over the Range + + + + Little bush maiden, wondering-eyed, + Playing alone in the creek-bed dry, + In the small green flat on every side + Walled in by the Moonbi ranges high; + Tell us the tale of your lonely life, + 'Mid the great grey forests that know no change. + 'I never have left my home,' she said, + 'I have never been over the Moonbi Range. + + 'Father and mother are both long dead, + And I live with granny in yon wee place.' + 'Where are your father and mother?' we said. + She puzzled awhile with thoughtful face, + Then a light came into the shy brown eye, + And she smiled, for she thought the question strange + On a thing so certain -- 'When people die + They go to the country over the range.' + + 'And what is this country like, my lass?' + 'There are blossoming trees and pretty flowers, + And shining creeks where the golden grass + Is fresh and sweet from the summer showers. + They never need work, nor want, nor weep; + No troubles can come their hearts to estrange. + Some summer night I shall fall asleep, + And wake in the country over the range.' + + Child, you are wise in your simple trust, + For the wisest man knows no more than you + Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust: + Our views by a range are bounded too; + But we know that God hath this gift in store, + That when we come to the final change, + We shall meet with our loved ones gone before + To the beautiful country over the range. + + + + +Only a Jockey + + 'Richard Bennison, a jockey, aged 14, while riding William Tell + in his training, was thrown and killed. The horse is luckily uninjured.' + -- Melbourne Wire. + + + + Out in the grey cheerless chill of the morning light, + Out on the track where the night shades still lurk; + Ere the first gleam of the sungod's returning light, + Round come the race-horses early at work. + + Reefing and pulling and racing so readily, + Close sit the jockey-boys holding them hard, + 'Steady the stallion there -- canter him steadily, + Don't let him gallop so much as a yard.' + + Fiercely he fights while the others run wide of him, + Reefs at the bit that would hold him in thrall, + Plunges and bucks till the boy that's astride of him + Goes to the ground with a terrible fall. + + 'Stop him there! Block him there! Drive him in carefully, + Lead him about till he's quiet and cool. + Sound as a bell! though he's blown himself fearfully, + Now let us pick up this poor little fool. + + 'Stunned? Oh, by Jove, I'm afraid it's a case with him; + Ride for the doctor! keep bathing his head! + Send for a cart to go down to our place with him' -- + No use! One long sigh and the little chap's dead. + + Only a jockey-boy, foul-mouthed and bad you see, + Ignorant, heathenish, gone to his rest. + Parson or Presbyter, Pharisee, Sadducee, + What did you do for him? -- bad was the best. + + Negroes and foreigners, all have a claim on you; + Yearly you send your well-advertised hoard, + But the poor jockey-boy -- shame on you, shame on you, + 'Feed ye, my little ones' -- what said the Lord? + + Him ye held less than the outer barbarian, + Left him to die in his ignorant sin; + Have you no principles, humanitarian? + Have you no precept -- 'go gather them in?' + + . . . . . + + Knew he God's name? In his brutal profanity, + That name was an oath -- out of many but one -- + What did he get from our famed Christianity? + Where has his soul -- if he had any -- gone? + + Fourteen years old, and what was he taught of it? + What did he know of God's infinite grace? + Draw the dark curtain of shame o'er the thought of it, + Draw the shroud over the jockey-boy's face. + + + + +How M'Ginnis Went Missing + + + + Let us cease our idle chatter, + Let the tears bedew our cheek, + For a man from Tallangatta + Has been missing for a week. + + Where the roaring flooded Murray + Covered all the lower land, + There he started in a hurry, + With a bottle in his hand. + + And his fate is hid for ever, + But the public seem to think + That he slumbered by the river, + 'Neath the influence of drink. + + And they scarcely seem to wonder + That the river, wide and deep, + Never woke him with its thunder, + Never stirred him in his sleep. + + As the crashing logs came sweeping, + And their tumult filled the air, + Then M'Ginnis murmured, sleeping, + ''Tis a wake in ould Kildare.' + + So the river rose and found him + Sleeping softly by the stream, + And the cruel waters drowned him + Ere he wakened from his dream. + + And the blossom-tufted wattle, + Blooming brightly on the lea, + Saw M'Ginnis and the bottle + Going drifting out to sea. + + + + +A Voice from the Town + + A sequel to [Mowbray Morris's] 'A Voice from the Bush' + + + + I thought, in the days of the droving, + Of steps I might hope to retrace, + To be done with the bush and the roving + And settle once more in my place. + With a heart that was well nigh to breaking, + In the long, lonely rides on the plain, + I thought of the pleasure of taking + The hand of a lady again. + + I am back into civilisation, + Once more in the stir and the strife, + But the old joys have lost their sensation -- + The light has gone out of my life; + The men of my time they have married, + Made fortunes or gone to the wall; + Too long from the scene I have tarried, + And, somehow, I'm out of it all. + + For I go to the balls and the races + A lonely companionless elf, + And the ladies bestow all their graces + On others less grey than myself; + While the talk goes around I'm a dumb one + 'Midst youngsters that chatter and prate, + And they call me 'the Man who was Someone + Way back in the year Sixty-eight.' + + And I look, sour and old, at the dancers + That swing to the strains of the band, + And the ladies all give me the Lancers, + No waltzes -- I quite understand. + For matrons intent upon matching + Their daughters with infinite push, + Would scarce think him worthy the catching, + The broken-down man from the bush. + + New partners have come and new faces, + And I, of the bygone brigade, + Sharply feel that oblivion my place is -- + I must lie with the rest in the shade. + And the youngsters, fresh-featured and pleasant, + They live as we lived -- fairly fast; + But I doubt if the men of the present + Are as good as the men of the past. + + Of excitement and praise they are chary, + There is nothing much good upon earth; + Their watchword is _NIL ADMIRARI_, + They are bored from the days of their birth. + Where the life that we led was a revel + They 'wince and relent and refrain' -- + I could show them the road -- to the devil, + Were I only a youngster again. + + I could show them the road where the stumps are + The pleasures that end in remorse, + And the game where the Devil's three trumps are, + The woman, the card, and the horse. + Shall the blind lead the blind -- shall the sower + Of wind reap the storm as of yore? + Though they get to their goal somewhat slower, + They march where we hurried before. + + For the world never learns -- just as we did, + They gallantly go to their fate, + Unheeded all warnings, unheeded + The maxims of elders sedate. + As the husbandman, patiently toiling, + Draws a harvest each year from the soil, + So the fools grow afresh for the spoiling, + And a new crop of thieves for the spoil. + + But a truce to this dull moralising, + Let them drink while the drops are of gold, + I have tasted the dregs -- 'twere surprising + Were the new wine to me like the old; + And I weary for lack of employment + In idleness day after day, + For the key to the door of enjoyment + Is Youth -- and I've thrown it away. + + + + +A Bunch of Roses + + + + Roses ruddy and roses white, + What are the joys that my heart discloses? + Sitting alone in the fading light + Memories come to me here to-night + With the wonderful scent of the big red roses. + + Memories come as the daylight fades + Down on the hearth where the firelight dozes; + Flicker and flutter the lights and shades, + And I see the face of a queen of maids + Whose memory comes with the scent of roses. + + Visions arise of a scene of mirth, + And a ball-room belle that superbly poses -- + A queenly woman of queenly worth, + And I am the happiest man on earth + With a single flower from a bunch of roses. + + Only her memory lives to-night -- + God in His wisdom her young life closes; + Over her grave may the turf be light, + Cover her coffin with roses white -- + She was always fond of the big white roses. + + . . . . . + + Such are the visions that fade away -- + Man proposes and God disposes; + Look in the glass and I see to-day + Only an old man, worn and grey, + Bending his head to a bunch of roses. + + + + +Black Swans + + + + As I lie at rest on a patch of clover + In the Western Park when the day is done, + I watch as the wild black swans fly over + With their phalanx turned to the sinking sun; + And I hear the clang of their leader crying + To a lagging mate in the rearward flying, + And they fade away in the darkness dying, + Where the stars are mustering one by one. + + Oh! ye wild black swans, 'twere a world of wonder + For a while to join in your westward flight, + With the stars above and the dim earth under, + Through the cooling air of the glorious night. + As we swept along on our pinions winging, + We should catch the chime of a church-bell ringing, + Or the distant note of a torrent singing, + Or the far-off flash of a station light. + + From the northern lakes with the reeds and rushes, + Where the hills are clothed with a purple haze, + Where the bell-birds chime and the songs of thrushes + Make music sweet in the jungle maze, + They will hold their course to the westward ever, + Till they reach the banks of the old grey river, + Where the waters wash, and the reed-beds quiver + In the burning heat of the summer days. + + Oh! ye strange wild birds, will ye bear a greeting + To the folk that live in that western land? + Then for every sweep of your pinions beating, + Ye shall bear a wish to the sunburnt band, + To the stalwart men who are stoutly fighting + With the heat and drought and the dust-storm smiting, + Yet whose life somehow has a strange inviting, + When once to the work they have put their hand. + + Facing it yet! Oh, my friend stout-hearted, + What does it matter for rain or shine, + For the hopes deferred and the gain departed? + Nothing could conquer that heart of thine. + And thy health and strength are beyond confessing + As the only joys that are worth possessing. + May the days to come be as rich in blessing + As the days we spent in the auld lang syne. + + I would fain go back to the old grey river, + To the old bush days when our hearts were light, + But, alas! those days they have fled for ever, + They are like the swans that have swept from sight. + And I know full well that the strangers' faces + Would meet us now in our dearest places; + For our day is dead and has left no traces + But the thoughts that live in my mind to-night. + + There are folk long dead, and our hearts would sicken -- + We would grieve for them with a bitter pain, + If the past could live and the dead could quicken, + We then might turn to that life again. + But on lonely nights we would hear them calling, + We should hear their steps on the pathways falling, + We should loathe the life with a hate appalling + In our lonely rides by the ridge and plain. + + . . . . . + + In the silent park is a scent of clover, + And the distant roar of the town is dead, + And I hear once more as the swans fly over + Their far-off clamour from overhead. + They are flying west, by their instinct guided, + And for man likewise is his fate decided, + And griefs apportioned and joys divided + By a mighty power with a purpose dread. + + + + +The All Right 'Un + + + + He came from 'further out', + That land of heat and drought + And dust and gravel. + He got a touch of sun, + And rested at the run + Until his cure was done, + And he could travel. + + When spring had decked the plain, + He flitted off again + As flit the swallows. + And from that western land, + When many months were spanned, + A letter came to hand, + Which read as follows: + + 'Dear sir, I take my pen + In hopes that all your men + And you are hearty. + You think that I've forgot + Your kindness, Mr. Scott, + Oh, no, dear sir, I'm not + That sort of party. + + 'You sometimes bet, I know, + Well, now you'll have a show + The 'books' to frighten. + Up here at Wingadee + Young Billy Fife and me + We're training Strife, and he + Is a all right 'un. + + 'Just now we're running byes, + But, sir, first time he tries + I'll send you word of. + And running 'on the crook' + Their measures we have took, + It is the deadest hook + You ever heard of. + + 'So when we lets him go, + Why, then, I'll let you know, + And you can have a show + To put a mite on. + Now, sir, my leave I'll take, + Yours truly, William Blake. + P.S. -- Make no mistake, + _HE'S A ALL RIGHT 'UN_.' + + . . . . . + + By next week's _RIVERINE_ + I saw my friend had been + A bit too cunning. + I read: 'The racehorse Strife + And jockey William Fife + Disqualified for life -- + Suspicious running.' + + But though they spoilt his game, + I reckon all the same + I fairly ought to claim + My friend a white 'un. + For though he wasn't straight, + His deeds would indicate + His heart at any rate + Was 'a all right 'un'. + + + + +The Boss of the 'Admiral Lynch' + + + + Did you ever hear tell of Chili? I was readin' the other day + Of President Balmaceda and of how he was sent away. + It seems that he didn't suit 'em -- they thought that they'd like a change, + So they started an insurrection and chased him across the range. + They seemed to be restless people -- and, judging by what you hear, + They raise up these revolutions 'bout two or three times a year; + And the man that goes out of office, he goes for the boundary _QUICK_, + For there isn't no vote by ballot -- it's bullets that does the trick. + And it ain't like a real battle, where the prisoners' lives are spared, + And they fight till there's one side beaten + and then there's a truce declared, + + And the man that has got the licking goes down like a blooming lord + To hand in his resignation and give up his blooming sword, + And the other man bows and takes it, and everything's all polite -- + This wasn't that kind of a picnic, this wasn't that sort of a fight. + For the pris'ners they took -- they shot 'em; + no odds were they small or great, + If they'd collared old Balmaceda, they reckoned to shoot him straight. + A lot of bloodthirsty devils they were -- but there ain't a doubt + They must have been real plucked 'uns -- the way that they fought it out, + And the king of 'em all, I reckon, the man that could stand a pinch, + Was the boss of a one-horse gunboat. They called her the 'Admiral Lynch'. + + Well, he was for Balmaceda, and after the war was done, + And Balmaceda was beaten and his troops had been forced to run, + The other man fetched his army and proceeded to do things brown, + He marched 'em into the fortress and took command of the town. + Cannon and guns and horses troopin' along the road, + Rumblin' over the bridges, and never a foeman showed + Till they came in sight of the harbour, and the very first thing they see + Was this mite of a one-horse gunboat a-lying against the quay, + And there as they watched they noticed a flutter of crimson rag, + And under their eyes he hoisted old Balmaceda's flag. + Well, I tell you it fairly knocked 'em -- it just took away their breath, + For he must ha' known if they caught him, 'twas nothin' but sudden death. + An' he'd got no fire in his furnace, no chance to put out to sea, + So he stood by his gun and waited with his vessel against the quay. + + Well, they sent him a civil message to say that the war was done, + And most of his side were corpses, and all that were left had run; + And blood had been spilt sufficient, so they gave him a chance to decide + If he'd haul down his bit of bunting and come on the winning side. + He listened and heard their message, and answered them all polite, + That he was a Spanish hidalgo, and the men of his race _MUST_ fight! + A gunboat against an army, and with never a chance to run, + And them with their hundred cannon and him with a single gun: + The odds were a trifle heavy -- but he wasn't the sort to flinch, + So he opened fire on the army, did the boss of the 'Admiral Lynch'. + + They pounded his boat to pieces, they silenced his single gun, + And captured the whole consignment, for none of 'em cared to run; + And it don't say whether they shot him -- it don't even give his name -- + But whatever they did I'll wager that he went to his graveyard game. + I tell you those old hidalgos so stately and so polite, + They turn out the real Maginnis when it comes to an uphill fight. + There was General Alcantara, who died in the heaviest brunt, + And General Alzereca was killed in the battle's front; + But the king of 'em all, I reckon -- the man that could stand a pinch -- + Was the man who attacked the army with the gunboat 'Admiral Lynch'. + + + + +A Bushman's Song + + + + I'm travellin' down the Castlereagh, and I'm a station hand, + I'm handy with the ropin' pole, I'm handy with the brand, + And I can ride a rowdy colt, or swing the axe all day, + But there's no demand for a station-hand along the Castlereagh. + + So it's shift, boys, shift, for there isn't the slightest doubt + That we've got to make a shift to the stations further out, + With the pack-horse runnin' after, for he follows like a dog, + We must strike across the country at the old jig-jog. + + This old black horse I'm riding -- if you'll notice what's his brand, + He wears the crooked R, you see -- none better in the land. + He takes a lot of beatin', and the other day we tried, + For a bit of a joke, with a racing bloke, for twenty pounds a side. + + It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn't the slightest doubt + That I had to make him shift, for the money was nearly out; + But he cantered home a winner, with the other one at the flog -- + He's a red-hot sort to pick up with his old jig-jog. + + I asked a cove for shearin' once along the Marthaguy: + 'We shear non-union here,' says he. 'I call it scab,' says I. + I looked along the shearin' floor before I turned to go -- + There were eight or ten dashed Chinamen a-shearin' in a row. + + It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn't the slightest doubt + It was time to make a shift with the leprosy about. + So I saddled up my horses, and I whistled to my dog, + And I left his scabby station at the old jig-jog. + + I went to Illawarra, where my brother's got a farm, + He has to ask his landlord's leave before he lifts his arm; + The landlord owns the country side -- man, woman, dog, and cat, + They haven't the cheek to dare to speak without they touch their hat. + + It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn't the slightest doubt + Their little landlord god and I would soon have fallen out; + Was I to touch my hat to him? -- was I his bloomin' dog? + So I makes for up the country at the old jig-jog. + + But it's time that I was movin', I've a mighty way to go + Till I drink artesian water from a thousand feet below; + Till I meet the overlanders with the cattle comin' down, + And I'll work a while till I make a pile, then have a spree in town. + + So, it's shift, boys, shift, for there isn't the slightest doubt + We've got to make a shift to the stations further out; + The pack-horse runs behind us, for he follows like a dog, + And we cross a lot of country at the old jig-jog. + + + + +How Gilbert Died + + + + There's never a stone at the sleeper's head, + There's never a fence beside, + And the wandering stock on the grave may tread + Unnoticed and undenied, + But the smallest child on the Watershed + Can tell you how Gilbert died. + + For he rode at dusk, with his comrade Dunn + To the hut at the Stockman's Ford, + In the waning light of the sinking sun + They peered with a fierce accord. + They were outlaws both -- and on each man's head + Was a thousand pounds reward. + + They had taken toll of the country round, + And the troopers came behind + With a black that tracked like a human hound + In the scrub and the ranges blind: + He could run the trail where a white man's eye + No sign of a track could find. + + He had hunted them out of the One Tree Hill + And over the Old Man Plain, + But they wheeled their tracks with a wild beast's skill, + And they made for the range again. + Then away to the hut where their grandsire dwelt, + They rode with a loosened rein. + + And their grandsire gave them a greeting bold: + 'Come in and rest in peace, + No safer place does the country hold -- + With the night pursuit must cease, + And we'll drink success to the roving boys, + And to hell with the black police.' + + But they went to death when they entered there, + In the hut at the Stockman's Ford, + For their grandsire's words were as false as fair -- + They were doomed to the hangman's cord. + He had sold them both to the black police + For the sake of the big reward. + + In the depth of night there are forms that glide + As stealthy as serpents creep, + And around the hut where the outlaws hide + They plant in the shadows deep, + And they wait till the first faint flush of dawn + Shall waken their prey from sleep. + + But Gilbert wakes while the night is dark -- + A restless sleeper, aye, + He has heard the sound of a sheep-dog's bark, + And his horse's warning neigh, + And he says to his mate, 'There are hawks abroad, + And it's time that we went away.' + + Their rifles stood at the stretcher head, + Their bridles lay to hand, + They wakened the old man out of his bed, + When they heard the sharp command: + 'In the name of the Queen lay down your arms, + Now, Dunn and Gilbert, stand!' + + Then Gilbert reached for his rifle true + That close at his hand he kept, + He pointed it straight at the voice and drew, + But never a flash outleapt, + For the water ran from the rifle breech -- + It was drenched while the outlaws slept. + + Then he dropped the piece with a bitter oath, + And he turned to his comrade Dunn: + 'We are sold,' he said, 'we are dead men both, + But there may be a chance for one; + I'll stop and I'll fight with the pistol here, + You take to your heels and run.' + + So Dunn crept out on his hands and knees + In the dim, half-dawning light, + And he made his way to a patch of trees, + And vanished among the night, + And the trackers hunted his tracks all day, + But they never could trace his flight. + + But Gilbert walked from the open door + In a confident style and rash; + He heard at his side the rifles roar, + And he heard the bullets crash. + But he laughed as he lifted his pistol-hand, + And he fired at the rifle flash. + + Then out of the shadows the troopers aimed + At his voice and the pistol sound, + With the rifle flashes the darkness flamed, + He staggered and spun around, + And they riddled his body with rifle balls + As it lay on the blood-soaked ground. + + There's never a stone at the sleeper's head, + There's never a fence beside, + And the wandering stock on the grave may tread + Unnoticed and undenied, + But the smallest child on the Watershed + Can tell you how Gilbert died. + + + + +The Flying Gang + + + + I served my time, in the days gone by, + In the railway's clash and clang, + And I worked my way to the end, and I + Was the head of the 'Flying Gang'. + 'Twas a chosen band that was kept at hand + In case of an urgent need, + Was it south or north we were started forth, + And away at our utmost speed. + If word reached town that a bridge was down, + The imperious summons rang -- + 'Come out with the pilot engine sharp, + And away with the flying gang.' + + Then a piercing scream and a rush of steam + As the engine moved ahead, + With a measured beat by the slum and street + Of the busy town we fled, + By the uplands bright and the homesteads white, + With the rush of the western gale, + And the pilot swayed with the pace we made + As she rocked on the ringing rail. + And the country children clapped their hands + As the engine's echoes rang, + But their elders said: 'There is work ahead + When they send for the flying gang.' + + Then across the miles of the saltbush plain + That gleamed with the morning dew, + Where the grasses waved like the ripening grain + The pilot engine flew, + A fiery rush in the open bush + Where the grade marks seemed to fly, + And the order sped on the wires ahead, + The pilot _MUST_ go by. + The Governor's special must stand aside, + And the fast express go hang, + Let your orders be that the line is free + For the boys of the flying gang. + + + + +Shearing at Castlereagh + + + + The bell is set a-ringing, and the engine gives a toot, + There's five and thirty shearers here are shearing for the loot, + So stir yourselves, you penners-up, and shove the sheep along, + The musterers are fetching them a hundred thousand strong, + And make your collie dogs speak up -- what would the buyers say + In London if the wool was late this year from Castlereagh? + + The man that 'rung' the Tubbo shed is not the ringer here, + That stripling from the Cooma side can teach him how to shear. + They trim away the ragged locks, and rip the cutter goes, + And leaves a track of snowy fleece from brisket to the nose; + It's lovely how they peel it off with never stop nor stay, + They're racing for the ringer's place this year at Castlereagh. + + The man that keeps the cutters sharp is growling in his cage, + He's always in a hurry and he's always in a rage -- + 'You clumsy-fisted mutton-heads, you'd turn a fellow sick, + You pass yourselves as shearers, you were born to swing a pick. + Another broken cutter here, that's two you've broke to-day, + It's awful how such crawlers come to shear at Castlereagh.' + + The youngsters picking up the fleece enjoy the merry din, + They throw the classer up the fleece, he throws it to the bin; + The pressers standing by the rack are waiting for the wool, + There's room for just a couple more, the press is nearly full; + Now jump upon the lever, lads, and heave and heave away, + Another bale of golden fleece is branded 'Castlereagh'. + + + + +The Wind's Message + + + + There came a whisper down the Bland between the dawn and dark, + Above the tossing of the pines, above the river's flow; + It stirred the boughs of giant gums and stalwart ironbark; + It drifted where the wild ducks played amid the swamps below; + It brought a breath of mountain air from off the hills of pine, + A scent of eucalyptus trees in honey-laden bloom; + And drifting, drifting far away along the southern line + It caught from leaf and grass and fern a subtle strange perfume. + + It reached the toiling city folk, but few there were that heard -- + The rattle of their busy life had choked the whisper down; + And some but caught a fresh-blown breeze with scent of pine that stirred + A thought of blue hills far away beyond the smoky town; + And others heard the whisper pass, but could not understand + The magic of the breeze's breath that set their hearts aglow, + Nor how the roving wind could bring across the Overland + A sound of voices silent now and songs of long ago. + + But some that heard the whisper clear were filled with vague unrest; + The breeze had brought its message home, they could not fixed abide; + Their fancies wandered all the day towards the blue hills' breast, + Towards the sunny slopes that lie along the riverside, + The mighty rolling western plains are very fair to see, + Where waving to the passing breeze the silver myalls stand, + But fairer are the giant hills, all rugged though they be, + From which the two great rivers rise that run along the Bland. + + Oh! rocky range and rugged spur and river running clear, + That swings around the sudden bends with swirl of snow-white foam, + Though we, your sons, are far away, we sometimes seem to hear + The message that the breezes bring to call the wanderers home. + The mountain peaks are white with snow that feeds a thousand rills, + Along the river banks the maize grows tall on virgin land, + And we shall live to see once more those sunny southern hills, + And strike once more the bridle track that leads along the Bland. + + + + +Johnson's Antidote + + + + Down along the Snakebite River, where the overlanders camp, + Where the serpents are in millions, all of the most deadly stamp; + Where the station-cook in terror, nearly every time he bakes, + Mixes up among the doughboys half-a-dozen poison-snakes: + Where the wily free-selector walks in armour-plated pants, + And defies the stings of scorpions, and the bites of bull-dog ants: + Where the adder and the viper tear each other by the throat, + There it was that William Johnson sought his snake-bite antidote. + + Johnson was a free-selector, and his brain went rather queer, + For the constant sight of serpents filled him with a deadly fear; + So he tramped his free-selection, morning, afternoon, and night, + Seeking for some great specific that would cure the serpent's bite. + Till King Billy, of the Mooki, chieftain of the flour-bag head, + Told him, 'Spos'n snake bite pfeller, pfeller mostly drop down dead; + Spos'n snake bite old goanna, then you watch a while you see, + Old goanna cure himself with eating little pfeller tree.' + 'That's the cure,' said William Johnson, 'point me out this plant sublime,' + But King Billy, feeling lazy, said he'd go another time. + Thus it came to pass that Johnson, having got the tale by rote, + Followed every stray goanna, seeking for the antidote. + + . . . . . + + Loafing once beside the river, while he thought his heart would break, + There he saw a big goanna fighting with a tiger-snake, + In and out they rolled and wriggled, bit each other, heart and soul, + Till the valiant old goanna swallowed his opponent whole. + Breathless, Johnson sat and watched him, saw him struggle up the bank, + Saw him nibbling at the branches of some bushes, green and rank; + Saw him, happy and contented, lick his lips, as off he crept, + While the bulging in his stomach showed where his opponent slept. + Then a cheer of exultation burst aloud from Johnson's throat; + 'Luck at last,' said he, 'I've struck it! 'tis the famous antidote.' + + 'Here it is, the Grand Elixir, greatest blessing ever known, + Twenty thousand men in India die each year of snakes alone. + Think of all the foreign nations, negro, chow, and blackamoor, + Saved from sudden expiration, by my wondrous snakebite cure. + It will bring me fame and fortune! In the happy days to be, + Men of every clime and nation will be round to gaze on me -- + Scientific men in thousands, men of mark and men of note, + Rushing down the Mooki River, after Johnson's antidote. + It will cure Delirium Tremens, when the patient's eyeballs stare + At imaginary spiders, snakes which really are not there. + When he thinks he sees them wriggle, when he thinks he sees them bloat, + It will cure him just to think of Johnson's Snakebite Antidote.' + + Then he rushed to the museum, found a scientific man -- + 'Trot me out a deadly serpent, just the deadliest you can; + I intend to let him bite me, all the risk I will endure, + Just to prove the sterling value of my wondrous snakebite cure. + Even though an adder bit me, back to life again I'd float; + Snakes are out of date, I tell you, since I've found the antidote.' + + Said the scientific person, 'If you really want to die, + Go ahead -- but, if you're doubtful, let your sheep-dog have a try. + Get a pair of dogs and try it, let the snake give both a nip; + Give your dog the snakebite mixture, let the other fellow rip; + If he dies and yours survives him, then it proves the thing is good. + Will you fetch your dog and try it?' Johnson rather thought he would. + So he went and fetched his canine, hauled him forward by the throat. + 'Stump, old man,' says he, 'we'll show them we've the genwine antidote.' + + Both the dogs were duly loaded with the poison-gland's contents; + Johnson gave his dog the mixture, then sat down to wait events. + 'Mark,' he said, 'in twenty minutes Stump'll be a-rushing round, + While the other wretched creature lies a corpse upon the ground.' + But, alas for William Johnson! ere they'd watched a half-hour's spell + Stumpy was as dead as mutton, t'other dog was live and well. + And the scientific person hurried off with utmost speed, + Tested Johnson's drug and found it was a deadly poison-weed; + Half a tumbler killed an emu, half a spoonful killed a goat, + All the snakes on earth were harmless to that awful antidote. + + . . . . . + + Down along the Mooki River, on the overlanders' camp, + Where the serpents are in millions, all of the most deadly stamp, + Wanders, daily, William Johnson, down among those poisonous hordes, + Shooting every stray goanna, calls them 'black and yaller frauds'. + And King Billy, of the Mooki, cadging for the cast-off coat, + Somehow seems to dodge the subject of the snake-bite antidote. + + + + +Ambition and Art + + + + Ambition + + + I am the maid of the lustrous eyes + Of great fruition, + Whom the sons of men that are over-wise + Have called Ambition. + + And the world's success is the only goal + I have within me; + The meanest man with the smallest soul + May woo and win me. + + For the lust of power and the pride of place + To all I proffer. + Wilt thou take thy part in the crowded race + For what I offer? + + The choice is thine, and the world is wide -- + Thy path is lonely. + I may not lead and I may not guide -- + I urge thee only. + + I am just a whip and a spur that smites + To fierce endeavour. + In the restless days and the sleepless nights + I urge thee ever. + + Thou shalt wake from sleep with a startled cry, + In fright upleaping + At a rival's step as it passes by + Whilst thou art sleeping. + + Honour and truth shall be overthrown + In fierce desire; + Thou shalt use thy friend as a stepping-stone + To mount thee higher. + + When the curtain falls on the sordid strife + That seemed so splendid, + Thou shalt look with pain on the wasted life + That thou hast ended. + + Thou hast sold thy life for a guerdon small + In fitful flashes; + There has been reward -- but the end of all + Is dust and ashes. + + For the night has come and it brings to naught + Thy projects cherished, + And thine epitaph shall in brass be wrought -- + 'He lived and perished.' + + + Art + + + I wait for thee at the outer gate, + My love, mine only; + Wherefore tarriest thou so late + While I am lonely. + + Thou shalt seek my side with a footstep swift, + In thee implanted + Is the love of Art and the greatest gift + That God has granted. + + And the world's concerns with its rights and wrongs + Shall seem but small things -- + Poet or painter, a singer of songs, + Thine art is all things. + + For the wine of life is a woman's love + To keep beside thee; + But the love of Art is a thing above -- + A star to guide thee. + + As the years go by with thy love of Art + All undiminished, + Thou shalt end thy days with a quiet heart -- + Thy work is finished. + + So the painter fashions a picture strong + That fadeth never, + And the singer singeth a wond'rous song + That lives for ever. + + + + +The Daylight is Dying + + + + The daylight is dying + Away in the west, + The wild birds are flying + In silence to rest; + In leafage and frondage + Where shadows are deep, + They pass to its bondage -- + The kingdom of sleep. + And watched in their sleeping + By stars in the height, + They rest in your keeping, + Oh, wonderful night. + + When night doth her glories + Of starshine unfold, + 'Tis then that the stories + Of bush-land are told. + Unnumbered I hold them + In memories bright, + But who could unfold them, + Or read them aright? + Beyond all denials + The stars in their glories + The breeze in the myalls + Are part of these stories. + The waving of grasses, + The song of the river + That sings as it passes + For ever and ever, + The hobble-chains' rattle, + The calling of birds, + The lowing of cattle + Must blend with the words. + Without these, indeed, you + Would find it ere long, + As though I should read you + The words of a song + That lamely would linger + When lacking the rune, + The voice of the singer, + The lilt of the tune. + + But, as one half-hearing + An old-time refrain, + With memory clearing, + Recalls it again, + These tales, roughly wrought of + The bush and its ways, + May call back a thought of + The wandering days, + And, blending with each + In the mem'ries that throng, + There haply shall reach + You some echo of song. + + + + +In Defence of the Bush + + + + So you're back from up the country, Mister Townsman, where you went, + And you're cursing all the business in a bitter discontent; + Well, we grieve to disappoint you, and it makes us sad to hear + That it wasn't cool and shady -- and there wasn't plenty beer, + And the loony bullock snorted when you first came into view; + Well, you know it's not so often that he sees a swell like you; + And the roads were hot and dusty, and the plains were burnt and brown, + And no doubt you're better suited drinking lemon-squash in town. + Yet, perchance, if you should journey down the very track you went + In a month or two at furthest you would wonder what it meant, + Where the sunbaked earth was gasping like a creature in its pain + You would find the grasses waving like a field of summer grain, + And the miles of thirsty gutters blocked with sand and choked with mud, + You would find them mighty rivers with a turbid, sweeping flood; + For the rain and drought and sunshine make no changes in the street, + In the sullen line of buildings and the ceaseless tramp of feet; + But the bush hath moods and changes, as the seasons rise and fall, + And the men who know the bush-land -- they are loyal through it all. + + . . . . . + + But you found the bush was dismal and a land of no delight, + Did you chance to hear a chorus in the shearers' huts at night? + Did they 'rise up, William Riley' by the camp-fire's cheery blaze? + Did they rise him as we rose him in the good old droving days? + And the women of the homesteads and the men you chanced to meet -- + Were their faces sour and saddened like the 'faces in the street', + And the 'shy selector children' -- were they better now or worse + Than the little city urchins who would greet you with a curse? + Is not such a life much better than the squalid street and square + Where the fallen women flaunt it in the fierce electric glare, + Where the sempstress plies her sewing till her eyes are sore and red + In a filthy, dirty attic toiling on for daily bread? + Did you hear no sweeter voices in the music of the bush + Than the roar of trams and 'buses, and the war-whoop of 'the push'? + Did the magpies rouse your slumbers with their carol sweet and strange? + Did you hear the silver chiming of the bell-birds on the range? + But, perchance, the wild birds' music by your senses was despised, + For you say you'll stay in townships till the bush is civilised. + Would you make it a tea-garden and on Sundays have a band + Where the 'blokes' might take their 'donahs', + with a 'public' close at hand? + You had better stick to Sydney and make merry with the 'push', + For the bush will never suit you, and you'll never suit the bush. + + + + +Last Week + + + + Oh, the new-chum went to the back block run, + But he should have gone there last week. + He tramped ten miles with a loaded gun, + But of turkey or duck he saw never a one, + For he should have been there last week, + They said, + There were flocks of 'em there last week. + + He wended his way to a waterfall, + And he should have gone there last week. + He carried a camera, legs and all, + But the day was hot, and the stream was small, + For he should have gone there last week, + They said. + They drowned a man there last week. + + He went for a drive, and he made a start, + Which should have been made last week, + For the old horse died of a broken heart; + So he footed it home and he dragged the cart -- + But the horse was all right last week, + They said. + He trotted a match last week. + + So he asked the bushies who came from far + To visit the town last week, + If they'd dine with him, and they said 'Hurrah!' + But there wasn't a drop in the whisky jar -- + You should have been here last week, + He said, + I drank it all up last week! + + + + +Those Names + + + + The shearers sat in the firelight, hearty and hale and strong, + After the hard day's shearing, passing the joke along: + The 'ringer' that shore a hundred, as they never were shorn before, + And the novice who, toiling bravely, had tommy-hawked half a score, + The tarboy, the cook, and the slushy, the sweeper that swept the board, + The picker-up, and the penner, with the rest of the shearing horde. + There were men from the inland stations + where the skies like a furnace glow, + And men from the Snowy River, the land of the frozen snow; + There were swarthy Queensland drovers who reckoned all land by miles, + And farmers' sons from the Murray, where many a vineyard smiles. + They started at telling stories when they wearied of cards and games, + And to give these stories a flavour they threw in some local names, + And a man from the bleak Monaro, away on the tableland, + He fixed his eyes on the ceiling, and he started to play his hand. + + He told them of Adjintoothbong, where the pine-clad mountains freeze, + And the weight of the snow in summer breaks branches off the trees, + And, as he warmed to the business, he let them have it strong -- + Nimitybelle, Conargo, Wheeo, Bongongolong; + He lingered over them fondly, because they recalled to mind + A thought of the old bush homestead, and the girl that he left behind. + Then the shearers all sat silent till a man in the corner rose; + Said he, 'I've travelled a-plenty but never heard names like those. + Out in the western districts, out on the Castlereagh + Most of the names are easy -- short for a man to say. + + 'You've heard of Mungrybambone and the Gundabluey pine, + Quobbotha, Girilambone, and Terramungamine, + Quambone, Eunonyhareenyha, Wee Waa, and Buntijo --' + But the rest of the shearers stopped him: + 'For the sake of your jaw, go slow, + If you reckon those names are short ones out where such names prevail, + Just try and remember some long ones before you begin the tale.' + And the man from the western district, though never a word he said, + Just winked with his dexter eyelid, and then he retired to bed. + + + + +A Bush Christening + + + + On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few, + And men of religion are scanty, + On a road never cross'd 'cept by folk that are lost, + One Michael Magee had a shanty. + + Now this Mike was the dad of a ten year old lad, + Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned; + He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest + For the youngster had never been christened. + + And his wife used to cry, 'If the darlin' should die + Saint Peter would not recognise him.' + But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived, + Who agreed straightaway to baptise him. + + Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue, + With his ear to the keyhole was listenin', + And he muttered in fright, while his features turned white, + 'What the divil and all is this christenin'?' + + He was none of your dolts, he had seen them brand colts, + And it seemed to his small understanding, + If the man in the frock made him one of the flock, + It must mean something very like branding. + + So away with a rush he set off for the bush, + While the tears in his eyelids they glistened -- + ''Tis outrageous,' says he, 'to brand youngsters like me, + I'll be dashed if I'll stop to be christened!' + + Like a young native dog he ran into a log, + And his father with language uncivil, + Never heeding the 'praste' cried aloud in his haste, + 'Come out and be christened, you divil!' + + But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug, + And his parents in vain might reprove him, + Till his reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke) + 'I've a notion,' says he, 'that'll move him.' + + 'Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prog; + Poke him aisy -- don't hurt him or maim him, + 'Tis not long that he'll stand, I've the water at hand, + As he rushes out this end I'll name him. + + 'Here he comes, and for shame! ye've forgotten the name -- + Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?' + Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout -- + 'Take your chance, anyhow, wid 'Maginnis'!' + + As the howling young cub ran away to the scrub + Where he knew that pursuit would be risky, + The priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his head + That was labelled '_MAGINNIS'S WHISKY_'! + + And Maginnis Magee has been made a J.P., + And the one thing he hates more than sin is + To be asked by the folk, who have heard of the joke, + How he came to be christened 'Maginnis'! + + + + +How the Favourite Beat Us + + + + 'Aye,' said the boozer, 'I tell you it's true, sir, + I once was a punter with plenty of pelf, + But gone is my glory, I'll tell you the story + How I stiffened my horse and got stiffened myself. + + ''Twas a mare called the Cracker, I came down to back her, + But found she was favourite all of a rush, + The folk just did pour on to lay six to four on, + And several bookies were killed in the crush. + + 'It seems old Tomato was stiff, though a starter; + They reckoned him fit for the Caulfield to keep. + The Bloke and the Donah were scratched by their owner, + He only was offered three-fourths of the sweep. + + 'We knew Salamander was slow as a gander, + The mare could have beat him the length of the straight, + And old Manumission was out of condition, + And most of the others were running off weight. + + 'No doubt someone 'blew it', for everyone knew it, + The bets were all gone, and I muttered in spite + 'If I can't get a copper, by Jingo, I'll stop her, + Let the public fall in, it will serve the brutes right.' + + 'I said to the jockey, 'Now, listen, my cocky, + You watch as you're cantering down by the stand, + I'll wait where that toff is and give you the office, + You're only to win if I lift up my hand.' + + 'I then tried to back her -- 'What price is the Cracker?' + 'Our books are all full, sir,' each bookie did swear; + My mind, then, I made up, my fortune I played up + I bet every shilling against my own mare. + + 'I strolled to the gateway, the mare in the straightway + Was shifting and dancing, and pawing the ground, + The boy saw me enter and wheeled for his canter, + When a darned great mosquito came buzzing around. + + 'They breed 'em at Hexham, it's risky to vex 'em, + They suck a man dry at a sitting, no doubt, + But just as the mare passed, he fluttered my hair past, + I lifted my hand, and I flattened him out. + + 'I was stunned when they started, the mare simply darted + Away to the front when the flag was let fall, + For none there could match her, and none tried to catch her -- + She finished a furlong in front of them all. + + 'You bet that I went for the boy, whom I sent for + The moment he weighed and came out of the stand -- + 'Who paid you to win it? Come, own up this minute.' + 'Lord love yer,' said he, 'why you lifted your hand.' + + ''Twas true, by St. Peter, that cursed 'muskeeter' + Had broke me so broke that I hadn't a brown, + And you'll find the best course is when dealing with horses + To win when you're able, and _KEEP YOUR HANDS DOWN_. + + + + +The Great Calamity + + + + MacFierce'un came to Whiskeyhurst + When summer days were hot, + And bided there wi' Jock McThirst, + A brawny brother Scot. + Gude Faith! They made the whisky fly, + Like Highland chieftains true, + And when they'd drunk the beaker dry + They sang 'We are nae fou!' + + 'There is nae folk like oor ain folk, + Sae gallant and sae true.' + They sang the only Scottish joke + Which is, 'We are nae fou.' + + Said bold McThirst, 'Let Saxons jaw + Aboot their great concerns, + But bonny Scotland beats them a', + The land o' cakes and Burns, + The land o' partridge, deer, and grouse, + Fill up your glass, I beg, + There's muckle whusky i' the house, + Forbye what's in the keg.' + + And here a hearty laugh he laughed, + 'Just come wi' me, I beg.' + MacFierce'un saw with pleasure daft + A fifty-gallon keg. + + 'Losh, man, that's grand,' MacFierce'un cried, + 'Saw ever man the like, + Now, wi' the daylight, I maun ride + To meet a Southron tyke, + But I'll be back ere summer's gone, + So bide for me, I beg, + We'll make a grand assault upon + Yon deevil of a keg.' + + . . . . . + + MacFierce'un rode to Whiskeyhurst, + When summer days were gone, + And there he met with Jock McThirst + Was greetin' all alone. + 'McThirst what gars ye look sae blank? + Have all yer wits gane daft? + Has that accursed Southron bank + Called up your overdraft? + Is all your grass burnt up wi' drouth? + Is wool and hides gone flat?' + McThirst replied, 'Gude friend, in truth, + 'Tis muckle waur than that.' + + 'Has sair misfortune cursed your life + That you should weep sae free? + Is harm upon your bonny wife, + The children at your knee? + Is scaith upon your house and hame?' + McThirst upraised his head: + 'My bairns hae done the deed of shame -- + 'Twere better they were dead. + + 'To think my bonny infant son + Should do the deed o' guilt -- + _HE LET THE WHUSKEY SPIGOT RUN, + AND A' THE WHUSKEY'S SPILT!_' + + . . . . . + + Upon them both these words did bring + A solemn silence deep, + Gude faith, it is a fearsome thing + To see two strong men weep. + + + + +Come-by-Chance + + + + As I pondered very weary o'er a volume long and dreary -- + For the plot was void of interest -- 'twas the Postal Guide, in fact, + There I learnt the true location, distance, size, and population + Of each township, town, and village in the radius of the Act. + + And I learnt that Puckawidgee stands beside the Murrumbidgee, + And that Booleroi and Bumble get their letters twice a year, + Also that the post inspector, when he visited Collector, + Closed the office up instanter, and re-opened Dungalear. + + But my languid mood forsook me, when I found a name that took me, + Quite by chance I came across it -- 'Come-by-Chance' was what I read; + No location was assigned it, not a thing to help one find it, + Just an N which stood for northward, and the rest was all unsaid. + + I shall leave my home, and forthward wander stoutly to the northward + Till I come by chance across it, and I'll straightway settle down, + For there can't be any hurry, nor the slightest cause for worry + Where the telegraph don't reach you nor the railways run to town. + + And one's letters and exchanges come by chance across the ranges, + Where a wiry young Australian leads a pack-horse once a week, + And the good news grows by keeping, and you're spared the pain of weeping + Over bad news when the mailman drops the letters in the creek. + + But I fear, and more's the pity, that there's really no such city, + For there's not a man can find it of the shrewdest folk I know, + 'Come-by-chance', be sure it never means a land of fierce endeavour, + It is just the careless country where the dreamers only go. + + . . . . . + + Though we work and toil and hustle in our life of haste and bustle, + All that makes our life worth living comes unstriven for and free; + Man may weary and importune, but the fickle goddess Fortune + Deals him out his pain or pleasure, careless what his worth may be. + + All the happy times entrancing, days of sport and nights of dancing, + Moonlit rides and stolen kisses, pouting lips and loving glance: + When you think of these be certain you have looked behind the curtain, + You have had the luck to linger just a while in 'Come-by-chance'. + + + + +Under the Shadow of Kiley's Hill + + + + This is the place where they all were bred; + Some of the rafters are standing still; + Now they are scattered and lost and dead, + Every one from the old nest fled, + Out of the shadow of Kiley's Hill. + + Better it is that they ne'er came back -- + Changes and chances are quickly rung; + Now the old homestead is gone to rack, + Green is the grass on the well-worn track + Down by the gate where the roses clung. + + Gone is the garden they kept with care; + Left to decay at its own sweet will, + Fruit trees and flower beds eaten bare, + Cattle and sheep where the roses were, + Under the shadow of Kiley's Hill. + + Where are the children that throve and grew + In the old homestead in days gone by? + One is away on the far Barcoo + Watching his cattle the long year through, + Watching them starve in the droughts and die. + + One in the town where all cares are rife, + Weary with troubles that cramp and kill, + Fain would be done with the restless strife, + Fain would go back to the old bush life, + Back to the shadow of Kiley's Hill. + + One is away on the roving quest, + Seeking his share of the golden spoil, + Out in the wastes of the trackless west, + Wandering ever he gives the best + Of his years and strength to the hopeless toil. + + What of the parents? That unkept mound + Shows where they slumber united still; + Rough is their grave, but they sleep as sound + Out on the range as on holy ground, + Under the shadow of Kiley's Hill. + + + + +Jim Carew + + + + Born of a thoroughbred English race, + Well proportioned and closely knit, + Neat of figure and handsome face, + Always ready and always fit, + Hard and wiry of limb and thew, + That was the ne'er-do-well Jim Carew. + + One of the sons of the good old land -- + Many a year since his like was known; + Never a game but he took command, + Never a sport but he held his own; + Gained at his college a triple blue -- + Good as they make them was Jim Carew. + + Came to grief -- was it card or horse? + Nobody asked and nobody cared; + Ship him away to the bush of course, + Ne'er-do-well fellows are easily spared; + Only of women a tolerable few + Sorrowed at parting with Jim Carew. + + Gentleman Jim on the cattle camp, + Sitting his horse with an easy grace; + But the reckless living has left its stamp + In the deep drawn lines of that handsome face, + And a harder look in those eyes of blue: + Prompt at a quarrel is Jim Carew. + + Billy the Lasher was out for gore -- + Twelve-stone navvy with chest of hair, + When he opened out with a hungry roar + On a ten-stone man it was hardly fair; + But his wife was wise if his face she knew + By the time you were done with him, Jim Carew. + + Gentleman Jim in the stockmen's hut + Works with them, toils with them, side by side; + As to his past -- well, his lips are shut. + 'Gentleman once,' say his mates with pride; + And the wildest Cornstalk can ne'er outdo + In feats of recklessness, Jim Carew. + + What should he live for? A dull despair! + Drink is his master and drags him down, + Water of Lethe that drowns all care. + Gentleman Jim has a lot to drown, + And he reigns as king with a drunken crew, + Sinking to misery, Jim Carew. + + Such is the end of the ne'er-do-well -- + Jimmy the Boozer, all down at heel; + But he straightens up when he's asked to tell + His name and race, and a flash of steel + Still lightens up in those eyes of blue -- + 'I am, or -- no, I _WAS_ -- Jim Carew.' + + + + +The Swagman's Rest + + + + We buried old Bob where the bloodwoods wave + At the foot of the Eaglehawk; + We fashioned a cross on the old man's grave, + For fear that his ghost might walk; + We carved his name on a bloodwood tree, + With the date of his sad decease, + And in place of 'Died from effects of spree', + We wrote 'May he rest in peace'. + + For Bob was known on the Overland, + A regular old bush wag, + Tramping along in the dust and sand, + Humping his well-worn swag. + He would camp for days in the river-bed, + And loiter and 'fish for whales'. + 'I'm into the swagman's yard,' he said, + 'And I never shall find the rails.' + + But he found the rails on that summer night + For a better place -- or worse, + As we watched by turns in the flickering light + With an old black gin for nurse. + The breeze came in with the scent of pine, + The river sounded clear, + When a change came on, and we saw the sign + That told us the end was near. + + But he spoke in a cultured voice and low -- + 'I fancy they've “sent the route”; + I once was an army man, you know, + Though now I'm a drunken brute; + But bury me out where the bloodwoods wave, + And if ever you're fairly stuck, + Just take and shovel me out of the grave + And, maybe, I'll bring you luck. + + 'For I've always heard --' here his voice fell weak, + His strength was well-nigh sped, + He gasped and struggled and tried to speak, + Then fell in a moment -- dead. + Thus ended a wasted life and hard, + Of energies misapplied -- + Old Bob was out of the 'swagman's yard' + And over the Great Divide. + + . . . . . + + The drought came down on the field and flock, + And never a raindrop fell, + Though the tortured moans of the starving stock + Might soften a fiend from hell. + And we thought of the hint that the swagman gave + When he went to the Great Unseen -- + We shovelled the skeleton out of the grave + To see what his hint might mean. + + We dug where the cross and the grave posts were, + We shovelled away the mould, + When sudden a vein of quartz lay bare + All gleaming with yellow gold. + 'Twas a reef with never a fault nor baulk + That ran from the range's crest, + And the richest mine on the Eaglehawk + Is known as 'The Swagman's Rest'. + + + [The End.] + + + + + +[From the section of Advertisements at the end of the 1911 printing.] + + +THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER, AND OTHER VERSES. + + By A. B. Paterson. + +THE LITERARY YEAR BOOK: “The immediate success of this +book of bush ballads is without parallel in Colonial literary annals, +nor can any living English or American poet boast so wide a public, +always excepting Mr. Rudyard Kipling.” + +SPECTATOR: “These lines have the true lyrical cry in them. +Eloquent and ardent verses.” + +ATHENAEUM: “Swinging, rattling ballads of ready humour, ready pathos, +and crowding adventure. ... Stirring and entertaining ballads +about great rides, in which the lines gallop like the very hoofs +of the horses.” + +THE TIMES: “At his best he compares not unfavourably with the author +of 'Barrack-Room Ballads'.” + +Mr. A. Patchett Martin, in LITERATURE (London): “In my opinion, +it is the absolutely un-English, thoroughly Australian style and character +of these new bush bards which has given them such immediate popularity, +such wide vogue, among all classes of the rising native generation.” + +WESTMINSTER GAZETTE: “Australia has produced in Mr. A. B. Paterson +a national poet whose bush ballads are as distinctly characteristic +of the country as Burns's poetry is characteristic of Scotland.” + +THE SCOTSMAN: “A book like this... is worth a dozen of the aspiring, +idealistic sort, since it has a deal of rough laughter +and a dash of real tears in its composition.” + +GLASGOW HERALD: “These ballads... are full of such go +that the mere reading of them make the blood tingle.... +But there are other things in Mr. Paterson's book besides +mere racing and chasing, and each piece bears the mark +of special local knowledge, feeling, and colour. +The poet has also a note of pathos, which is always wholesome.” + +LITERARY WORLD: “He gallops along with a by no means doubtful music, +shouting his vigorous songs as he rides in pursuit of wild bush horses, +constraining us to listen and applaud by dint of his manly tones +and capital subjects... We turn to Mr. Paterson's roaring muse +with instantaneous gratitude.” + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Man from Snowy River, by +Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER *** + +***** This file should be named 213-0.txt or 213-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/1/213/ + +Produced by A. Light, and Sheridan Ash + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/213-0.zip b/213-0.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..39b2841 --- /dev/null +++ b/213-0.zip diff --git a/213-h.zip b/213-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..b4e8bcb --- /dev/null +++ b/213-h.zip diff --git a/213-h/213-h.htm b/213-h/213-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..90cc5ef --- /dev/null +++ b/213-h/213-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4610 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses, by Andrew Barton 'banjo' + Paterson + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Man from Snowy River, by +Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Man from Snowy River + +Author: Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson + +Release Date: July 11, 2008 [EBook #213] +Last Updated: March 9, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER *** + + + + +Produced by A. Light, Sheridan Ash, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + + <p> + <br /><br />< + </p> + <h1> + THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER AND OTHER VERSES + </h1> + <h3> + (Second edition) + </h3> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + by Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson + </h2> + <h4> + [Australian Poet, Reporter — 1864-1941.] + </h4> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + [Note on content: Banjo Paterson and Henry Lawson were writing for the + Sydney 'Bulletin' in 1892 when Lawson suggested a 'duel' of poetry to + increase the number of poems they could sell to the paper. It was + apparently entered into in all fun, though there are reports that Lawson + was bitter about it later. 'In Defence of the Bush', included in this + selection, was one of Paterson's replies to Lawson.] + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p> + [The 1913 printing (Sydney, Fifty-third Thousand) of the Second Edition + (first published in 1902) was used in the preparation of this etext. First + edition was first published in 1895.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER AND OTHER VERSES + </h2> + <h3> + by A. B. Paterson (“The Banjo”) + </h3> + <h3> + with preface by Rolf Boldrewood + </h3> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Preface + </h2> + <p> + It is not so easy to write ballads descriptive of the bushland of + Australia as on light consideration would appear. Reasonably good verse on + the subject has been supplied in sufficient quantity. But the maker of + folksongs for our newborn nation requires a somewhat rare combination of + gifts and experiences. Dowered with the poet's heart, he must yet have + passed his 'wander-jaehre' amid the stern solitude of the Austral waste + — must have ridden the race in the back-block township, guided the + reckless stock-horse adown the mountain spur, and followed the night-long + moving, spectral-seeming herd 'in the droving days'. Amid such scarce + congenial surroundings comes oft that finer sense which renders visible + bright gleams of humour, pathos, and romance, which, like undiscovered + gold, await the fortunate adventurer. That the author has touched this + treasure-trove, not less delicately than distinctly, no true Australian + will deny. In my opinion this collection comprises the best bush ballads + written since the death of Lindsay Gordon. + </p> + <p> + Rolf Boldrewood + </p> + <p> + A number of these verses are now published for the first time, most of the + others were written for and appeared in “The Bulletin” (Sydney, N.S.W.), + and are therefore already widely known to readers in Australasia. + </p> + <p> + A. B. Paterson + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Prelude + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I have gathered these stories afar, + In the wind and the rain, + In the land where the cattle camps are, + On the edge of the plain. + On the overland routes of the west, + When the watches were long, + I have fashioned in earnest and jest + These fragments of song. + + They are just the rude stories one hears + In sadness and mirth, + The records of wandering years, + And scant is their worth + Though their merits indeed are but slight, + I shall not repine, + If they give you one moment's delight, + Old comrades of mine. +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PREF"> Preface </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> Prelude </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_TOC"> Contents with First Lines: </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> <b>THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER AND OTHER VERSES</b> + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> The Man from Snowy River </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> Old Pardon, the Son of Reprieve </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> Clancy of the Overflow </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> Conroy's Gap </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> Our New Horse </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> An Idyll of Dandaloo </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> The Geebung Polo Club </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> The Travelling Post Office </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> Saltbush Bill </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> A Mountain Station </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> Been There Before </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> The Man Who Was Away </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> The Man from Ironbark </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> The Open Steeplechase </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> The Amateur Rider </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> On Kiley's Run </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> Frying Pan's Theology </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> The Two Devines </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> In the Droving Days </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> Lost </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> Over the Range </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> Only a Jockey </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> How M'Ginnis Went Missing </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> A Voice from the Town </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> A Bunch of Roses </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> Black Swans </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> The All Right 'Un </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> The Boss of the 'Admiral Lynch' </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> A Bushman's Song </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> How Gilbert Died </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> The Flying Gang </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> Shearing at Castlereagh </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> The Wind's Message </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> Johnson's Antidote </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> Ambition and Art </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> The Daylight is Dying </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> In Defence of the Bush </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> Last Week </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> Those Names </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0044"> A Bush Christening </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0045"> How the Favourite Beat Us </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0046"> The Great Calamity </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0047"> Come-by-Chance </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0048"> Under the Shadow of Kiley's Hill </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0049"> Jim Carew </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0050"> The Swagman's Rest </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0051"> [From the section of Advertisements at the end + of the 1911 printing.] </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_TOC" id="link2H_TOC"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Contents with First Lines: + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Prelude + I have gathered these stories afar, + + The Man from Snowy River + There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around + + Old Pardon, the Son of Reprieve + You never heard tell of the story? + + Clancy of the Overflow + I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better + + Conroy's Gap + This was the way of it, don't you know — + + Our New Horse + The boys had come back from the races + + An Idyll of Dandaloo + On Western plains, where shade is not, + + The Geebung Polo Club + It was somewhere up the country, in a land of rock and scrub, + + The Travelling Post Office + The roving breezes come and go, the reed beds sweep and sway, + + Saltbush Bill + Now this is the law of the Overland that all in the West obey, + + A Mountain Station + I bought a run a while ago, + + Been There Before + There came a stranger to Walgett town, + + The Man Who Was Away + The widow sought the lawyer's room with children three in tow, + + The Man from Ironbark + It was the man from Ironbark who struck the Sydney town, + + The Open Steeplechase + I had ridden over hurdles up the country once or twice, + + The Amateur Rider + <i>HIM</i> going to ride for us! <i>HIM</i> — + with the pants and the eyeglass and all. + + On Kiley's Run + The roving breezes come and go + + Frying Pan's Theology + Scene: On Monaro. + + The Two Devines + It was shearing-time at the Myall Lake, + + In the Droving Days + 'Only a pound,' said the auctioneer, + + Lost + 'He ought to be home,' said the old man, + 'without there's something amiss. + + Over the Range + Little bush maiden, wondering-eyed, + + Only a Jockey + Out in the grey cheerless chill of the morning light, + + How M'Ginnis Went Missing + Let us cease our idle chatter, + + A Voice from the Town + I thought, in the days of the droving, + + A Bunch of Roses + Roses ruddy and roses white, + + Black Swans + As I lie at rest on a patch of clover + + The All Right 'Un + He came from 'further out', + + The Boss of the 'Admiral Lynch' + Did you ever hear tell of Chili? I was readin' the other day + + A Bushman's Song + I'm travellin' down the Castlereagh, and I'm a station hand, + + How Gilbert Died + There's never a stone at the sleeper's head, + + The Flying Gang + I served my time, in the days gone by, + + Shearing at Castlereagh + The bell is set a-ringing, and the engine gives a toot, + + The Wind's Message + There came a whisper down the Bland between the dawn and dark, + + Johnson's Antidote + Down along the Snakebite River, where the overlanders camp, + + Ambition and Art + I am the maid of the lustrous eyes + + The Daylight is Dying + The daylight is dying + + In Defence of the Bush + So you're back from up the country, Mister Townsman, where you went, + + Last Week + Oh, the new-chum went to the back block run, + + Those Names + The shearers sat in the firelight, hearty and hale and strong, + + A Bush Christening + On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few, + + How the Favourite Beat Us + 'Aye,' said the boozer, 'I tell you it's true, sir, + + The Great Calamity + MacFierce'un came to Whiskeyhurst + + Come-by-Chance + As I pondered very weary o'er a volume long and dreary — + + Under the Shadow of Kiley's Hill + This is the place where they all were bred; + + Jim Carew + Born of a thoroughbred English race, + + The Swagman's Rest + We buried old Bob where the bloodwoods wave +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h1> + THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER AND OTHER VERSES + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Man from Snowy River + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around + That the colt from old Regret had got away, + And had joined the wild bush horses — he was worth a thousand pound, + So all the cracks had gathered to the fray. + All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far + Had mustered at the homestead overnight, + For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are, + And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight. + + There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup, + The old man with his hair as white as snow; + But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up — + He would go wherever horse and man could go. + And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand, + No better horseman ever held the reins; + For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand, + He learnt to ride while droving on the plains. + + And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast, + He was something like a racehorse undersized, + With a touch of Timor pony — three parts thoroughbred at least — + And such as are by mountain horsemen prized. + He was hard and tough and wiry — just the sort that won't say die — + There was courage in his quick impatient tread; + And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye, + And the proud and lofty carriage of his head. + + But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay, + And the old man said, 'That horse will never do + For a long and tiring gallop — lad, you'd better stop away, + Those hills are far too rough for such as you.' + So he waited sad and wistful — only Clancy stood his friend — + 'I think we ought to let him come,' he said; + 'I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end, + For both his horse and he are mountain bred. + + 'He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side, + Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough, + Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride, + The man that holds his own is good enough. + And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home, + Where the river runs those giant hills between; + I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam, + But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen.' + + So he went — they found the horses by the big mimosa clump — + They raced away towards the mountain's brow, + And the old man gave his orders, 'Boys, go at them from the jump, + No use to try for fancy riding now. + And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right. + Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills, + For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight, + If once they gain the shelter of those hills.' + + So Clancy rode to wheel them — he was racing on the wing + Where the best and boldest riders take their place, + And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring + With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face. + Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash, + But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view, + And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash, + And off into the mountain scrub they flew. + + Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black + Resounded to the thunder of their tread, + And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back + From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead. + And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way, + Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide; + And the old man muttered fiercely, 'We may bid the mob good day, + <i>NO</i> man can hold them down the other side.' + + When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull, + It well might make the boldest hold their breath, + The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full + Of wombat holes, and any slip was death. + But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head, + And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer, + And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed, + While the others stood and watched in very fear. + + He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet, + He cleared the fallen timber in his stride, + And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat — + It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride. + Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground, + Down the hillside at a racing pace he went; + And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound, + At the bottom of that terrible descent. + + He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill, + And the watchers on the mountain standing mute, + Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still, + As he raced across the clearing in pursuit. + Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met + In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals + On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet, + With the man from Snowy River at their heels. + + And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam. + He followed like a bloodhound on their track, + Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home, + And alone and unassisted brought them back. + But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot, + He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur; + But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot, + For never yet was mountain horse a cur. + + And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise + Their torn and rugged battlements on high, + Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze + At midnight in the cold and frosty sky, + And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway + To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide, + The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day, + And the stockmen tell the story of his ride. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Old Pardon, the Son of Reprieve + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You never heard tell of the story? + Well, now, I can hardly believe! + Never heard of the honour and glory + Of Pardon, the son of Reprieve? + But maybe you're only a Johnnie + And don't know a horse from a hoe? + Well, well, don't get angry, my sonny, + But, really, a young un should know. + + They bred him out back on the 'Never', + His mother was Mameluke breed. + To the front — and then stay there — was ever + The root of the Mameluke creed. + He seemed to inherit their wiry + Strong frames — and their pluck to receive — + As hard as a flint and as fiery + Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve. + + We ran him at many a meeting + At crossing and gully and town, + And nothing could give him a beating — + At least when our money was down. + For weight wouldn't stop him, nor distance, + Nor odds, though the others were fast, + He'd race with a dogged persistence, + And wear them all down at the last. + + At the Turon the Yattendon filly + Led by lengths at the mile-and-a-half, + And we all began to look silly, + While <i>HER</i> crowd were starting to laugh; + But the old horse came faster and faster, + His pluck told its tale, and his strength, + He gained on her, caught her, and passed her, + And won it, hands-down, by a length. + + And then we swooped down on Menindie + To run for the President's Cup — + Oh! that's a sweet township — a shindy + To them is board, lodging, and sup. + Eye-openers they are, and their system + Is never to suffer defeat; + It's 'win, tie, or wrangle' — to best 'em + You must lose 'em, or else it's 'dead heat'. + + We strolled down the township and found 'em + At drinking and gaming and play; + If sorrows they had, why they drowned 'em, + And betting was soon under way. + Their horses were good 'uns and fit 'uns, + There was plenty of cash in the town; + They backed their own horses like Britons, + And, Lord! how <i>WE</i> rattled it down! + + With gladness we thought of the morrow, + We counted our wagers with glee, + A simile homely to borrow — + 'There was plenty of milk in our tea.' + You see we were green; and we never + Had even a thought of foul play, + Though we well might have known that the clever + Division would 'put us away'. + + Experience 'docet', they tell us, + At least so I've frequently heard, + But, 'dosing' or 'stuffing', those fellows + Were up to each move on the board: + They got to his stall — it is sinful + To think what such villains would do — + And they gave him a regular skinful + Of barley — green barley — to chew. + + He munched it all night, and we found him + Next morning as full as a hog — + The girths wouldn't nearly meet round him; + He looked like an overfed frog. + We saw we were done like a dinner — + The odds were a thousand to one + Against Pardon turning up winner, + 'Twas cruel to ask him to run. + + We got to the course with our troubles, + A crestfallen couple were we; + And we heard the 'books' calling the doubles — + A roar like the surf of the sea; + And over the tumult and louder + Rang 'Any price Pardon, I lay!' + Says Jimmy, 'The children of Judah + Are out on the warpath to-day.' + + Three miles in three heats: — Ah, my sonny, + The horses in those days were stout, + They had to run well to win money; + I don't see such horses about. + Your six-furlong vermin that scamper + Half-a-mile with their feather-weight up; + They wouldn't earn much of their damper + In a race like the President's Cup. + + The first heat was soon set a-going; + The Dancer went off to the front; + The Don on his quarters was showing, + With Pardon right out of the hunt. + He rolled and he weltered and wallowed — + You'd kick your hat faster, I'll bet; + They finished all bunched, and he followed + All lathered and dripping with sweat. + + But troubles came thicker upon us, + For while we were rubbing him dry + The stewards came over to warn us: + 'We hear you are running a bye! + If Pardon don't spiel like tarnation + And win the next heat — if he can — + He'll earn a disqualification; + Just think over <i>THAT</i>, now, my man!' + + Our money all gone and our credit, + Our horse couldn't gallop a yard; + And then people thought that <i>WE</i> did it! + It really was terribly hard. + We were objects of mirth and derision + To folk in the lawn and the stand, + And the yells of the clever division + Of 'Any price Pardon!' were grand. + + We still had a chance for the money, + Two heats still remained to be run; + If both fell to us — why, my sonny, + The clever division were done. + And Pardon was better, we reckoned, + His sickness was passing away, + So he went to the post for the second + And principal heat of the day. + + They're off and away with a rattle, + Like dogs from the leashes let slip, + And right at the back of the battle + He followed them under the whip. + They gained ten good lengths on him quickly + He dropped right away from the pack; + I tell you it made me feel sickly + To see the blue jacket fall back. + + Our very last hope had departed — + We thought the old fellow was done, + When all of a sudden he started + To go like a shot from a gun. + His chances seemed slight to embolden + Our hearts; but, with teeth firmly set, + We thought, 'Now or never! The old 'un + May reckon with some of 'em yet.' + + Then loud rose the war-cry for Pardon; + He swept like the wind down the dip, + And over the rise by the garden, + The jockey was done with the whip + The field were at sixes and sevens — + The pace at the first had been fast — + And hope seemed to drop from the heavens, + For Pardon was coming at last. + + And how he did come! It was splendid; + He gained on them yards every bound, + Stretching out like a greyhound extended, + His girth laid right down on the ground. + A shimmer of silk in the cedars + As into the running they wheeled, + And out flashed the whips on the leaders, + For Pardon had collared the field. + + Then right through the ruck he came sailing — + I knew that the battle was won — + The son of Haphazard was failing, + The Yattendon filly was done; + He cut down the Don and the Dancer, + He raced clean away from the mare — + He's in front! Catch him now if you can, sir! + And up went my hat in the air! + + Then loud from the lawn and the garden + Rose offers of 'Ten to one <i>ON!</i>' + 'Who'll bet on the field? I back Pardon!' + No use; all the money was gone. + He came for the third heat light-hearted, + A-jumping and dancing about; + The others were done ere they started + Crestfallen, and tired, and worn out. + + He won it, and ran it much faster + Than even the first, I believe + Oh, he was the daddy, the master, + Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve. + He showed 'em the method to travel — + The boy sat as still as a stone — + They never could see him for gravel; + He came in hard-held, and alone. + + . . . . . + + But he's old — and his eyes are grown hollow; + Like me, with my thatch of the snow; + When he dies, then I hope I may follow, + And go where the racehorses go. + I don't want no harping nor singing — + Such things with my style don't agree; + Where the hoofs of the horses are ringing + There's music sufficient for me. + + And surely the thoroughbred horses + Will rise up again and begin + Fresh races on far-away courses, + And p'raps they might let me slip in. + It would look rather well the race-card on + 'Mongst Cherubs and Seraphs and things, + 'Angel Harrison's black gelding Pardon, + Blue halo, white body and wings.' + + And if they have racing hereafter, + (And who is to say they will not?) + When the cheers and the shouting and laughter + Proclaim that the battle grows hot; + As they come down the racecourse a-steering, + He'll rush to the front, I believe; + And you'll hear the great multitude cheering + For Pardon, the son of Reprieve. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Clancy of the Overflow + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better + Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago, + He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him, + Just 'on spec', addressed as follows, 'Clancy, of The Overflow'. + + And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected, + (And I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar) + 'Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it: + 'Clancy's gone to Queensland droving, and we don't know where he are.' + + . . . . . + + In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy + Gone a-droving 'down the Cooper' where the Western drovers go; + As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing, + For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know. + + And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him + In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars, + And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended, + And at night the wond'rous glory of the everlasting stars. + + . . . . . + + I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy + Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall, + And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city + Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all + + And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle + Of the tramways and the 'buses making hurry down the street, + And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting, + Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet. + + And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me + As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste, + With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy, + For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste. + + And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy, + Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go, + While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal — + But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of 'The Overflow'. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Conroy's Gap + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + This was the way of it, don't you know — + Ryan was 'wanted' for stealing sheep, + And never a trooper, high or low, + Could find him — catch a weasel asleep! + Till Trooper Scott, from the Stockman's Ford — + A bushman, too, as I've heard them tell — + Chanced to find him drunk as a lord + Round at the Shadow of Death Hotel. + + D'you know the place? It's a wayside inn, + A low grog-shanty — a bushman trap, + Hiding away in its shame and sin + Under the shelter of Conroy's Gap — + Under the shade of that frowning range, + The roughest crowd that ever drew breath — + Thieves and rowdies, uncouth and strange, + Were mustered round at the Shadow of Death. + + The trooper knew that his man would slide + Like a dingo pup, if he saw the chance; + And with half a start on the mountain side + Ryan would lead him a merry dance. + Drunk as he was when the trooper came, + To him that did not matter a rap — + Drunk or sober, he was the same, + The boldest rider in Conroy's Gap. + + 'I want you, Ryan,' the trooper said, + 'And listen to me, if you dare resist, + So help me heaven, I'll shoot you dead!' + He snapped the steel on his prisoner's wrist, + And Ryan, hearing the handcuffs click, + Recovered his wits as they turned to go, + For fright will sober a man as quick + As all the drugs that the doctors know. + + There was a girl in that rough bar + Went by the name of Kate Carew, + Quiet and shy as the bush girls are, + But ready-witted and plucky, too. + She loved this Ryan, or so they say, + And passing by, while her eyes were dim + With tears, she said in a careless way, + 'The Swagman's round in the stable, Jim.' + + Spoken too low for the trooper's ear, + Why should she care if he heard or not? + Plenty of swagmen far and near, + And yet to Ryan it meant a lot. + That was the name of the grandest horse + In all the district from east to west + In every show ring, on every course + They always counted the Swagman best. + + He was a wonder, a raking bay — + One of the grand old Snowdon strain — + One of the sort that could race and stay + With his mighty limbs and his length of rein. + Born and bred on the mountain side, + He could race through scrub like a kangaroo, + The girl herself on his back might ride, + And the Swagman would carry her safely through. + + He would travel gaily from daylight's flush + Till after the stars hung out their lamps, + There was never his like in the open bush, + And never his match on the cattle-camps. + For faster horses might well be found + On racing tracks, or a plain's extent, + But few, if any, on broken ground + Could see the way that the Swagman went. + + When this girl's father, old Jim Carew, + Was droving out on the Castlereagh + With Conroy's cattle, a wire came through + To say that his wife couldn't live the day. + And he was a hundred miles from home, + As flies the crow, with never a track, + Through plains as pathless as ocean's foam, + He mounted straight on the Swagman's back. + + He left the camp by the sundown light, + And the settlers out on the Marthaguy + Awoke and heard, in the dead of night, + A single horseman hurrying by. + He crossed the Bogan at Dandaloo, + And many a mile of the silent plain + That lonely rider behind him threw + Before they settled to sleep again. + + He rode all night and he steered his course + By the shining stars with a bushman's skill, + And every time that he pressed his horse + The Swagman answered him gamely still. + He neared his home as the east was bright, + The doctor met him outside the town: + 'Carew! How far did you come last night?' + 'A hundred miles since the sun went down.' + + And his wife got round, and an oath he passed, + So long as he or one of his breed + Could raise a coin, though it took their last + The Swagman never should want a feed. + And Kate Carew, when her father died, + She kept the horse and she kept him well: + The pride of the district far and wide, + He lived in style at the bush hotel. + + Such was the Swagman; and Ryan knew + Nothing about could pace the crack; + Little he'd care for the man in blue + If once he got on the Swagman's back. + But how to do it? A word let fall + Gave him the hint as the girl passed by; + Nothing but 'Swagman — stable-wall; + 'Go to the stable and mind your eye.' + + He caught her meaning, and quickly turned + To the trooper: 'Reckon you'll gain a stripe + By arresting me, and it's easily earned; + Let's go to the stable and get my pipe, + The Swagman has it.' So off they went, + And soon as ever they turned their backs + The girl slipped down, on some errand bent + Behind the stable, and seized an axe. + + The trooper stood at the stable door + While Ryan went in quite cool and slow, + And then (the trick had been played before) + The girl outside gave the wall a blow. + Three slabs fell out of the stable wall — + 'Twas done 'fore ever the trooper knew — + And Ryan, as soon as he saw them fall, + Mounted the Swagman and rushed him through. + + The trooper heard the hoof-beats ring + In the stable yard, and he slammed the gate, + But the Swagman rose with a mighty spring + At the fence, and the trooper fired too late, + As they raced away and his shots flew wide + And Ryan no longer need care a rap, + For never a horse that was lapped in hide + Could catch the Swagman in Conroy's Gap. + + And that's the story. You want to know + If Ryan came back to his Kate Carew; + Of course he should have, as stories go, + But the worst of it is, this story's true: + And in real life it's a certain rule, + Whatever poets and authors say + Of high-toned robbers and all their school, + These horsethief fellows aren't built that way. + + Come back! Don't hope it — the slinking hound, + He sloped across to the Queensland side, + And sold the Swagman for fifty pound, + And stole the money, and more beside. + And took to drink, and by some good chance + Was killed — thrown out of a stolen trap. + And that was the end of this small romance, + The end of the story of Conroy's Gap. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Our New Horse + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The boys had come back from the races + All silent and down on their luck; + They'd backed 'em, straight out and for places, + But never a winner they struck. + They lost their good money on Slogan, + And fell, most uncommonly flat, + When Partner, the pride of the Bogan, + Was beaten by Aristocrat. + + And one said, 'I move that instanter + We sell out our horses and quit, + The brutes ought to win in a canter, + Such trials they do when they're fit. + The last one they ran was a snorter — + A gallop to gladden one's heart — + Two-twelve for a mile and a quarter, + And finished as straight as a dart. + + 'And then when I think that they're ready + To win me a nice little swag, + They are licked like the veriest neddy — + They're licked from the fall of the flag. + The mare held her own to the stable, + She died out to nothing at that, + And Partner he never seemed able + To pace it with Aristocrat. + + 'And times have been bad, and the seasons + Don't promise to be of the best; + In short, boys, there's plenty of reasons + For giving the racing a rest. + The mare can be kept on the station — + Her breeding is good as can be — + But Partner, his next destination + Is rather a trouble to me. + + 'We can't sell him here, for they know him + As well as the clerk of the course; + He's raced and won races till, blow him, + He's done as a handicap horse. + A jady, uncertain performer, + They weight him right out of the hunt, + And clap it on warmer and warmer + Whenever he gets near the front. + + 'It's no use to paint him or dot him + Or put any 'fake' on his brand, + For bushmen are smart, and they'd spot him + In any sale-yard in the land. + The folk about here could all tell him, + Could swear to each separate hair; + Let us send him to Sydney and sell him, + There's plenty of Jugginses there. + + 'We'll call him a maiden, and treat 'em + To trials will open their eyes, + We'll run their best horses and beat 'em, + And then won't they think him a prize. + I pity the fellow that buys him, + He'll find in a very short space, + No matter how highly he tries him, + The beggar won't <i>RACE</i> in a race.' + + . . . . . + + Next week, under 'Seller and Buyer', + Appeared in the <i>DAILY GAZETTE</i>: + 'A racehorse for sale, and a flyer; + Has never been started as yet; + A trial will show what his pace is; + The buyer can get him in light, + And win all the handicap races. + Apply here before Wednesday night.' + + He sold for a hundred and thirty, + Because of a gallop he had + One morning with Bluefish and Bertie, + And donkey-licked both of 'em bad. + And when the old horse had departed, + The life on the station grew tame; + The race-track was dull and deserted, + The boys had gone back on the game. + + . . . . . + + The winter rolled by, and the station + Was green with the garland of spring + A spirit of glad exultation + Awoke in each animate thing. + And all the old love, the old longing, + Broke out in the breasts of the boys, + The visions of racing came thronging + With all its delirious joys. + + The rushing of floods in their courses, + The rattle of rain on the roofs + Recalled the fierce rush of the horses, + The thunder of galloping hoofs. + And soon one broke out: 'I can suffer + No longer the life of a slug, + The man that don't race is a duffer, + Let's have one more run for the mug. + + 'Why, <i>EVERYTHING</i> races, no matter + Whatever its method may be: + The waterfowl hold a regatta; + The 'possums run heats up a tree; + The emus are constantly sprinting + A handicap out on the plain; + It seems like all nature was hinting, + 'Tis time to be at it again. + + 'The cockatoo parrots are talking + Of races to far away lands; + The native companions are walking + A go-as-you-please on the sands; + The little foals gallop for pastime; + The wallabies race down the gap; + Let's try it once more for the last time, + Bring out the old jacket and cap. + + 'And now for a horse; we might try one + Of those that are bred on the place, + But I think it better to buy one, + A horse that has proved he can race. + Let us send down to Sydney to Skinner, + A thorough good judge who can ride, + And ask him to buy us a spinner + To clean out the whole countryside.' + + They wrote him a letter as follows: + 'We want you to buy us a horse; + He must have the speed to catch swallows, + And stamina with it of course. + The price ain't a thing that'll grieve us, + It's getting a bad 'un annoys + The undersigned blokes, and believe us, + We're yours to a cinder, 'the boys'.' + + He answered: 'I've bought you a hummer, + A horse that has never been raced; + I saw him run over the Drummer, + He held him outclassed and outpaced. + His breeding's not known, but they state he + Is born of a thoroughbred strain, + I paid them a hundred and eighty, + And started the horse in the train.' + + They met him — alas, that these verses + Aren't up to the subject's demands — + Can't set forth their eloquent curses, + <i>FOR PARTNER WAS BACK ON THEIR HANDS</i>. + They went in to meet him in gladness, + They opened his box with delight — + A silent procession of sadness + They crept to the station at night. + + And life has grown dull on the station, + The boys are all silent and slow; + Their work is a daily vexation, + And sport is unknown to them now. + Whenever they think how they stranded, + They squeal just like guinea-pigs squeal; + They bit their own hook, and were landed + With fifty pounds loss on the deal. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + An Idyll of Dandaloo + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + On Western plains, where shade is not, + 'Neath summer skies of cloudless blue, + Where all is dry and all is hot, + There stands the town of Dandaloo — + A township where life's total sum + Is sleep, diversified with rum. + + It's grass-grown streets with dust are deep, + 'Twere vain endeavour to express + The dreamless silence of its sleep, + Its wide, expansive drunkenness. + The yearly races mostly drew + A lively crowd to Dandaloo. + + There came a sportsman from the East, + The eastern land where sportsmen blow, + And brought with him a speedy beast — + A speedy beast as horses go. + He came afar in hope to 'do' + The little town of Dandaloo. + + Now this was weak of him, I wot — + Exceeding weak, it seemed to me — + For we in Dandaloo were not + The Jugginses we seemed to be; + In fact, we rather thought we knew + Our book by heart in Dandaloo. + + We held a meeting at the bar, + And met the question fair and square — + 'We've stumped the country near and far + To raise the cash for races here; + We've got a hundred pounds or two — + Not half so bad for Dandaloo. + + 'And now, it seems, we have to be + Cleaned out by this here Sydney bloke, + With his imported horse; and he + Will scoop the pool and leave us broke + Shall we sit still, and make no fuss + While this chap climbs all over us?' + + . . . . . + + The races came to Dandaloo, + And all the cornstalks from the West, + On ev'ry kind of moke and screw, + Came forth in all their glory drest. + The stranger's horse, as hard as nails, + Look'd fit to run for New South Wales. + + He won the race by half a length — + <i>QUITE</i> half a length, it seemed to me — + But Dandaloo, with all its strength, + Roared out 'Dead heat!' most fervently; + And, after hesitation meet, + The judge's verdict was 'Dead heat!' + + And many men there were could tell + What gave the verdict extra force: + The stewards, and the judge as well — + They all had backed the second horse. + For things like this they sometimes do + In larger towns than Dandaloo. + + They ran it off; the stranger won, + Hands down, by near a hundred yards + He smiled to think his troubles done; + But Dandaloo held all the cards. + They went to scale and — cruel fate! — + His jockey turned out under-weight. + + Perhaps they'd tampered with the scale! + I cannot tell. I only know + It weighed him <i>OUT</i> all right. I fail + To paint that Sydney sportsman's woe. + He said the stewards were a crew + Of low-lived thieves in Dandaloo. + + He lifted up his voice, irate, + And swore till all the air was blue; + So then we rose to vindicate + The dignity of Dandaloo. + 'Look here,' said we, 'you must not poke + Such oaths at us poor country folk.' + + We rode him softly on a rail, + We shied at him, in careless glee, + Some large tomatoes, rank and stale, + And eggs of great antiquity — + Their wild, unholy fragrance flew + About the town of Dandaloo. + + He left the town at break of day, + He led his race-horse through the streets, + And now he tells the tale, they say, + To every racing man he meets. + And Sydney sportsmen all eschew + The atmosphere of Dandaloo. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Geebung Polo Club + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It was somewhere up the country, in a land of rock and scrub, + That they formed an institution called the Geebung Polo Club. + They were long and wiry natives from the rugged mountain side, + And the horse was never saddled that the Geebungs couldn't ride; + But their style of playing polo was irregular and rash — + They had mighty little science, but a mighty lot of dash: + And they played on mountain ponies that were muscular and strong, + Though their coats were quite unpolished, + and their manes and tails were long. + And they used to train those ponies wheeling cattle in the scrub: + They were demons, were the members of the Geebung Polo Club. + + It was somewhere down the country, in a city's smoke and steam, + That a polo club existed, called 'The Cuff and Collar Team'. + As a social institution 'twas a marvellous success, + For the members were distinguished by exclusiveness and dress. + They had natty little ponies that were nice, and smooth, and sleek, + For their cultivated owners only rode 'em once a week. + So they started up the country in pursuit of sport and fame, + For they meant to show the Geebungs how they ought to play the game; + And they took their valets with them — just to give their boots a rub + Ere they started operations on the Geebung Polo Club. + + Now my readers can imagine how the contest ebbed and flowed, + When the Geebung boys got going it was time to clear the road; + And the game was so terrific that ere half the time was gone + A spectator's leg was broken — just from merely looking on. + For they waddied one another till the plain was strewn with dead, + While the score was kept so even that they neither got ahead. + And the Cuff and Collar Captain, when he tumbled off to die, + Was the last surviving player — so the game was called a tie. + + Then the Captain of the Geebungs raised him slowly from the ground, + Though his wounds were mostly mortal, yet he fiercely gazed around; + There was no one to oppose him — all the rest were in a trance, + So he scrambled on his pony for his last expiring chance, + For he meant to make an effort to get victory to his side; + So he struck at goal — and missed it — then he tumbled off and died. + + . . . . . + + By the old Campaspe River, where the breezes shake the grass, + There's a row of little gravestones that the stockmen never pass, + For they bear a crude inscription saying, 'Stranger, drop a tear, + For the Cuff and Collar players and the Geebung boys lie here.' + And on misty moonlit evenings, while the dingoes howl around, + You can see their shadows flitting down that phantom polo ground; + You can hear the loud collisions as the flying players meet, + And the rattle of the mallets, and the rush of ponies' feet, + Till the terrified spectator rides like blazes to the pub — + He's been haunted by the spectres of the Geebung Polo Club. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Travelling Post Office + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The roving breezes come and go, the reed beds sweep and sway, + The sleepy river murmurs low, and loiters on its way, + It is the land of lots o' time along the Castlereagh. + + . . . . . + + The old man's son had left the farm, he found it dull and slow, + He drifted to the great North-west where all the rovers go. + 'He's gone so long,' the old man said, 'he's dropped right out of mind, + But if you'd write a line to him I'd take it very kind; + He's shearing here and fencing there, a kind of waif and stray, + He's droving now with Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh. + + 'The sheep are travelling for the grass, and travelling very slow; + They may be at Mundooran now, or past the Overflow, + Or tramping down the black soil flats across by Waddiwong, + But all those little country towns would send the letter wrong, + The mailman, if he's extra tired, would pass them in his sleep, + It's safest to address the note to 'Care of Conroy's sheep', + For five and twenty thousand head can scarcely go astray, + You write to 'Care of Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh'.' + + . . . . . + + By rock and ridge and riverside the western mail has gone, + Across the great Blue Mountain Range to take that letter on. + A moment on the topmost grade while open fire doors glare, + She pauses like a living thing to breathe the mountain air, + Then launches down the other side across the plains away + To bear that note to 'Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh'. + + And now by coach and mailman's bag it goes from town to town, + And Conroy's Gap and Conroy's Creek have marked it 'further down'. + Beneath a sky of deepest blue where never cloud abides, + A speck upon the waste of plain the lonely mailman rides. + Where fierce hot winds have set the pine and myall boughs asweep + He hails the shearers passing by for news of Conroy's sheep. + By big lagoons where wildfowl play and crested pigeons flock, + By camp fires where the drovers ride around their restless stock, + And past the teamster toiling down to fetch the wool away + My letter chases Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Saltbush Bill + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now this is the law of the Overland that all in the West obey, + A man must cover with travelling sheep a six-mile stage a day; + But this is the law which the drovers make, right easily understood, + They travel their stage where the grass is bad, + but they camp where the grass is good; + They camp, and they ravage the squatter's grass till never a blade remains, + Then they drift away as the white clouds drift + on the edge of the saltbush plains, + From camp to camp and from run to run they battle it hand to hand, + For a blade of grass and the right to pass on the track of the Overland. + For this is the law of the Great Stock Routes, + 'tis written in white and black — + The man that goes with a travelling mob must keep to a half-mile track; + And the drovers keep to a half-mile track + on the runs where the grass is dead, + But they spread their sheep on a well-grassed run + till they go with a two-mile spread. + So the squatters hurry the drovers on from dawn till the fall of night, + And the squatters' dogs and the drovers' dogs get mixed in a deadly fight; + Yet the squatters' men, though they hunt the mob, + are willing the peace to keep, + For the drovers learn how to use their hands + when they go with the travelling sheep; + But this is the tale of a Jackaroo that came from a foreign strand, + And the fight that he fought with Saltbush Bill, the King of the Overland. + + Now Saltbush Bill was a drover tough, as ever the country knew, + He had fought his way on the Great Stock Routes + from the sea to the big Barcoo; + He could tell when he came to a friendly run + that gave him a chance to spread, + And he knew where the hungry owners were that hurried his sheep ahead; + He was drifting down in the Eighty drought + with a mob that could scarcely creep, + (When the kangaroos by the thousands starve, + it is rough on the travelling sheep), + And he camped one night at the crossing-place on the edge of the Wilga run, + 'We must manage a feed for them here,' he said, + 'or the half of the mob are done!' + So he spread them out when they left the camp wherever they liked to go, + Till he grew aware of a Jackaroo with a station-hand in tow, + And they set to work on the straggling sheep, + and with many a stockwhip crack + They forced them in where the grass was dead + in the space of the half-mile track; + So William prayed that the hand of fate might suddenly strike him blue + But he'd get some grass for his starving sheep + in the teeth of that Jackaroo. + So he turned and he cursed the Jackaroo, he cursed him alive or dead, + From the soles of his great unwieldy feet to the crown of his ugly head, + With an extra curse on the moke he rode and the cur at his heels that ran, + Till the Jackaroo from his horse got down and he went for the drover-man; + With the station-hand for his picker-up, + though the sheep ran loose the while, + They battled it out on the saltbush plain in the regular prize-ring style. + + Now, the new chum fought for his honour's sake + and the pride of the English race, + But the drover fought for his daily bread with a smile on his bearded face; + So he shifted ground and he sparred for wind and he made it a lengthy mill, + And from time to time as his scouts came in + they whispered to Saltbush Bill — + 'We have spread the sheep with a two-mile spread, + and the grass it is something grand, + You must stick to him, Bill, for another round + for the pride of the Overland.' + The new chum made it a rushing fight, though never a blow got home, + Till the sun rode high in the cloudless sky + and glared on the brick-red loam, + Till the sheep drew in to the shelter-trees and settled them down to rest, + Then the drover said he would fight no more and he gave his opponent best. + + So the new chum rode to the homestead straight + and he told them a story grand + Of the desperate fight that he fought that day + with the King of the Overland. + And the tale went home to the Public Schools + of the pluck of the English swell, + How the drover fought for his very life, but blood in the end must tell. + But the travelling sheep and the Wilga sheep + were boxed on the Old Man Plain. + 'Twas a full week's work ere they drafted out and hunted them off again, + With a week's good grass in their wretched hides, + with a curse and a stockwhip crack, + They hunted them off on the road once more + to starve on the half-mile track. + And Saltbush Bill, on the Overland, will many a time recite + How the best day's work that ever he did + was the day that he lost the fight. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Mountain Station + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I bought a run a while ago, + On country rough and ridgy, + Where wallaroos and wombats grow — + The Upper Murrumbidgee. + The grass is rather scant, it's true, + But this a fair exchange is, + The sheep can see a lovely view + By climbing up the ranges. + + And She-oak Flat's the station's name, + I'm not surprised at that, sirs: + The oaks were there before I came, + And I supplied the flat, sirs. + A man would wonder how it's done, + The stock so soon decreases — + They sometimes tumble off the run + And break themselves to pieces. + + I've tried to make expenses meet, + But wasted all my labours, + The sheep the dingoes didn't eat + Were stolen by the neighbours. + They stole my pears — my native pears — + Those thrice-convicted felons, + And ravished from me unawares + My crop of paddy-melons. + + And sometimes under sunny skies, + Without an explanation, + The Murrumbidgee used to rise + And overflow the station. + But this was caused (as now I know) + When summer sunshine glowing + Had melted all Kiandra's snow + And set the river going. + + And in the news, perhaps you read: + 'Stock passings. Puckawidgee, + Fat cattle: Seven hundred head + Swept down the Murrumbidgee; + Their destination's quite obscure, + But, somehow, there's a notion, + Unless the river falls, they're sure + To reach the Southern Ocean.' + + So after that I'll give it best; + No more with Fate I'll battle. + I'll let the river take the rest, + For those were all my cattle. + And with one comprehensive curse + I close my brief narration, + And advertise it in my verse — + 'For Sale! A Mountain Station.' +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Been There Before + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There came a stranger to Walgett town, + To Walgett town when the sun was low, + And he carried a thirst that was worth a crown, + Yet how to quench it he did not know; + But he thought he might take those yokels down, + The guileless yokels of Walgett town. + + They made him a bet in a private bar, + In a private bar when the talk was high, + And they bet him some pounds no matter how far + He could pelt a stone, yet he could not shy + A stone right over the river so brown, + The Darling river at Walgett town. + + He knew that the river from bank to bank + Was fifty yards, and he smiled a smile + As he trundled down, but his hopes they sank + For there wasn't a stone within fifty mile; + For the saltbush plain and the open down + Produce no quarries in Walgett town. + + The yokels laughed at his hopes o'erthrown, + And he stood awhile like a man in a dream; + Then out of his pocket he fetched a stone, + And pelted it over the silent stream — + He had been there before: he had wandered down + On a previous visit to Walgett town. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Man Who Was Away + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The widow sought the lawyer's room with children three in tow, + She told the lawyer man her tale in tones of deepest woe. + Said she, 'My husband took to drink for pains in his inside, + And never drew a sober breath from then until he died. + + 'He never drew a sober breath, he died without a will, + And I must sell the bit of land the childer's mouths to fill. + There's some is grown and gone away, but some is childer yet, + And times is very bad indeed — a livin's hard to get. + + 'There's Min and Sis and little Chris, they stops at home with me, + And Sal has married Greenhide Bill that breaks for Bingeree. + And Fred is drovin' Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh, + And Charley's shearin' down the Bland, and Peter is away.' + + The lawyer wrote the details down in ink of legal blue — + 'There's Minnie, Susan, Christopher, they stop at home with you; + There's Sarah, Frederick, and Charles, I'll write to them to-day, + But what about the other one — the one who is away? + + 'You'll have to furnish his consent to sell the bit of land.' + The widow shuffled in her seat, 'Oh, don't you understand? + I thought a lawyer ought to know — I don't know what to say — + You'll have to do without him, boss, for Peter is away.' + + But here the little boy spoke up — said he, 'We thought you knew; + He's done six months in Goulburn gaol — he's got six more to do.' + Thus in one comprehensive flash he made it clear as day, + The mystery of Peter's life — the man who was away. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Man from Ironbark + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It was the man from Ironbark who struck the Sydney town, + He wandered over street and park, he wandered up and down. + He loitered here, he loitered there, till he was like to drop, + Until at last in sheer despair he sought a barber's shop. + ''Ere! shave my beard and whiskers off, I'll be a man of mark, + I'll go and do the Sydney toff up home in Ironbark.' + + The barber man was small and flash, as barbers mostly are, + He wore a strike-your-fancy sash, he smoked a huge cigar: + He was a humorist of note and keen at repartee, + He laid the odds and kept a 'tote', whatever that may be, + And when he saw our friend arrive, he whispered 'Here's a lark! + Just watch me catch him all alive, this man from Ironbark.' + + There were some gilded youths that sat along the barber's wall, + Their eyes were dull, their heads were flat, they had no brains at all; + To them the barber passed the wink, his dexter eyelid shut, + 'I'll make this bloomin' yokel think his bloomin' throat is cut.' + And as he soaped and rubbed it in he made a rude remark: + 'I s'pose the flats is pretty green up there in Ironbark.' + + A grunt was all reply he got; he shaved the bushman's chin, + Then made the water boiling hot and dipped the razor in. + He raised his hand, his brow grew black, he paused awhile to gloat, + Then slashed the red-hot razor-back across his victim's throat; + Upon the newly shaven skin it made a livid mark — + No doubt it fairly took him in — the man from Ironbark. + + He fetched a wild up-country yell might wake the dead to hear, + And though his throat, he knew full well, was cut from ear to ear, + He struggled gamely to his feet, and faced the murd'rous foe: + 'You've done for me! you dog, I'm beat! one hit before I go! + I only wish I had a knife, you blessed murdering shark! + But you'll remember all your life, the man from Ironbark.' + + He lifted up his hairy paw, with one tremendous clout + He landed on the barber's jaw, and knocked the barber out. + He set to work with tooth and nail, he made the place a wreck; + He grabbed the nearest gilded youth, and tried to break his neck. + And all the while his throat he held to save his vital spark, + And 'Murder! Bloody Murder!' yelled the man from Ironbark. + + A peeler man who heard the din came in to see the show; + He tried to run the bushman in, but he refused to go. + And when at last the barber spoke, and said, ''Twas all in fun — + 'Twas just a little harmless joke, a trifle overdone.' + 'A joke!' he cried, 'By George, that's fine; a lively sort of lark; + I'd like to catch that murdering swine some night in Ironbark.' + + And now while round the shearing floor the list'ning shearers gape, + He tells the story o'er and o'er, and brags of his escape. + 'Them barber chaps what keeps a tote, By George, I've had enough, + One tried to cut my bloomin' throat, but thank the Lord it's tough.' + And whether he's believed or no, there's one thing to remark, + That flowing beards are all the go way up in Ironbark. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Open Steeplechase + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I had ridden over hurdles up the country once or twice, + By the side of Snowy River with a horse they called 'The Ace'. + And we brought him down to Sydney, and our rider Jimmy Rice, + Got a fall and broke his shoulder, so they nabbed me in a trice — + Me, that never wore the colours, for the Open Steeplechase. + + 'Make the running,' said the trainer, 'it's your only chance whatever, + Make it hot from start to finish, for the old black horse can stay, + And just think of how they'll take it, when they hear on Snowy River + That the country boy was plucky, and the country horse was clever. + You must ride for old Monaro and the mountain boys to-day.' + + 'Are you ready?' said the starter, as we held the horses back, + All ablazing with impatience, with excitement all aglow; + Before us like a ribbon stretched the steeplechasing track, + And the sun-rays glistened brightly on the chestnut and the black + As the starter's words came slowly, 'Are — you — ready? Go!' + + Well, I scarcely knew we'd started, I was stupid-like with wonder + Till the field closed up beside me and a jump appeared ahead. + And we flew it like a hurdle, not a baulk and not a blunder, + As we charged it all together, and it fairly whistled under, + And then some were pulled behind me and a few shot out and led. + + So we ran for half the distance, and I'm making no pretences + When I tell you I was feeling very nervous-like and queer, + For those jockeys rode like demons; + you would think they'd lost their senses + If you saw them rush their horses at those rasping five foot fences — + And in place of making running I was falling to the rear. + + Till a chap came racing past me on a horse they called 'The Quiver', + And said he, 'My country joker, are you going to give it best? + Are you frightened of the fences? does their stoutness make you shiver? + Have they come to breeding cowards by the side of Snowy River? + Are there riders on Monaro? ——' but I never heard the rest. + + For I drove the Ace and sent him just as fast as he could pace it, + At the big black line of timber stretching fair across the track, + And he shot beside the Quiver. 'Now,' said I, 'my boy, we'll race it. + You can come with Snowy River if you're only game to face it, + Let us mend the pace a little and we'll see who cries a crack.' + + So we raced away together, and we left the others standing, + And the people cheered and shouted as we settled down to ride, + And we clung beside the Quiver. At his taking off and landing + I could see his scarlet nostril and his mighty ribs expanding, + And the Ace stretched out in earnest and we held him stride for stride. + + But the pace was so terrific that they soon ran out their tether — + They were rolling in their gallop, they were fairly blown and beat — + But they both were game as pebbles — neither one would show the feather. + And we rushed them at the fences, and they cleared them both together, + Nearly every time they clouted, but they somehow kept their feet. + + Then the last jump rose before us, and they faced it game as ever — + We were both at spur and whipcord, fetching blood at every bound — + And above the people's cheering and the cries of 'Ace' and 'Quiver', + I could hear the trainer shouting, 'One more run for Snowy River.' + Then we struck the jump together and came smashing to the ground. + + Well, the Quiver ran to blazes, but the Ace stood still and waited, + Stood and waited like a statue while I scrambled on his back. + There was no one next or near me for the field was fairly slated, + So I cantered home a winner with my shoulder dislocated, + While the man that rode the Quiver followed limping down the track. + + And he shook my hand and told me that in all his days he never + Met a man who rode more gamely, and our last set to was prime, + And we wired them on Monaro how we chanced to beat the Quiver. + And they sent us back an answer, 'Good old sort from Snowy River: + Send us word each race you start in and we'll back you every time.' +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Amateur Rider + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>HIM</i> going to ride for us! <i>HIM</i> — + with the pants and the eyeglass and all. + Amateur! don't he just look it — it's twenty to one on a fall. + Boss must be gone off his head to be sending our steeplechase crack + Out over fences like these with an object like that on his back. + + Ride! Don't tell <i>ME</i> he can ride. + With his pants just as loose as balloons, + How can he sit on his horse? and his spurs like a pair of harpoons; + Ought to be under the Dog Act, he ought, and be kept off the course. + Fall! why, he'd fall off a cart, let alone off a steeplechase horse. + + . . . . . + + Yessir! the 'orse is all ready — I wish you'd have rode him before; + Nothing like knowing your 'orse, sir, and this chap's a terror to bore; + Battleaxe always could pull, and he rushes his fences like fun — + Stands off his jump twenty feet, and then springs like a shot from a gun. + + Oh, he can jump 'em all right, sir, you make no mistake, 'e's a toff; + Clouts 'em in earnest, too, sometimes, + you mind that he don't clout you off — + Don't seem to mind how he hits 'em, his shins is as hard as a nail, + Sometimes you'll see the fence shake + and the splinters fly up from the rail. + + All you can do is to hold him and just let him jump as he likes, + Give him his head at the fences, and hang on like death if he strikes; + Don't let him run himself out — you can lie third or fourth in the race — + Until you clear the stone wall, and from that you can put on the pace. + + Fell at that wall once, he did, and it gave him a regular spread, + Ever since that time he flies it — he'll stop if you pull at his head, + Just let him race — you can trust him — + he'll take first-class care he don't fall, + And I think that's the lot — but remember, + <i>HE MUST HAVE HIS HEAD AT THE WALL</i>. + + . . . . . + + Well, he's down safe as far as the start, + and he seems to sit on pretty neat, + Only his baggified breeches would ruinate anyone's seat — + They're away — here they come — the first fence, + and he's head over heels for a crown! + Good for the new chum, he's over, and two of the others are down! + + Now for the treble, my hearty — By Jove, he can ride, after all; + Whoop, that's your sort — let him fly them! + He hasn't much fear of a fall. + Who in the world would have thought it? And aren't they just going a pace? + Little Recruit in the lead there will make it a stoutly-run race. + + Lord! But they're racing in earnest — and down goes Recruit on his head, + Rolling clean over his boy — it's a miracle if he ain't dead. + Battleaxe, Battleaxe, yet! By the Lord, he's got most of 'em beat — + Ho! did you see how he struck, and the swell never moved in his seat? + + Second time round, and, by Jingo! he's holding his lead of 'em well; + Hark to him clouting the timber! It don't seem to trouble the swell. + Now for the wall — let him rush it. A thirty-foot leap, I declare — + Never a shift in his seat, and he's racing for home like a hare. + + What's that that's chasing him — Rataplan — regular demon to stay! + Sit down and ride for your life now! + Oh, good, that's the style — come away! + Rataplan's certain to beat you, unless you can give him the slip; + Sit down and rub in the whalebone now — give him the spurs and the whip! + + Battleaxe, Battleaxe, yet — and it's Battleaxe wins for a crown; + Look at him rushing the fences, he wants to bring t'other chap down. + Rataplan never will catch him if only he keeps on his pins; + Now! the last fence! and he's over it! Battleaxe, Battleaxe wins! + + . . . . . + + Well, sir, you rode him just perfect — + I knew from the first you could ride. + Some of the chaps said you couldn't, an' I says just like this a' one side: + Mark me, I says, that's a tradesman — the saddle is where he was bred. + Weight! you're all right, sir, and thank you; + and them was the words that I said. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + On Kiley's Run + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The roving breezes come and go + On Kiley's Run, + The sleepy river murmurs low, + And far away one dimly sees + Beyond the stretch of forest trees — + Beyond the foothills dusk and dun — + The ranges sleeping in the sun + On Kiley's Run. + + 'Tis many years since first I came + To Kiley's Run, + More years than I would care to name + Since I, a stripling, used to ride + For miles and miles at Kiley's side, + The while in stirring tones he told + The stories of the days of old + On Kiley's Run. + + I see the old bush homestead now + On Kiley's Run, + Just nestled down beneath the brow + Of one small ridge above the sweep + Of river-flat, where willows weep + And jasmine flowers and roses bloom, + The air was laden with perfume + On Kiley's Run. + + We lived the good old station life + On Kiley's Run, + With little thought of care or strife. + Old Kiley seldom used to roam, + He liked to make the Run his home, + The swagman never turned away + With empty hand at close of day + From Kiley's Run. + + We kept a racehorse now and then + On Kiley's Run, + And neighb'ring stations brought their men + To meetings where the sport was free, + And dainty ladies came to see + Their champions ride; with laugh and song + The old house rang the whole night long + On Kiley's Run. + + The station hands were friends I wot + On Kiley's Run, + A reckless, merry-hearted lot — + All splendid riders, and they knew + The 'boss' was kindness through and through. + Old Kiley always stood their friend, + And so they served him to the end + On Kiley's Run. + + But droughts and losses came apace + To Kiley's Run, + Till ruin stared him in the face; + He toiled and toiled while lived the light, + He dreamed of overdrafts at night: + At length, because he could not pay, + His bankers took the stock away + From Kiley's Run. + + Old Kiley stood and saw them go + From Kiley's Run. + The well-bred cattle marching slow; + His stockmen, mates for many a day, + They wrung his hand and went away. + Too old to make another start, + Old Kiley died — of broken heart, + On Kiley's Run. + + . . . . . + + The owner lives in England now + Of Kiley's Run. + He knows a racehorse from a cow; + But that is all he knows of stock: + His chiefest care is how to dock + Expenses, and he sends from town + To cut the shearers' wages down + On Kiley's Run. + + There are no neighbours anywhere + Near Kiley's Run. + The hospitable homes are bare, + The gardens gone; for no pretence + Must hinder cutting down expense: + The homestead that we held so dear + Contains a half-paid overseer + On Kiley's Run. + + All life and sport and hope have died + On Kiley's Run. + No longer there the stockmen ride; + For sour-faced boundary riders creep + On mongrel horses after sheep, + Through ranges where, at racing speed, + Old Kiley used to 'wheel the lead' + On Kiley's Run. + + There runs a lane for thirty miles + Through Kiley's Run. + On either side the herbage smiles, + But wretched trav'lling sheep must pass + Without a drink or blade of grass + Thro' that long lane of death and shame: + The weary drovers curse the name + Of Kiley's Run. + + The name itself is changed of late + Of Kiley's Run. + They call it 'Chandos Park Estate'. + The lonely swagman through the dark + Must hump his swag past Chandos Park. + The name is English, don't you see, + The old name sweeter sounds to me + Of 'Kiley's Run'. + + I cannot guess what fate will bring + To Kiley's Run — + For chances come and changes ring — + I scarcely think 'twill always be + Locked up to suit an absentee; + And if he lets it out in farms + His tenants soon will carry arms + On Kiley's Run. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Frying Pan's Theology + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Scene: On Monaro. + <i>DRAMATIS PERSONAE</i>: + Shock-headed blackfellow, + Boy (on a pony). + Snowflakes are falling + So gentle and slow, + Youngster says, 'Frying Pan, + What makes it snow?' + Frying Pan confident + Makes the reply — + 'Shake 'em big flour bag + Up in the sky!' + 'What! when there's miles of it! + Sur'ly that's brag. + Who is there strong enough + Shake such a bag?' + 'What parson tellin' you, + Ole Mister Dodd, + Tell you in Sunday-school? + Big feller God! + He drive His bullock dray, + Then thunder go, + He shake His flour bag — + Tumble down snow!' +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Two Devines + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It was shearing-time at the Myall Lake, + And there rose the sound thro' the livelong day + Of the constant clash that the shear-blades make + When the fastest shearers are making play, + But there wasn't a man in the shearers' lines + That could shear a sheep with the two Devines. + + They had rung the sheds of the east and west, + Had beaten the cracks of the Walgett side, + And the Cooma shearers had giv'n them best — + When they saw them shear, they were satisfied. + From the southern slopes to the western pines + They were noted men, were the two Devines. + + 'Twas a wether flock that had come to hand, + Great struggling brutes, that the shearers shirk, + For the fleece was filled with the grass and sand, + And seventy sheep was a big day's work. + 'At a pound a hundred it's dashed hard lines + To shear such sheep,' said the two Devines. + + But the shearers knew that they'd make a cheque + When they came to deal with the station ewes; + They were bare of belly and bare of neck + With a fleece as light as a kangaroo's. + 'We will show the boss how a shear-blade shines + When we reach those ewes,' said the two Devines. + + But it chanced next day when the stunted pines + Were swayed and stirred with the dawn-wind's breath, + That a message came for the two Devines + That their father lay at the point of death. + So away at speed through the whispering pines + Down the bridle track rode the two Devines. + + It was fifty miles to their father's hut, + And the dawn was bright when they rode away; + At the fall of night when the shed was shut + And the men had rest from the toilsome day, + To the shed once more through the dark'ning pines + On their weary steeds came the two Devines. + + 'Well, you're back right sudden,' the super. said; + 'Is the old man dead and the funeral done?' + 'Well, no, sir, he ain't not exactly dead, + But as good as dead,' said the eldest son — + 'And we couldn't bear such a chance to lose, + So we came straight back to tackle the ewes.' + + . . . . . + + They are shearing ewes at the Myall Lake, + And the shed is merry the livelong day + With the clashing sound that the shear-blades make + When the fastest shearers are making play, + And a couple of 'hundred and ninety-nines' + Are the tallies made by the two Devines. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + In the Droving Days + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Only a pound,' said the auctioneer, + 'Only a pound; and I'm standing here + Selling this animal, gain or loss. + Only a pound for the drover's horse; + One of the sort that was never afraid, + One of the boys of the Old Brigade; + Thoroughly honest and game, I'll swear, + Only a little the worse for wear; + Plenty as bad to be seen in town, + Give me a bid and I'll knock him down; + Sold as he stands, and without recourse, + Give me a bid for the drover's horse.' + + Loitering there in an aimless way + Somehow I noticed the poor old grey, + Weary and battered and screwed, of course, + Yet when I noticed the old grey horse, + The rough bush saddle, and single rein + Of the bridle laid on his tangled mane, + Straightway the crowd and the auctioneer + Seemed on a sudden to disappear, + Melted away in a kind of haze, + For my heart went back to the droving days. + + Back to the road, and I crossed again + Over the miles of the saltbush plain — + The shining plain that is said to be + The dried-up bed of an inland sea, + Where the air so dry and so clear and bright + Refracts the sun with a wondrous light, + And out in the dim horizon makes + The deep blue gleam of the phantom lakes. + + At dawn of day we would feel the breeze + That stirred the boughs of the sleeping trees, + And brought a breath of the fragrance rare + That comes and goes in that scented air; + For the trees and grass and the shrubs contain + A dry sweet scent on the saltbush plain. + For those that love it and understand, + The saltbush plain is a wonderland. + A wondrous country, where Nature's ways + Were revealed to me in the droving days. + + We saw the fleet wild horses pass, + And the kangaroos through the Mitchell grass, + The emu ran with her frightened brood + All unmolested and unpursued. + But there rose a shout and a wild hubbub + When the dingo raced for his native scrub, + And he paid right dear for his stolen meals + With the drover's dogs at his wretched heels. + For we ran him down at a rattling pace, + While the packhorse joined in the stirring chase. + And a wild halloo at the kill we'd raise — + We were light of heart in the droving days. + + 'Twas a drover's horse, and my hand again + Made a move to close on a fancied rein. + For I felt the swing and the easy stride + Of the grand old horse that I used to ride + In drought or plenty, in good or ill, + That same old steed was my comrade still; + The old grey horse with his honest ways + Was a mate to me in the droving days. + + When we kept our watch in the cold and damp, + If the cattle broke from the sleeping camp, + Over the flats and across the plain, + With my head bent down on his waving mane, + Through the boughs above and the stumps below + On the darkest night I could let him go + At a racing speed; he would choose his course, + And my life was safe with the old grey horse. + But man and horse had a favourite job, + When an outlaw broke from a station mob, + With a right good will was the stockwhip plied, + As the old horse raced at the straggler's side, + And the greenhide whip such a weal would raise, + We could use the whip in the droving days. + + . . . . . + + 'Only a pound!' and was this the end — + Only a pound for the drover's friend. + The drover's friend that had seen his day, + And now was worthless, and cast away + With a broken knee and a broken heart + To be flogged and starved in a hawker's cart. + Well, I made a bid for a sense of shame + And the memories dear of the good old game. + + 'Thank you? Guinea! and cheap at that! + Against you there in the curly hat! + Only a guinea, and one more chance, + Down he goes if there's no advance, + Third, and the last time, one! two! three!' + And the old grey horse was knocked down to me. + And now he's wandering, fat and sleek, + On the lucerne flats by the Homestead Creek; + I dare not ride him for fear he'd fall, + But he does a journey to beat them all, + For though he scarcely a trot can raise, + He can take me back to the droving days. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Lost + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'He ought to be home,' said the old man, 'without there's something amiss. + He only went to the Two-mile — he ought to be back by this. + He <i>WOULD</i> ride the Reckless filly, he <i>WOULD</i> have his wilful way; + And, here, he's not back at sundown — and what will his mother say? + + 'He was always his mother's idol, since ever his father died; + And there isn't a horse on the station that he isn't game to ride. + But that Reckless mare is vicious, and if once she gets away + He hasn't got strength to hold her — and what will his mother say?' + + The old man walked to the sliprail, and peered up the dark'ning track, + And looked and longed for the rider that would never more come back; + And the mother came and clutched him, with sudden, spasmodic fright: + 'What has become of my Willie? — why isn't he home to-night?' + + Away in the gloomy ranges, at the foot of an ironbark, + The bonnie, winsome laddie was lying stiff and stark; + For the Reckless mare had smashed him against a leaning limb, + And his comely face was battered, and his merry eyes were dim. + + And the thoroughbred chestnut filly, the saddle beneath her flanks, + Was away like fire through the ranges to join the wild mob's ranks; + And a broken-hearted woman and an old man worn and grey + Were searching all night in the ranges till the sunrise brought the day. + + And the mother kept feebly calling, with a hope that would not die, + 'Willie! where are you, Willie?' But how can the dead reply; + And hope died out with the daylight, and the darkness brought despair, + God pity the stricken mother, and answer the widow's prayer! + + Though far and wide they sought him, they found not where he fell; + For the ranges held him precious, and guarded their treasure well. + The wattle blooms above him, and the blue bells blow close by, + And the brown bees buzz the secret, and the wild birds sing reply. + + But the mother pined and faded, and cried, and took no rest, + And rode each day to the ranges on her hopeless, weary quest. + Seeking her loved one ever, she faded and pined away, + But with strength of her great affection she still sought every day. + + 'I know that sooner or later I shall find my boy,' she said. + But she came not home one evening, and they found her lying dead, + And stamped on the poor pale features, as the spirit homeward pass'd, + Was an angel smile of gladness — she had found the boy at last. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Over the Range + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Little bush maiden, wondering-eyed, + Playing alone in the creek-bed dry, + In the small green flat on every side + Walled in by the Moonbi ranges high; + Tell us the tale of your lonely life, + 'Mid the great grey forests that know no change. + 'I never have left my home,' she said, + 'I have never been over the Moonbi Range. + + 'Father and mother are both long dead, + And I live with granny in yon wee place.' + 'Where are your father and mother?' we said. + She puzzled awhile with thoughtful face, + Then a light came into the shy brown eye, + And she smiled, for she thought the question strange + On a thing so certain — 'When people die + They go to the country over the range.' + + 'And what is this country like, my lass?' + 'There are blossoming trees and pretty flowers, + And shining creeks where the golden grass + Is fresh and sweet from the summer showers. + They never need work, nor want, nor weep; + No troubles can come their hearts to estrange. + Some summer night I shall fall asleep, + And wake in the country over the range.' + + Child, you are wise in your simple trust, + For the wisest man knows no more than you + Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust: + Our views by a range are bounded too; + But we know that God hath this gift in store, + That when we come to the final change, + We shall meet with our loved ones gone before + To the beautiful country over the range. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Only a Jockey + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Richard Bennison, a jockey, aged 14, while riding William Tell + in his training, was thrown and killed. The horse is luckily uninjured.' + — Melbourne Wire. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Out in the grey cheerless chill of the morning light, + Out on the track where the night shades still lurk; + Ere the first gleam of the sungod's returning light, + Round come the race-horses early at work. + + Reefing and pulling and racing so readily, + Close sit the jockey-boys holding them hard, + 'Steady the stallion there — canter him steadily, + Don't let him gallop so much as a yard.' + + Fiercely he fights while the others run wide of him, + Reefs at the bit that would hold him in thrall, + Plunges and bucks till the boy that's astride of him + Goes to the ground with a terrible fall. + + 'Stop him there! Block him there! Drive him in carefully, + Lead him about till he's quiet and cool. + Sound as a bell! though he's blown himself fearfully, + Now let us pick up this poor little fool. + + 'Stunned? Oh, by Jove, I'm afraid it's a case with him; + Ride for the doctor! keep bathing his head! + Send for a cart to go down to our place with him' — + No use! One long sigh and the little chap's dead. + + Only a jockey-boy, foul-mouthed and bad you see, + Ignorant, heathenish, gone to his rest. + Parson or Presbyter, Pharisee, Sadducee, + What did you do for him? — bad was the best. + + Negroes and foreigners, all have a claim on you; + Yearly you send your well-advertised hoard, + But the poor jockey-boy — shame on you, shame on you, + 'Feed ye, my little ones' — what said the Lord? + + Him ye held less than the outer barbarian, + Left him to die in his ignorant sin; + Have you no principles, humanitarian? + Have you no precept — 'go gather them in?' + + . . . . . + + Knew he God's name? In his brutal profanity, + That name was an oath — out of many but one — + What did he get from our famed Christianity? + Where has his soul — if he had any — gone? + + Fourteen years old, and what was he taught of it? + What did he know of God's infinite grace? + Draw the dark curtain of shame o'er the thought of it, + Draw the shroud over the jockey-boy's face. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + How M'Ginnis Went Missing + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Let us cease our idle chatter, + Let the tears bedew our cheek, + For a man from Tallangatta + Has been missing for a week. + + Where the roaring flooded Murray + Covered all the lower land, + There he started in a hurry, + With a bottle in his hand. + + And his fate is hid for ever, + But the public seem to think + That he slumbered by the river, + 'Neath the influence of drink. + + And they scarcely seem to wonder + That the river, wide and deep, + Never woke him with its thunder, + Never stirred him in his sleep. + + As the crashing logs came sweeping, + And their tumult filled the air, + Then M'Ginnis murmured, sleeping, + ''Tis a wake in ould Kildare.' + + So the river rose and found him + Sleeping softly by the stream, + And the cruel waters drowned him + Ere he wakened from his dream. + + And the blossom-tufted wattle, + Blooming brightly on the lea, + Saw M'Ginnis and the bottle + Going drifting out to sea. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Voice from the Town + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A sequel to [Mowbray Morris's] 'A Voice from the Bush' +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I thought, in the days of the droving, + Of steps I might hope to retrace, + To be done with the bush and the roving + And settle once more in my place. + With a heart that was well nigh to breaking, + In the long, lonely rides on the plain, + I thought of the pleasure of taking + The hand of a lady again. + + I am back into civilisation, + Once more in the stir and the strife, + But the old joys have lost their sensation — + The light has gone out of my life; + The men of my time they have married, + Made fortunes or gone to the wall; + Too long from the scene I have tarried, + And, somehow, I'm out of it all. + + For I go to the balls and the races + A lonely companionless elf, + And the ladies bestow all their graces + On others less grey than myself; + While the talk goes around I'm a dumb one + 'Midst youngsters that chatter and prate, + And they call me 'the Man who was Someone + Way back in the year Sixty-eight.' + + And I look, sour and old, at the dancers + That swing to the strains of the band, + And the ladies all give me the Lancers, + No waltzes — I quite understand. + For matrons intent upon matching + Their daughters with infinite push, + Would scarce think him worthy the catching, + The broken-down man from the bush. + + New partners have come and new faces, + And I, of the bygone brigade, + Sharply feel that oblivion my place is — + I must lie with the rest in the shade. + And the youngsters, fresh-featured and pleasant, + They live as we lived — fairly fast; + But I doubt if the men of the present + Are as good as the men of the past. + + Of excitement and praise they are chary, + There is nothing much good upon earth; + Their watchword is <i>NIL ADMIRARI</i>, + They are bored from the days of their birth. + Where the life that we led was a revel + They 'wince and relent and refrain' — + I could show them the road — to the devil, + Were I only a youngster again. + + I could show them the road where the stumps are + The pleasures that end in remorse, + And the game where the Devil's three trumps are, + The woman, the card, and the horse. + Shall the blind lead the blind — shall the sower + Of wind reap the storm as of yore? + Though they get to their goal somewhat slower, + They march where we hurried before. + + For the world never learns — just as we did, + They gallantly go to their fate, + Unheeded all warnings, unheeded + The maxims of elders sedate. + As the husbandman, patiently toiling, + Draws a harvest each year from the soil, + So the fools grow afresh for the spoiling, + And a new crop of thieves for the spoil. + + But a truce to this dull moralising, + Let them drink while the drops are of gold, + I have tasted the dregs — 'twere surprising + Were the new wine to me like the old; + And I weary for lack of employment + In idleness day after day, + For the key to the door of enjoyment + Is Youth — and I've thrown it away. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Bunch of Roses + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Roses ruddy and roses white, + What are the joys that my heart discloses? + Sitting alone in the fading light + Memories come to me here to-night + With the wonderful scent of the big red roses. + + Memories come as the daylight fades + Down on the hearth where the firelight dozes; + Flicker and flutter the lights and shades, + And I see the face of a queen of maids + Whose memory comes with the scent of roses. + + Visions arise of a scene of mirth, + And a ball-room belle that superbly poses — + A queenly woman of queenly worth, + And I am the happiest man on earth + With a single flower from a bunch of roses. + + Only her memory lives to-night — + God in His wisdom her young life closes; + Over her grave may the turf be light, + Cover her coffin with roses white — + She was always fond of the big white roses. + + . . . . . + + Such are the visions that fade away — + Man proposes and God disposes; + Look in the glass and I see to-day + Only an old man, worn and grey, + Bending his head to a bunch of roses. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Black Swans + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As I lie at rest on a patch of clover + In the Western Park when the day is done, + I watch as the wild black swans fly over + With their phalanx turned to the sinking sun; + And I hear the clang of their leader crying + To a lagging mate in the rearward flying, + And they fade away in the darkness dying, + Where the stars are mustering one by one. + + Oh! ye wild black swans, 'twere a world of wonder + For a while to join in your westward flight, + With the stars above and the dim earth under, + Through the cooling air of the glorious night. + As we swept along on our pinions winging, + We should catch the chime of a church-bell ringing, + Or the distant note of a torrent singing, + Or the far-off flash of a station light. + + From the northern lakes with the reeds and rushes, + Where the hills are clothed with a purple haze, + Where the bell-birds chime and the songs of thrushes + Make music sweet in the jungle maze, + They will hold their course to the westward ever, + Till they reach the banks of the old grey river, + Where the waters wash, and the reed-beds quiver + In the burning heat of the summer days. + + Oh! ye strange wild birds, will ye bear a greeting + To the folk that live in that western land? + Then for every sweep of your pinions beating, + Ye shall bear a wish to the sunburnt band, + To the stalwart men who are stoutly fighting + With the heat and drought and the dust-storm smiting, + Yet whose life somehow has a strange inviting, + When once to the work they have put their hand. + + Facing it yet! Oh, my friend stout-hearted, + What does it matter for rain or shine, + For the hopes deferred and the gain departed? + Nothing could conquer that heart of thine. + And thy health and strength are beyond confessing + As the only joys that are worth possessing. + May the days to come be as rich in blessing + As the days we spent in the auld lang syne. + + I would fain go back to the old grey river, + To the old bush days when our hearts were light, + But, alas! those days they have fled for ever, + They are like the swans that have swept from sight. + And I know full well that the strangers' faces + Would meet us now in our dearest places; + For our day is dead and has left no traces + But the thoughts that live in my mind to-night. + + There are folk long dead, and our hearts would sicken — + We would grieve for them with a bitter pain, + If the past could live and the dead could quicken, + We then might turn to that life again. + But on lonely nights we would hear them calling, + We should hear their steps on the pathways falling, + We should loathe the life with a hate appalling + In our lonely rides by the ridge and plain. + + . . . . . + + In the silent park is a scent of clover, + And the distant roar of the town is dead, + And I hear once more as the swans fly over + Their far-off clamour from overhead. + They are flying west, by their instinct guided, + And for man likewise is his fate decided, + And griefs apportioned and joys divided + By a mighty power with a purpose dread. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The All Right 'Un + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He came from 'further out', + That land of heat and drought + And dust and gravel. + He got a touch of sun, + And rested at the run + Until his cure was done, + And he could travel. + + When spring had decked the plain, + He flitted off again + As flit the swallows. + And from that western land, + When many months were spanned, + A letter came to hand, + Which read as follows: + + 'Dear sir, I take my pen + In hopes that all your men + And you are hearty. + You think that I've forgot + Your kindness, Mr. Scott, + Oh, no, dear sir, I'm not + That sort of party. + + 'You sometimes bet, I know, + Well, now you'll have a show + The 'books' to frighten. + Up here at Wingadee + Young Billy Fife and me + We're training Strife, and he + Is a all right 'un. + + 'Just now we're running byes, + But, sir, first time he tries + I'll send you word of. + And running 'on the crook' + Their measures we have took, + It is the deadest hook + You ever heard of. + + 'So when we lets him go, + Why, then, I'll let you know, + And you can have a show + To put a mite on. + Now, sir, my leave I'll take, + Yours truly, William Blake. + P.S. — Make no mistake, + <i>HE'S A ALL RIGHT 'UN</i>.' + + . . . . . + + By next week's <i>RIVERINE</i> + I saw my friend had been + A bit too cunning. + I read: 'The racehorse Strife + And jockey William Fife + Disqualified for life — + Suspicious running.' + + But though they spoilt his game, + I reckon all the same + I fairly ought to claim + My friend a white 'un. + For though he wasn't straight, + His deeds would indicate + His heart at any rate + Was 'a all right 'un'. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Boss of the 'Admiral Lynch' + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Did you ever hear tell of Chili? I was readin' the other day + Of President Balmaceda and of how he was sent away. + It seems that he didn't suit 'em — they thought that they'd like a change, + So they started an insurrection and chased him across the range. + They seemed to be restless people — and, judging by what you hear, + They raise up these revolutions 'bout two or three times a year; + And the man that goes out of office, he goes for the boundary <i>QUICK</i>, + For there isn't no vote by ballot — it's bullets that does the trick. + And it ain't like a real battle, where the prisoners' lives are spared, + And they fight till there's one side beaten + and then there's a truce declared, + + And the man that has got the licking goes down like a blooming lord + To hand in his resignation and give up his blooming sword, + And the other man bows and takes it, and everything's all polite — + This wasn't that kind of a picnic, this wasn't that sort of a fight. + For the pris'ners they took — they shot 'em; + no odds were they small or great, + If they'd collared old Balmaceda, they reckoned to shoot him straight. + A lot of bloodthirsty devils they were — but there ain't a doubt + They must have been real plucked 'uns — the way that they fought it out, + And the king of 'em all, I reckon, the man that could stand a pinch, + Was the boss of a one-horse gunboat. They called her the 'Admiral Lynch'. + + Well, he was for Balmaceda, and after the war was done, + And Balmaceda was beaten and his troops had been forced to run, + The other man fetched his army and proceeded to do things brown, + He marched 'em into the fortress and took command of the town. + Cannon and guns and horses troopin' along the road, + Rumblin' over the bridges, and never a foeman showed + Till they came in sight of the harbour, and the very first thing they see + Was this mite of a one-horse gunboat a-lying against the quay, + And there as they watched they noticed a flutter of crimson rag, + And under their eyes he hoisted old Balmaceda's flag. + Well, I tell you it fairly knocked 'em — it just took away their breath, + For he must ha' known if they caught him, 'twas nothin' but sudden death. + An' he'd got no fire in his furnace, no chance to put out to sea, + So he stood by his gun and waited with his vessel against the quay. + + Well, they sent him a civil message to say that the war was done, + And most of his side were corpses, and all that were left had run; + And blood had been spilt sufficient, so they gave him a chance to decide + If he'd haul down his bit of bunting and come on the winning side. + He listened and heard their message, and answered them all polite, + That he was a Spanish hidalgo, and the men of his race <i>MUST</i> fight! + A gunboat against an army, and with never a chance to run, + And them with their hundred cannon and him with a single gun: + The odds were a trifle heavy — but he wasn't the sort to flinch, + So he opened fire on the army, did the boss of the 'Admiral Lynch'. + + They pounded his boat to pieces, they silenced his single gun, + And captured the whole consignment, for none of 'em cared to run; + And it don't say whether they shot him — it don't even give his name — + But whatever they did I'll wager that he went to his graveyard game. + I tell you those old hidalgos so stately and so polite, + They turn out the real Maginnis when it comes to an uphill fight. + There was General Alcantara, who died in the heaviest brunt, + And General Alzereca was killed in the battle's front; + But the king of 'em all, I reckon — the man that could stand a pinch — + Was the man who attacked the army with the gunboat 'Admiral Lynch'. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Bushman's Song + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I'm travellin' down the Castlereagh, and I'm a station hand, + I'm handy with the ropin' pole, I'm handy with the brand, + And I can ride a rowdy colt, or swing the axe all day, + But there's no demand for a station-hand along the Castlereagh. + + So it's shift, boys, shift, for there isn't the slightest doubt + That we've got to make a shift to the stations further out, + With the pack-horse runnin' after, for he follows like a dog, + We must strike across the country at the old jig-jog. + + This old black horse I'm riding — if you'll notice what's his brand, + He wears the crooked R, you see — none better in the land. + He takes a lot of beatin', and the other day we tried, + For a bit of a joke, with a racing bloke, for twenty pounds a side. + + It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn't the slightest doubt + That I had to make him shift, for the money was nearly out; + But he cantered home a winner, with the other one at the flog — + He's a red-hot sort to pick up with his old jig-jog. + + I asked a cove for shearin' once along the Marthaguy: + 'We shear non-union here,' says he. 'I call it scab,' says I. + I looked along the shearin' floor before I turned to go — + There were eight or ten dashed Chinamen a-shearin' in a row. + + It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn't the slightest doubt + It was time to make a shift with the leprosy about. + So I saddled up my horses, and I whistled to my dog, + And I left his scabby station at the old jig-jog. + + I went to Illawarra, where my brother's got a farm, + He has to ask his landlord's leave before he lifts his arm; + The landlord owns the country side — man, woman, dog, and cat, + They haven't the cheek to dare to speak without they touch their hat. + + It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn't the slightest doubt + Their little landlord god and I would soon have fallen out; + Was I to touch my hat to him? — was I his bloomin' dog? + So I makes for up the country at the old jig-jog. + + But it's time that I was movin', I've a mighty way to go + Till I drink artesian water from a thousand feet below; + Till I meet the overlanders with the cattle comin' down, + And I'll work a while till I make a pile, then have a spree in town. + + So, it's shift, boys, shift, for there isn't the slightest doubt + We've got to make a shift to the stations further out; + The pack-horse runs behind us, for he follows like a dog, + And we cross a lot of country at the old jig-jog. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + How Gilbert Died + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There's never a stone at the sleeper's head, + There's never a fence beside, + And the wandering stock on the grave may tread + Unnoticed and undenied, + But the smallest child on the Watershed + Can tell you how Gilbert died. + + For he rode at dusk, with his comrade Dunn + To the hut at the Stockman's Ford, + In the waning light of the sinking sun + They peered with a fierce accord. + They were outlaws both — and on each man's head + Was a thousand pounds reward. + + They had taken toll of the country round, + And the troopers came behind + With a black that tracked like a human hound + In the scrub and the ranges blind: + He could run the trail where a white man's eye + No sign of a track could find. + + He had hunted them out of the One Tree Hill + And over the Old Man Plain, + But they wheeled their tracks with a wild beast's skill, + And they made for the range again. + Then away to the hut where their grandsire dwelt, + They rode with a loosened rein. + + And their grandsire gave them a greeting bold: + 'Come in and rest in peace, + No safer place does the country hold — + With the night pursuit must cease, + And we'll drink success to the roving boys, + And to hell with the black police.' + + But they went to death when they entered there, + In the hut at the Stockman's Ford, + For their grandsire's words were as false as fair — + They were doomed to the hangman's cord. + He had sold them both to the black police + For the sake of the big reward. + + In the depth of night there are forms that glide + As stealthy as serpents creep, + And around the hut where the outlaws hide + They plant in the shadows deep, + And they wait till the first faint flush of dawn + Shall waken their prey from sleep. + + But Gilbert wakes while the night is dark — + A restless sleeper, aye, + He has heard the sound of a sheep-dog's bark, + And his horse's warning neigh, + And he says to his mate, 'There are hawks abroad, + And it's time that we went away.' + + Their rifles stood at the stretcher head, + Their bridles lay to hand, + They wakened the old man out of his bed, + When they heard the sharp command: + 'In the name of the Queen lay down your arms, + Now, Dunn and Gilbert, stand!' + + Then Gilbert reached for his rifle true + That close at his hand he kept, + He pointed it straight at the voice and drew, + But never a flash outleapt, + For the water ran from the rifle breech — + It was drenched while the outlaws slept. + + Then he dropped the piece with a bitter oath, + And he turned to his comrade Dunn: + 'We are sold,' he said, 'we are dead men both, + But there may be a chance for one; + I'll stop and I'll fight with the pistol here, + You take to your heels and run.' + + So Dunn crept out on his hands and knees + In the dim, half-dawning light, + And he made his way to a patch of trees, + And vanished among the night, + And the trackers hunted his tracks all day, + But they never could trace his flight. + + But Gilbert walked from the open door + In a confident style and rash; + He heard at his side the rifles roar, + And he heard the bullets crash. + But he laughed as he lifted his pistol-hand, + And he fired at the rifle flash. + + Then out of the shadows the troopers aimed + At his voice and the pistol sound, + With the rifle flashes the darkness flamed, + He staggered and spun around, + And they riddled his body with rifle balls + As it lay on the blood-soaked ground. + + There's never a stone at the sleeper's head, + There's never a fence beside, + And the wandering stock on the grave may tread + Unnoticed and undenied, + But the smallest child on the Watershed + Can tell you how Gilbert died. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Flying Gang + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I served my time, in the days gone by, + In the railway's clash and clang, + And I worked my way to the end, and I + Was the head of the 'Flying Gang'. + 'Twas a chosen band that was kept at hand + In case of an urgent need, + Was it south or north we were started forth, + And away at our utmost speed. + If word reached town that a bridge was down, + The imperious summons rang — + 'Come out with the pilot engine sharp, + And away with the flying gang.' + + Then a piercing scream and a rush of steam + As the engine moved ahead, + With a measured beat by the slum and street + Of the busy town we fled, + By the uplands bright and the homesteads white, + With the rush of the western gale, + And the pilot swayed with the pace we made + As she rocked on the ringing rail. + And the country children clapped their hands + As the engine's echoes rang, + But their elders said: 'There is work ahead + When they send for the flying gang.' + + Then across the miles of the saltbush plain + That gleamed with the morning dew, + Where the grasses waved like the ripening grain + The pilot engine flew, + A fiery rush in the open bush + Where the grade marks seemed to fly, + And the order sped on the wires ahead, + The pilot <i>MUST</i> go by. + The Governor's special must stand aside, + And the fast express go hang, + Let your orders be that the line is free + For the boys of the flying gang. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Shearing at Castlereagh + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The bell is set a-ringing, and the engine gives a toot, + There's five and thirty shearers here are shearing for the loot, + So stir yourselves, you penners-up, and shove the sheep along, + The musterers are fetching them a hundred thousand strong, + And make your collie dogs speak up — what would the buyers say + In London if the wool was late this year from Castlereagh? + + The man that 'rung' the Tubbo shed is not the ringer here, + That stripling from the Cooma side can teach him how to shear. + They trim away the ragged locks, and rip the cutter goes, + And leaves a track of snowy fleece from brisket to the nose; + It's lovely how they peel it off with never stop nor stay, + They're racing for the ringer's place this year at Castlereagh. + + The man that keeps the cutters sharp is growling in his cage, + He's always in a hurry and he's always in a rage — + 'You clumsy-fisted mutton-heads, you'd turn a fellow sick, + You pass yourselves as shearers, you were born to swing a pick. + Another broken cutter here, that's two you've broke to-day, + It's awful how such crawlers come to shear at Castlereagh.' + + The youngsters picking up the fleece enjoy the merry din, + They throw the classer up the fleece, he throws it to the bin; + The pressers standing by the rack are waiting for the wool, + There's room for just a couple more, the press is nearly full; + Now jump upon the lever, lads, and heave and heave away, + Another bale of golden fleece is branded 'Castlereagh'. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Wind's Message + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There came a whisper down the Bland between the dawn and dark, + Above the tossing of the pines, above the river's flow; + It stirred the boughs of giant gums and stalwart ironbark; + It drifted where the wild ducks played amid the swamps below; + It brought a breath of mountain air from off the hills of pine, + A scent of eucalyptus trees in honey-laden bloom; + And drifting, drifting far away along the southern line + It caught from leaf and grass and fern a subtle strange perfume. + + It reached the toiling city folk, but few there were that heard — + The rattle of their busy life had choked the whisper down; + And some but caught a fresh-blown breeze with scent of pine that stirred + A thought of blue hills far away beyond the smoky town; + And others heard the whisper pass, but could not understand + The magic of the breeze's breath that set their hearts aglow, + Nor how the roving wind could bring across the Overland + A sound of voices silent now and songs of long ago. + + But some that heard the whisper clear were filled with vague unrest; + The breeze had brought its message home, they could not fixed abide; + Their fancies wandered all the day towards the blue hills' breast, + Towards the sunny slopes that lie along the riverside, + The mighty rolling western plains are very fair to see, + Where waving to the passing breeze the silver myalls stand, + But fairer are the giant hills, all rugged though they be, + From which the two great rivers rise that run along the Bland. + + Oh! rocky range and rugged spur and river running clear, + That swings around the sudden bends with swirl of snow-white foam, + Though we, your sons, are far away, we sometimes seem to hear + The message that the breezes bring to call the wanderers home. + The mountain peaks are white with snow that feeds a thousand rills, + Along the river banks the maize grows tall on virgin land, + And we shall live to see once more those sunny southern hills, + And strike once more the bridle track that leads along the Bland. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Johnson's Antidote + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Down along the Snakebite River, where the overlanders camp, + Where the serpents are in millions, all of the most deadly stamp; + Where the station-cook in terror, nearly every time he bakes, + Mixes up among the doughboys half-a-dozen poison-snakes: + Where the wily free-selector walks in armour-plated pants, + And defies the stings of scorpions, and the bites of bull-dog ants: + Where the adder and the viper tear each other by the throat, + There it was that William Johnson sought his snake-bite antidote. + + Johnson was a free-selector, and his brain went rather queer, + For the constant sight of serpents filled him with a deadly fear; + So he tramped his free-selection, morning, afternoon, and night, + Seeking for some great specific that would cure the serpent's bite. + Till King Billy, of the Mooki, chieftain of the flour-bag head, + Told him, 'Spos'n snake bite pfeller, pfeller mostly drop down dead; + Spos'n snake bite old goanna, then you watch a while you see, + Old goanna cure himself with eating little pfeller tree.' + 'That's the cure,' said William Johnson, 'point me out this plant sublime,' + But King Billy, feeling lazy, said he'd go another time. + Thus it came to pass that Johnson, having got the tale by rote, + Followed every stray goanna, seeking for the antidote. + + . . . . . + + Loafing once beside the river, while he thought his heart would break, + There he saw a big goanna fighting with a tiger-snake, + In and out they rolled and wriggled, bit each other, heart and soul, + Till the valiant old goanna swallowed his opponent whole. + Breathless, Johnson sat and watched him, saw him struggle up the bank, + Saw him nibbling at the branches of some bushes, green and rank; + Saw him, happy and contented, lick his lips, as off he crept, + While the bulging in his stomach showed where his opponent slept. + Then a cheer of exultation burst aloud from Johnson's throat; + 'Luck at last,' said he, 'I've struck it! 'tis the famous antidote.' + + 'Here it is, the Grand Elixir, greatest blessing ever known, + Twenty thousand men in India die each year of snakes alone. + Think of all the foreign nations, negro, chow, and blackamoor, + Saved from sudden expiration, by my wondrous snakebite cure. + It will bring me fame and fortune! In the happy days to be, + Men of every clime and nation will be round to gaze on me — + Scientific men in thousands, men of mark and men of note, + Rushing down the Mooki River, after Johnson's antidote. + It will cure Delirium Tremens, when the patient's eyeballs stare + At imaginary spiders, snakes which really are not there. + When he thinks he sees them wriggle, when he thinks he sees them bloat, + It will cure him just to think of Johnson's Snakebite Antidote.' + + Then he rushed to the museum, found a scientific man — + 'Trot me out a deadly serpent, just the deadliest you can; + I intend to let him bite me, all the risk I will endure, + Just to prove the sterling value of my wondrous snakebite cure. + Even though an adder bit me, back to life again I'd float; + Snakes are out of date, I tell you, since I've found the antidote.' + + Said the scientific person, 'If you really want to die, + Go ahead — but, if you're doubtful, let your sheep-dog have a try. + Get a pair of dogs and try it, let the snake give both a nip; + Give your dog the snakebite mixture, let the other fellow rip; + If he dies and yours survives him, then it proves the thing is good. + Will you fetch your dog and try it?' Johnson rather thought he would. + So he went and fetched his canine, hauled him forward by the throat. + 'Stump, old man,' says he, 'we'll show them we've the genwine antidote.' + + Both the dogs were duly loaded with the poison-gland's contents; + Johnson gave his dog the mixture, then sat down to wait events. + 'Mark,' he said, 'in twenty minutes Stump'll be a-rushing round, + While the other wretched creature lies a corpse upon the ground.' + But, alas for William Johnson! ere they'd watched a half-hour's spell + Stumpy was as dead as mutton, t'other dog was live and well. + And the scientific person hurried off with utmost speed, + Tested Johnson's drug and found it was a deadly poison-weed; + Half a tumbler killed an emu, half a spoonful killed a goat, + All the snakes on earth were harmless to that awful antidote. + + . . . . . + + Down along the Mooki River, on the overlanders' camp, + Where the serpents are in millions, all of the most deadly stamp, + Wanders, daily, William Johnson, down among those poisonous hordes, + Shooting every stray goanna, calls them 'black and yaller frauds'. + And King Billy, of the Mooki, cadging for the cast-off coat, + Somehow seems to dodge the subject of the snake-bite antidote. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Ambition and Art + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ambition +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I am the maid of the lustrous eyes + Of great fruition, + Whom the sons of men that are over-wise + Have called Ambition. + + And the world's success is the only goal + I have within me; + The meanest man with the smallest soul + May woo and win me. + + For the lust of power and the pride of place + To all I proffer. + Wilt thou take thy part in the crowded race + For what I offer? + + The choice is thine, and the world is wide — + Thy path is lonely. + I may not lead and I may not guide — + I urge thee only. + + I am just a whip and a spur that smites + To fierce endeavour. + In the restless days and the sleepless nights + I urge thee ever. + + Thou shalt wake from sleep with a startled cry, + In fright upleaping + At a rival's step as it passes by + Whilst thou art sleeping. + + Honour and truth shall be overthrown + In fierce desire; + Thou shalt use thy friend as a stepping-stone + To mount thee higher. + + When the curtain falls on the sordid strife + That seemed so splendid, + Thou shalt look with pain on the wasted life + That thou hast ended. + + Thou hast sold thy life for a guerdon small + In fitful flashes; + There has been reward — but the end of all + Is dust and ashes. + + For the night has come and it brings to naught + Thy projects cherished, + And thine epitaph shall in brass be wrought — + 'He lived and perished.' +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Art +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I wait for thee at the outer gate, + My love, mine only; + Wherefore tarriest thou so late + While I am lonely. + + Thou shalt seek my side with a footstep swift, + In thee implanted + Is the love of Art and the greatest gift + That God has granted. + + And the world's concerns with its rights and wrongs + Shall seem but small things — + Poet or painter, a singer of songs, + Thine art is all things. + + For the wine of life is a woman's love + To keep beside thee; + But the love of Art is a thing above — + A star to guide thee. + + As the years go by with thy love of Art + All undiminished, + Thou shalt end thy days with a quiet heart — + Thy work is finished. + + So the painter fashions a picture strong + That fadeth never, + And the singer singeth a wond'rous song + That lives for ever. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Daylight is Dying + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The daylight is dying + Away in the west, + The wild birds are flying + In silence to rest; + In leafage and frondage + Where shadows are deep, + They pass to its bondage — + The kingdom of sleep. + And watched in their sleeping + By stars in the height, + They rest in your keeping, + Oh, wonderful night. + + When night doth her glories + Of starshine unfold, + 'Tis then that the stories + Of bush-land are told. + Unnumbered I hold them + In memories bright, + But who could unfold them, + Or read them aright? + Beyond all denials + The stars in their glories + The breeze in the myalls + Are part of these stories. + The waving of grasses, + The song of the river + That sings as it passes + For ever and ever, + The hobble-chains' rattle, + The calling of birds, + The lowing of cattle + Must blend with the words. + Without these, indeed, you + Would find it ere long, + As though I should read you + The words of a song + That lamely would linger + When lacking the rune, + The voice of the singer, + The lilt of the tune. + + But, as one half-hearing + An old-time refrain, + With memory clearing, + Recalls it again, + These tales, roughly wrought of + The bush and its ways, + May call back a thought of + The wandering days, + And, blending with each + In the mem'ries that throng, + There haply shall reach + You some echo of song. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + In Defence of the Bush + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + So you're back from up the country, Mister Townsman, where you went, + And you're cursing all the business in a bitter discontent; + Well, we grieve to disappoint you, and it makes us sad to hear + That it wasn't cool and shady — and there wasn't plenty beer, + And the loony bullock snorted when you first came into view; + Well, you know it's not so often that he sees a swell like you; + And the roads were hot and dusty, and the plains were burnt and brown, + And no doubt you're better suited drinking lemon-squash in town. + Yet, perchance, if you should journey down the very track you went + In a month or two at furthest you would wonder what it meant, + Where the sunbaked earth was gasping like a creature in its pain + You would find the grasses waving like a field of summer grain, + And the miles of thirsty gutters blocked with sand and choked with mud, + You would find them mighty rivers with a turbid, sweeping flood; + For the rain and drought and sunshine make no changes in the street, + In the sullen line of buildings and the ceaseless tramp of feet; + But the bush hath moods and changes, as the seasons rise and fall, + And the men who know the bush-land — they are loyal through it all. + + . . . . . + + But you found the bush was dismal and a land of no delight, + Did you chance to hear a chorus in the shearers' huts at night? + Did they 'rise up, William Riley' by the camp-fire's cheery blaze? + Did they rise him as we rose him in the good old droving days? + And the women of the homesteads and the men you chanced to meet — + Were their faces sour and saddened like the 'faces in the street', + And the 'shy selector children' — were they better now or worse + Than the little city urchins who would greet you with a curse? + Is not such a life much better than the squalid street and square + Where the fallen women flaunt it in the fierce electric glare, + Where the sempstress plies her sewing till her eyes are sore and red + In a filthy, dirty attic toiling on for daily bread? + Did you hear no sweeter voices in the music of the bush + Than the roar of trams and 'buses, and the war-whoop of 'the push'? + Did the magpies rouse your slumbers with their carol sweet and strange? + Did you hear the silver chiming of the bell-birds on the range? + But, perchance, the wild birds' music by your senses was despised, + For you say you'll stay in townships till the bush is civilised. + Would you make it a tea-garden and on Sundays have a band + Where the 'blokes' might take their 'donahs', + with a 'public' close at hand? + You had better stick to Sydney and make merry with the 'push', + For the bush will never suit you, and you'll never suit the bush. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Last Week + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh, the new-chum went to the back block run, + But he should have gone there last week. + He tramped ten miles with a loaded gun, + But of turkey or duck he saw never a one, + For he should have been there last week, + They said, + There were flocks of 'em there last week. + + He wended his way to a waterfall, + And he should have gone there last week. + He carried a camera, legs and all, + But the day was hot, and the stream was small, + For he should have gone there last week, + They said. + They drowned a man there last week. + + He went for a drive, and he made a start, + Which should have been made last week, + For the old horse died of a broken heart; + So he footed it home and he dragged the cart — + But the horse was all right last week, + They said. + He trotted a match last week. + + So he asked the bushies who came from far + To visit the town last week, + If they'd dine with him, and they said 'Hurrah!' + But there wasn't a drop in the whisky jar — + You should have been here last week, + He said, + I drank it all up last week! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0043" id="link2H_4_0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Those Names + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The shearers sat in the firelight, hearty and hale and strong, + After the hard day's shearing, passing the joke along: + The 'ringer' that shore a hundred, as they never were shorn before, + And the novice who, toiling bravely, had tommy-hawked half a score, + The tarboy, the cook, and the slushy, the sweeper that swept the board, + The picker-up, and the penner, with the rest of the shearing horde. + There were men from the inland stations + where the skies like a furnace glow, + And men from the Snowy River, the land of the frozen snow; + There were swarthy Queensland drovers who reckoned all land by miles, + And farmers' sons from the Murray, where many a vineyard smiles. + They started at telling stories when they wearied of cards and games, + And to give these stories a flavour they threw in some local names, + And a man from the bleak Monaro, away on the tableland, + He fixed his eyes on the ceiling, and he started to play his hand. + + He told them of Adjintoothbong, where the pine-clad mountains freeze, + And the weight of the snow in summer breaks branches off the trees, + And, as he warmed to the business, he let them have it strong — + Nimitybelle, Conargo, Wheeo, Bongongolong; + He lingered over them fondly, because they recalled to mind + A thought of the old bush homestead, and the girl that he left behind. + Then the shearers all sat silent till a man in the corner rose; + Said he, 'I've travelled a-plenty but never heard names like those. + Out in the western districts, out on the Castlereagh + Most of the names are easy — short for a man to say. + + 'You've heard of Mungrybambone and the Gundabluey pine, + Quobbotha, Girilambone, and Terramungamine, + Quambone, Eunonyhareenyha, Wee Waa, and Buntijo —' + But the rest of the shearers stopped him: + 'For the sake of your jaw, go slow, + If you reckon those names are short ones out where such names prevail, + Just try and remember some long ones before you begin the tale.' + And the man from the western district, though never a word he said, + Just winked with his dexter eyelid, and then he retired to bed. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0044" id="link2H_4_0044"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Bush Christening + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few, + And men of religion are scanty, + On a road never cross'd 'cept by folk that are lost, + One Michael Magee had a shanty. + + Now this Mike was the dad of a ten year old lad, + Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned; + He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest + For the youngster had never been christened. + + And his wife used to cry, 'If the darlin' should die + Saint Peter would not recognise him.' + But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived, + Who agreed straightaway to baptise him. + + Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue, + With his ear to the keyhole was listenin', + And he muttered in fright, while his features turned white, + 'What the divil and all is this christenin'?' + + He was none of your dolts, he had seen them brand colts, + And it seemed to his small understanding, + If the man in the frock made him one of the flock, + It must mean something very like branding. + + So away with a rush he set off for the bush, + While the tears in his eyelids they glistened — + ''Tis outrageous,' says he, 'to brand youngsters like me, + I'll be dashed if I'll stop to be christened!' + + Like a young native dog he ran into a log, + And his father with language uncivil, + Never heeding the 'praste' cried aloud in his haste, + 'Come out and be christened, you divil!' + + But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug, + And his parents in vain might reprove him, + Till his reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke) + 'I've a notion,' says he, 'that'll move him.' + + 'Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prog; + Poke him aisy — don't hurt him or maim him, + 'Tis not long that he'll stand, I've the water at hand, + As he rushes out this end I'll name him. + + 'Here he comes, and for shame! ye've forgotten the name — + Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?' + Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout — + 'Take your chance, anyhow, wid 'Maginnis'!' + + As the howling young cub ran away to the scrub + Where he knew that pursuit would be risky, + The priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his head + That was labelled '<i>MAGINNIS'S WHISKY</i>'! + + And Maginnis Magee has been made a J.P., + And the one thing he hates more than sin is + To be asked by the folk, who have heard of the joke, + How he came to be christened 'Maginnis'! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0045" id="link2H_4_0045"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + How the Favourite Beat Us + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Aye,' said the boozer, 'I tell you it's true, sir, + I once was a punter with plenty of pelf, + But gone is my glory, I'll tell you the story + How I stiffened my horse and got stiffened myself. + + ''Twas a mare called the Cracker, I came down to back her, + But found she was favourite all of a rush, + The folk just did pour on to lay six to four on, + And several bookies were killed in the crush. + + 'It seems old Tomato was stiff, though a starter; + They reckoned him fit for the Caulfield to keep. + The Bloke and the Donah were scratched by their owner, + He only was offered three-fourths of the sweep. + + 'We knew Salamander was slow as a gander, + The mare could have beat him the length of the straight, + And old Manumission was out of condition, + And most of the others were running off weight. + + 'No doubt someone 'blew it', for everyone knew it, + The bets were all gone, and I muttered in spite + 'If I can't get a copper, by Jingo, I'll stop her, + Let the public fall in, it will serve the brutes right.' + + 'I said to the jockey, 'Now, listen, my cocky, + You watch as you're cantering down by the stand, + I'll wait where that toff is and give you the office, + You're only to win if I lift up my hand.' + + 'I then tried to back her — 'What price is the Cracker?' + 'Our books are all full, sir,' each bookie did swear; + My mind, then, I made up, my fortune I played up + I bet every shilling against my own mare. + + 'I strolled to the gateway, the mare in the straightway + Was shifting and dancing, and pawing the ground, + The boy saw me enter and wheeled for his canter, + When a darned great mosquito came buzzing around. + + 'They breed 'em at Hexham, it's risky to vex 'em, + They suck a man dry at a sitting, no doubt, + But just as the mare passed, he fluttered my hair past, + I lifted my hand, and I flattened him out. + + 'I was stunned when they started, the mare simply darted + Away to the front when the flag was let fall, + For none there could match her, and none tried to catch her — + She finished a furlong in front of them all. + + 'You bet that I went for the boy, whom I sent for + The moment he weighed and came out of the stand — + 'Who paid you to win it? Come, own up this minute.' + 'Lord love yer,' said he, 'why you lifted your hand.' + + ''Twas true, by St. Peter, that cursed 'muskeeter' + Had broke me so broke that I hadn't a brown, + And you'll find the best course is when dealing with horses + To win when you're able, and <i>KEEP YOUR HANDS DOWN</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0046" id="link2H_4_0046"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Great Calamity + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MacFierce'un came to Whiskeyhurst + When summer days were hot, + And bided there wi' Jock McThirst, + A brawny brother Scot. + Gude Faith! They made the whisky fly, + Like Highland chieftains true, + And when they'd drunk the beaker dry + They sang 'We are nae fou!' + + 'There is nae folk like oor ain folk, + Sae gallant and sae true.' + They sang the only Scottish joke + Which is, 'We are nae fou.' + + Said bold McThirst, 'Let Saxons jaw + Aboot their great concerns, + But bonny Scotland beats them a', + The land o' cakes and Burns, + The land o' partridge, deer, and grouse, + Fill up your glass, I beg, + There's muckle whusky i' the house, + Forbye what's in the keg.' + + And here a hearty laugh he laughed, + 'Just come wi' me, I beg.' + MacFierce'un saw with pleasure daft + A fifty-gallon keg. + + 'Losh, man, that's grand,' MacFierce'un cried, + 'Saw ever man the like, + Now, wi' the daylight, I maun ride + To meet a Southron tyke, + But I'll be back ere summer's gone, + So bide for me, I beg, + We'll make a grand assault upon + Yon deevil of a keg.' + + . . . . . + + MacFierce'un rode to Whiskeyhurst, + When summer days were gone, + And there he met with Jock McThirst + Was greetin' all alone. + 'McThirst what gars ye look sae blank? + Have all yer wits gane daft? + Has that accursed Southron bank + Called up your overdraft? + Is all your grass burnt up wi' drouth? + Is wool and hides gone flat?' + McThirst replied, 'Gude friend, in truth, + 'Tis muckle waur than that.' + + 'Has sair misfortune cursed your life + That you should weep sae free? + Is harm upon your bonny wife, + The children at your knee? + Is scaith upon your house and hame?' + McThirst upraised his head: + 'My bairns hae done the deed of shame — + 'Twere better they were dead. + + 'To think my bonny infant son + Should do the deed o' guilt — + <i>HE LET THE WHUSKEY SPIGOT RUN, + AND A' THE WHUSKEY'S SPILT!</i>' + + . . . . . + + Upon them both these words did bring + A solemn silence deep, + Gude faith, it is a fearsome thing + To see two strong men weep. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0047" id="link2H_4_0047"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Come-by-Chance + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As I pondered very weary o'er a volume long and dreary — + For the plot was void of interest — 'twas the Postal Guide, in fact, + There I learnt the true location, distance, size, and population + Of each township, town, and village in the radius of the Act. + + And I learnt that Puckawidgee stands beside the Murrumbidgee, + And that Booleroi and Bumble get their letters twice a year, + Also that the post inspector, when he visited Collector, + Closed the office up instanter, and re-opened Dungalear. + + But my languid mood forsook me, when I found a name that took me, + Quite by chance I came across it — 'Come-by-Chance' was what I read; + No location was assigned it, not a thing to help one find it, + Just an N which stood for northward, and the rest was all unsaid. + + I shall leave my home, and forthward wander stoutly to the northward + Till I come by chance across it, and I'll straightway settle down, + For there can't be any hurry, nor the slightest cause for worry + Where the telegraph don't reach you nor the railways run to town. + + And one's letters and exchanges come by chance across the ranges, + Where a wiry young Australian leads a pack-horse once a week, + And the good news grows by keeping, and you're spared the pain of weeping + Over bad news when the mailman drops the letters in the creek. + + But I fear, and more's the pity, that there's really no such city, + For there's not a man can find it of the shrewdest folk I know, + 'Come-by-chance', be sure it never means a land of fierce endeavour, + It is just the careless country where the dreamers only go. + + . . . . . + + Though we work and toil and hustle in our life of haste and bustle, + All that makes our life worth living comes unstriven for and free; + Man may weary and importune, but the fickle goddess Fortune + Deals him out his pain or pleasure, careless what his worth may be. + + All the happy times entrancing, days of sport and nights of dancing, + Moonlit rides and stolen kisses, pouting lips and loving glance: + When you think of these be certain you have looked behind the curtain, + You have had the luck to linger just a while in 'Come-by-chance'. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0048" id="link2H_4_0048"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Under the Shadow of Kiley's Hill + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + This is the place where they all were bred; + Some of the rafters are standing still; + Now they are scattered and lost and dead, + Every one from the old nest fled, + Out of the shadow of Kiley's Hill. + + Better it is that they ne'er came back — + Changes and chances are quickly rung; + Now the old homestead is gone to rack, + Green is the grass on the well-worn track + Down by the gate where the roses clung. + + Gone is the garden they kept with care; + Left to decay at its own sweet will, + Fruit trees and flower beds eaten bare, + Cattle and sheep where the roses were, + Under the shadow of Kiley's Hill. + + Where are the children that throve and grew + In the old homestead in days gone by? + One is away on the far Barcoo + Watching his cattle the long year through, + Watching them starve in the droughts and die. + + One in the town where all cares are rife, + Weary with troubles that cramp and kill, + Fain would be done with the restless strife, + Fain would go back to the old bush life, + Back to the shadow of Kiley's Hill. + + One is away on the roving quest, + Seeking his share of the golden spoil, + Out in the wastes of the trackless west, + Wandering ever he gives the best + Of his years and strength to the hopeless toil. + + What of the parents? That unkept mound + Shows where they slumber united still; + Rough is their grave, but they sleep as sound + Out on the range as on holy ground, + Under the shadow of Kiley's Hill. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0049" id="link2H_4_0049"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Jim Carew + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Born of a thoroughbred English race, + Well proportioned and closely knit, + Neat of figure and handsome face, + Always ready and always fit, + Hard and wiry of limb and thew, + That was the ne'er-do-well Jim Carew. + + One of the sons of the good old land — + Many a year since his like was known; + Never a game but he took command, + Never a sport but he held his own; + Gained at his college a triple blue — + Good as they make them was Jim Carew. + + Came to grief — was it card or horse? + Nobody asked and nobody cared; + Ship him away to the bush of course, + Ne'er-do-well fellows are easily spared; + Only of women a tolerable few + Sorrowed at parting with Jim Carew. + + Gentleman Jim on the cattle camp, + Sitting his horse with an easy grace; + But the reckless living has left its stamp + In the deep drawn lines of that handsome face, + And a harder look in those eyes of blue: + Prompt at a quarrel is Jim Carew. + + Billy the Lasher was out for gore — + Twelve-stone navvy with chest of hair, + When he opened out with a hungry roar + On a ten-stone man it was hardly fair; + But his wife was wise if his face she knew + By the time you were done with him, Jim Carew. + + Gentleman Jim in the stockmen's hut + Works with them, toils with them, side by side; + As to his past — well, his lips are shut. + 'Gentleman once,' say his mates with pride; + And the wildest Cornstalk can ne'er outdo + In feats of recklessness, Jim Carew. + + What should he live for? A dull despair! + Drink is his master and drags him down, + Water of Lethe that drowns all care. + Gentleman Jim has a lot to drown, + And he reigns as king with a drunken crew, + Sinking to misery, Jim Carew. + + Such is the end of the ne'er-do-well — + Jimmy the Boozer, all down at heel; + But he straightens up when he's asked to tell + His name and race, and a flash of steel + Still lightens up in those eyes of blue — + 'I am, or — no, I <i>WAS</i> — Jim Carew.' +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0050" id="link2H_4_0050"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Swagman's Rest + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We buried old Bob where the bloodwoods wave + At the foot of the Eaglehawk; + We fashioned a cross on the old man's grave, + For fear that his ghost might walk; + We carved his name on a bloodwood tree, + With the date of his sad decease, + And in place of 'Died from effects of spree', + We wrote 'May he rest in peace'. + + For Bob was known on the Overland, + A regular old bush wag, + Tramping along in the dust and sand, + Humping his well-worn swag. + He would camp for days in the river-bed, + And loiter and 'fish for whales'. + 'I'm into the swagman's yard,' he said, + 'And I never shall find the rails.' + + But he found the rails on that summer night + For a better place — or worse, + As we watched by turns in the flickering light + With an old black gin for nurse. + The breeze came in with the scent of pine, + The river sounded clear, + When a change came on, and we saw the sign + That told us the end was near. + + But he spoke in a cultured voice and low — + 'I fancy they've “sent the route”; + I once was an army man, you know, + Though now I'm a drunken brute; + But bury me out where the bloodwoods wave, + And if ever you're fairly stuck, + Just take and shovel me out of the grave + And, maybe, I'll bring you luck. + + 'For I've always heard —' here his voice fell weak, + His strength was well-nigh sped, + He gasped and struggled and tried to speak, + Then fell in a moment — dead. + Thus ended a wasted life and hard, + Of energies misapplied — + Old Bob was out of the 'swagman's yard' + And over the Great Divide. + + . . . . . + + The drought came down on the field and flock, + And never a raindrop fell, + Though the tortured moans of the starving stock + Might soften a fiend from hell. + And we thought of the hint that the swagman gave + When he went to the Great Unseen — + We shovelled the skeleton out of the grave + To see what his hint might mean. + + We dug where the cross and the grave posts were, + We shovelled away the mould, + When sudden a vein of quartz lay bare + All gleaming with yellow gold. + 'Twas a reef with never a fault nor baulk + That ran from the range's crest, + And the richest mine on the Eaglehawk + Is known as 'The Swagman's Rest'. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [The End.] +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0051" id="link2H_4_0051"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + [From the section of Advertisements at the end of the 1911 printing.] + </h2> + <p> + THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER, AND OTHER VERSES. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + By A. B. Paterson. +</pre> + <p> + THE LITERARY YEAR BOOK: “The immediate success of this book of bush + ballads is without parallel in Colonial literary annals, nor can any + living English or American poet boast so wide a public, always excepting + Mr. Rudyard Kipling.” + </p> + <p> + SPECTATOR: “These lines have the true lyrical cry in them. Eloquent and + ardent verses.” + </p> + <p> + ATHENAEUM: “Swinging, rattling ballads of ready humour, ready pathos, and + crowding adventure. ... Stirring and entertaining ballads about great + rides, in which the lines gallop like the very hoofs of the horses.” + </p> + <p> + THE TIMES: “At his best he compares not unfavourably with the author of + 'Barrack-Room Ballads'.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. A. Patchett Martin, in LITERATURE (London): “In my opinion, it is the + absolutely un-English, thoroughly Australian style and character of these + new bush bards which has given them such immediate popularity, such wide + vogue, among all classes of the rising native generation.” + </p> + <p> + WESTMINSTER GAZETTE: “Australia has produced in Mr. A. B. Paterson a + national poet whose bush ballads are as distinctly characteristic of the + country as Burns's poetry is characteristic of Scotland.” + </p> + <p> + THE SCOTSMAN: “A book like this... is worth a dozen of the aspiring, + idealistic sort, since it has a deal of rough laughter and a dash of real + tears in its composition.” + </p> + <p> + GLASGOW HERALD: “These ballads... are full of such go that the mere + reading of them make the blood tingle.... But there are other things in + Mr. Paterson's book besides mere racing and chasing, and each piece bears + the mark of special local knowledge, feeling, and colour. The poet has + also a note of pathos, which is always wholesome.” + </p> + <p> + LITERARY WORLD: “He gallops along with a by no means doubtful music, + shouting his vigorous songs as he rides in pursuit of wild bush horses, + constraining us to listen and applaud by dint of his manly tones and + capital subjects... We turn to Mr. Paterson's roaring muse with + instantaneous gratitude.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Man from Snowy River, by +Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER *** + +***** This file should be named 213-h.htm or 213-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/1/213/ + +Produced by A. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Man from Snowy River + +Author: Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson + +Posting Date: July 11, 2008 [EBook #213] +Release Date: February, 1995 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER *** + + + + +Produced by A. Light, and Sheridan Ash + + + + + +THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER AND OTHER VERSES + +(Second edition) + +by Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson + +[Australian Poet, Reporter -- 1864-1941.] + + +[Note on text: Italicized stanzas will be indented 5 spaces. +Italicized words or phrases will be capitalized. +Lines longer than 75 characters have been broken according to metre, +and the continuation is indented two spaces. Also, +some obvious errors, after being confirmed against other sources, +have been corrected.] + + +[Note on content: Banjo Paterson and Henry Lawson were writing for +the Sydney 'Bulletin' in 1892 when Lawson suggested a 'duel' of poetry +to increase the number of poems they could sell to the paper. +It was apparently entered into in all fun, though there are reports +that Lawson was bitter about it later. 'In Defence of the Bush', +included in this selection, was one of Paterson's replies to Lawson.] + + +[The 1913 printing (Sydney, Fifty-third Thousand) of the Second Edition +(first published in 1902) was used in the preparation of this etext. +First edition was first published in 1895.] + + + + +THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER AND OTHER VERSES + +by A. B. Paterson ("The Banjo") + +with preface by Rolf Boldrewood + + + + + +Preface + + + +It is not so easy to write ballads descriptive of the bushland of Australia +as on light consideration would appear. Reasonably good verse +on the subject has been supplied in sufficient quantity. +But the maker of folksongs for our newborn nation requires +a somewhat rare combination of gifts and experiences. +Dowered with the poet's heart, he must yet have passed his 'wander-jaehre' +amid the stern solitude of the Austral waste -- must have ridden the race +in the back-block township, guided the reckless stock-horse +adown the mountain spur, and followed the night-long moving, +spectral-seeming herd 'in the droving days'. Amid such scarce +congenial surroundings comes oft that finer sense which renders visible +bright gleams of humour, pathos, and romance, which, +like undiscovered gold, await the fortunate adventurer. +That the author has touched this treasure-trove, not less delicately +than distinctly, no true Australian will deny. In my opinion +this collection comprises the best bush ballads written +since the death of Lindsay Gordon. + +Rolf Boldrewood + + +A number of these verses are now published for the first time, +most of the others were written for and appeared in "The Bulletin" +(Sydney, N.S.W.), and are therefore already widely known +to readers in Australasia. + +A. B. Paterson + + + + + + +Prelude + + + + I have gathered these stories afar, + In the wind and the rain, + In the land where the cattle camps are, + On the edge of the plain. + On the overland routes of the west, + When the watches were long, + I have fashioned in earnest and jest + These fragments of song. + + They are just the rude stories one hears + In sadness and mirth, + The records of wandering years, + And scant is their worth + Though their merits indeed are but slight, + I shall not repine, + If they give you one moment's delight, + Old comrades of mine. + + + + + + +Contents with First Lines: + + + + Prelude + I have gathered these stories afar, + + The Man from Snowy River + There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around + + Old Pardon, the Son of Reprieve + You never heard tell of the story? + + Clancy of the Overflow + I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better + + Conroy's Gap + This was the way of it, don't you know -- + + Our New Horse + The boys had come back from the races + + An Idyll of Dandaloo + On Western plains, where shade is not, + + The Geebung Polo Club + It was somewhere up the country, in a land of rock and scrub, + + The Travelling Post Office + The roving breezes come and go, the reed beds sweep and sway, + + Saltbush Bill + Now this is the law of the Overland that all in the West obey, + + A Mountain Station + I bought a run a while ago, + + Been There Before + There came a stranger to Walgett town, + + The Man Who Was Away + The widow sought the lawyer's room with children three in tow, + + The Man from Ironbark + It was the man from Ironbark who struck the Sydney town, + + The Open Steeplechase + I had ridden over hurdles up the country once or twice, + + The Amateur Rider + _HIM_ going to ride for us! _HIM_ -- + with the pants and the eyeglass and all. + + On Kiley's Run + The roving breezes come and go + + Frying Pan's Theology + Scene: On Monaro. + + The Two Devines + It was shearing-time at the Myall Lake, + + In the Droving Days + 'Only a pound,' said the auctioneer, + + Lost + 'He ought to be home,' said the old man, + 'without there's something amiss. + + Over the Range + Little bush maiden, wondering-eyed, + + Only a Jockey + Out in the grey cheerless chill of the morning light, + + How M'Ginnis Went Missing + Let us cease our idle chatter, + + A Voice from the Town + I thought, in the days of the droving, + + A Bunch of Roses + Roses ruddy and roses white, + + Black Swans + As I lie at rest on a patch of clover + + The All Right 'Un + He came from 'further out', + + The Boss of the 'Admiral Lynch' + Did you ever hear tell of Chili? I was readin' the other day + + A Bushman's Song + I'm travellin' down the Castlereagh, and I'm a station hand, + + How Gilbert Died + There's never a stone at the sleeper's head, + + The Flying Gang + I served my time, in the days gone by, + + Shearing at Castlereagh + The bell is set a-ringing, and the engine gives a toot, + + The Wind's Message + There came a whisper down the Bland between the dawn and dark, + + Johnson's Antidote + Down along the Snakebite River, where the overlanders camp, + + Ambition and Art + I am the maid of the lustrous eyes + + The Daylight is Dying + The daylight is dying + + In Defence of the Bush + So you're back from up the country, Mister Townsman, where you went, + + Last Week + Oh, the new-chum went to the back block run, + + Those Names + The shearers sat in the firelight, hearty and hale and strong, + + A Bush Christening + On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few, + + How the Favourite Beat Us + 'Aye,' said the boozer, 'I tell you it's true, sir, + + The Great Calamity + MacFierce'un came to Whiskeyhurst + + Come-by-Chance + As I pondered very weary o'er a volume long and dreary -- + + Under the Shadow of Kiley's Hill + This is the place where they all were bred; + + Jim Carew + Born of a thoroughbred English race, + + The Swagman's Rest + We buried old Bob where the bloodwoods wave + + + + + +THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER AND OTHER VERSES + + + + + +The Man from Snowy River + + + + There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around + That the colt from old Regret had got away, + And had joined the wild bush horses -- he was worth a thousand pound, + So all the cracks had gathered to the fray. + All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far + Had mustered at the homestead overnight, + For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are, + And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight. + + There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup, + The old man with his hair as white as snow; + But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up -- + He would go wherever horse and man could go. + And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand, + No better horseman ever held the reins; + For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand, + He learnt to ride while droving on the plains. + + And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast, + He was something like a racehorse undersized, + With a touch of Timor pony -- three parts thoroughbred at least -- + And such as are by mountain horsemen prized. + He was hard and tough and wiry -- just the sort that won't say die -- + There was courage in his quick impatient tread; + And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye, + And the proud and lofty carriage of his head. + + But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay, + And the old man said, 'That horse will never do + For a long and tiring gallop -- lad, you'd better stop away, + Those hills are far too rough for such as you.' + So he waited sad and wistful -- only Clancy stood his friend -- + 'I think we ought to let him come,' he said; + 'I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end, + For both his horse and he are mountain bred. + + 'He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side, + Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough, + Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride, + The man that holds his own is good enough. + And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home, + Where the river runs those giant hills between; + I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam, + But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen.' + + So he went -- they found the horses by the big mimosa clump -- + They raced away towards the mountain's brow, + And the old man gave his orders, 'Boys, go at them from the jump, + No use to try for fancy riding now. + And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right. + Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills, + For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight, + If once they gain the shelter of those hills.' + + So Clancy rode to wheel them -- he was racing on the wing + Where the best and boldest riders take their place, + And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring + With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face. + Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash, + But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view, + And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash, + And off into the mountain scrub they flew. + + Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black + Resounded to the thunder of their tread, + And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back + From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead. + And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way, + Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide; + And the old man muttered fiercely, 'We may bid the mob good day, + _NO_ man can hold them down the other side.' + + When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull, + It well might make the boldest hold their breath, + The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full + Of wombat holes, and any slip was death. + But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head, + And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer, + And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed, + While the others stood and watched in very fear. + + He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet, + He cleared the fallen timber in his stride, + And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat -- + It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride. + Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground, + Down the hillside at a racing pace he went; + And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound, + At the bottom of that terrible descent. + + He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill, + And the watchers on the mountain standing mute, + Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still, + As he raced across the clearing in pursuit. + Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met + In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals + On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet, + With the man from Snowy River at their heels. + + And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam. + He followed like a bloodhound on their track, + Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home, + And alone and unassisted brought them back. + But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot, + He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur; + But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot, + For never yet was mountain horse a cur. + + And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise + Their torn and rugged battlements on high, + Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze + At midnight in the cold and frosty sky, + And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway + To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide, + The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day, + And the stockmen tell the story of his ride. + + + + +Old Pardon, the Son of Reprieve + + + + You never heard tell of the story? + Well, now, I can hardly believe! + Never heard of the honour and glory + Of Pardon, the son of Reprieve? + But maybe you're only a Johnnie + And don't know a horse from a hoe? + Well, well, don't get angry, my sonny, + But, really, a young un should know. + + They bred him out back on the 'Never', + His mother was Mameluke breed. + To the front -- and then stay there -- was ever + The root of the Mameluke creed. + He seemed to inherit their wiry + Strong frames -- and their pluck to receive -- + As hard as a flint and as fiery + Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve. + + We ran him at many a meeting + At crossing and gully and town, + And nothing could give him a beating -- + At least when our money was down. + For weight wouldn't stop him, nor distance, + Nor odds, though the others were fast, + He'd race with a dogged persistence, + And wear them all down at the last. + + At the Turon the Yattendon filly + Led by lengths at the mile-and-a-half, + And we all began to look silly, + While _HER_ crowd were starting to laugh; + But the old horse came faster and faster, + His pluck told its tale, and his strength, + He gained on her, caught her, and passed her, + And won it, hands-down, by a length. + + And then we swooped down on Menindie + To run for the President's Cup -- + Oh! that's a sweet township -- a shindy + To them is board, lodging, and sup. + Eye-openers they are, and their system + Is never to suffer defeat; + It's 'win, tie, or wrangle' -- to best 'em + You must lose 'em, or else it's 'dead heat'. + + We strolled down the township and found 'em + At drinking and gaming and play; + If sorrows they had, why they drowned 'em, + And betting was soon under way. + Their horses were good 'uns and fit 'uns, + There was plenty of cash in the town; + They backed their own horses like Britons, + And, Lord! how _WE_ rattled it down! + + With gladness we thought of the morrow, + We counted our wagers with glee, + A simile homely to borrow -- + 'There was plenty of milk in our tea.' + You see we were green; and we never + Had even a thought of foul play, + Though we well might have known that the clever + Division would 'put us away'. + + Experience 'docet', they tell us, + At least so I've frequently heard, + But, 'dosing' or 'stuffing', those fellows + Were up to each move on the board: + They got to his stall -- it is sinful + To think what such villains would do -- + And they gave him a regular skinful + Of barley -- green barley -- to chew. + + He munched it all night, and we found him + Next morning as full as a hog -- + The girths wouldn't nearly meet round him; + He looked like an overfed frog. + We saw we were done like a dinner -- + The odds were a thousand to one + Against Pardon turning up winner, + 'Twas cruel to ask him to run. + + We got to the course with our troubles, + A crestfallen couple were we; + And we heard the 'books' calling the doubles -- + A roar like the surf of the sea; + And over the tumult and louder + Rang 'Any price Pardon, I lay!' + Says Jimmy, 'The children of Judah + Are out on the warpath to-day.' + + Three miles in three heats: -- Ah, my sonny, + The horses in those days were stout, + They had to run well to win money; + I don't see such horses about. + Your six-furlong vermin that scamper + Half-a-mile with their feather-weight up; + They wouldn't earn much of their damper + In a race like the President's Cup. + + The first heat was soon set a-going; + The Dancer went off to the front; + The Don on his quarters was showing, + With Pardon right out of the hunt. + He rolled and he weltered and wallowed -- + You'd kick your hat faster, I'll bet; + They finished all bunched, and he followed + All lathered and dripping with sweat. + + But troubles came thicker upon us, + For while we were rubbing him dry + The stewards came over to warn us: + 'We hear you are running a bye! + If Pardon don't spiel like tarnation + And win the next heat -- if he can -- + He'll earn a disqualification; + Just think over _THAT_, now, my man!' + + Our money all gone and our credit, + Our horse couldn't gallop a yard; + And then people thought that _WE_ did it! + It really was terribly hard. + We were objects of mirth and derision + To folk in the lawn and the stand, + And the yells of the clever division + Of 'Any price Pardon!' were grand. + + We still had a chance for the money, + Two heats still remained to be run; + If both fell to us -- why, my sonny, + The clever division were done. + And Pardon was better, we reckoned, + His sickness was passing away, + So he went to the post for the second + And principal heat of the day. + + They're off and away with a rattle, + Like dogs from the leashes let slip, + And right at the back of the battle + He followed them under the whip. + They gained ten good lengths on him quickly + He dropped right away from the pack; + I tell you it made me feel sickly + To see the blue jacket fall back. + + Our very last hope had departed -- + We thought the old fellow was done, + When all of a sudden he started + To go like a shot from a gun. + His chances seemed slight to embolden + Our hearts; but, with teeth firmly set, + We thought, 'Now or never! The old 'un + May reckon with some of 'em yet.' + + Then loud rose the war-cry for Pardon; + He swept like the wind down the dip, + And over the rise by the garden, + The jockey was done with the whip + The field were at sixes and sevens -- + The pace at the first had been fast -- + And hope seemed to drop from the heavens, + For Pardon was coming at last. + + And how he did come! It was splendid; + He gained on them yards every bound, + Stretching out like a greyhound extended, + His girth laid right down on the ground. + A shimmer of silk in the cedars + As into the running they wheeled, + And out flashed the whips on the leaders, + For Pardon had collared the field. + + Then right through the ruck he came sailing -- + I knew that the battle was won -- + The son of Haphazard was failing, + The Yattendon filly was done; + He cut down the Don and the Dancer, + He raced clean away from the mare -- + He's in front! Catch him now if you can, sir! + And up went my hat in the air! + + Then loud from the lawn and the garden + Rose offers of 'Ten to one _ON!_' + 'Who'll bet on the field? I back Pardon!' + No use; all the money was gone. + He came for the third heat light-hearted, + A-jumping and dancing about; + The others were done ere they started + Crestfallen, and tired, and worn out. + + He won it, and ran it much faster + Than even the first, I believe + Oh, he was the daddy, the master, + Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve. + He showed 'em the method to travel -- + The boy sat as still as a stone -- + They never could see him for gravel; + He came in hard-held, and alone. + + . . . . . + + But he's old -- and his eyes are grown hollow; + Like me, with my thatch of the snow; + When he dies, then I hope I may follow, + And go where the racehorses go. + I don't want no harping nor singing -- + Such things with my style don't agree; + Where the hoofs of the horses are ringing + There's music sufficient for me. + + And surely the thoroughbred horses + Will rise up again and begin + Fresh races on far-away courses, + And p'raps they might let me slip in. + It would look rather well the race-card on + 'Mongst Cherubs and Seraphs and things, + 'Angel Harrison's black gelding Pardon, + Blue halo, white body and wings.' + + And if they have racing hereafter, + (And who is to say they will not?) + When the cheers and the shouting and laughter + Proclaim that the battle grows hot; + As they come down the racecourse a-steering, + He'll rush to the front, I believe; + And you'll hear the great multitude cheering + For Pardon, the son of Reprieve. + + + + +Clancy of the Overflow + + + + I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better + Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago, + He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him, + Just 'on spec', addressed as follows, 'Clancy, of The Overflow'. + + And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected, + (And I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar) + 'Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it: + 'Clancy's gone to Queensland droving, and we don't know where he are.' + + . . . . . + + In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy + Gone a-droving 'down the Cooper' where the Western drovers go; + As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing, + For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know. + + And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him + In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars, + And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended, + And at night the wond'rous glory of the everlasting stars. + + . . . . . + + I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy + Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall, + And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city + Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all + + And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle + Of the tramways and the 'buses making hurry down the street, + And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting, + Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet. + + And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me + As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste, + With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy, + For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste. + + And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy, + Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go, + While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal -- + But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of 'The Overflow'. + + + + +Conroy's Gap + + + + This was the way of it, don't you know -- + Ryan was 'wanted' for stealing sheep, + And never a trooper, high or low, + Could find him -- catch a weasel asleep! + Till Trooper Scott, from the Stockman's Ford -- + A bushman, too, as I've heard them tell -- + Chanced to find him drunk as a lord + Round at the Shadow of Death Hotel. + + D'you know the place? It's a wayside inn, + A low grog-shanty -- a bushman trap, + Hiding away in its shame and sin + Under the shelter of Conroy's Gap -- + Under the shade of that frowning range, + The roughest crowd that ever drew breath -- + Thieves and rowdies, uncouth and strange, + Were mustered round at the Shadow of Death. + + The trooper knew that his man would slide + Like a dingo pup, if he saw the chance; + And with half a start on the mountain side + Ryan would lead him a merry dance. + Drunk as he was when the trooper came, + To him that did not matter a rap -- + Drunk or sober, he was the same, + The boldest rider in Conroy's Gap. + + 'I want you, Ryan,' the trooper said, + 'And listen to me, if you dare resist, + So help me heaven, I'll shoot you dead!' + He snapped the steel on his prisoner's wrist, + And Ryan, hearing the handcuffs click, + Recovered his wits as they turned to go, + For fright will sober a man as quick + As all the drugs that the doctors know. + + There was a girl in that rough bar + Went by the name of Kate Carew, + Quiet and shy as the bush girls are, + But ready-witted and plucky, too. + She loved this Ryan, or so they say, + And passing by, while her eyes were dim + With tears, she said in a careless way, + 'The Swagman's round in the stable, Jim.' + + Spoken too low for the trooper's ear, + Why should she care if he heard or not? + Plenty of swagmen far and near, + And yet to Ryan it meant a lot. + That was the name of the grandest horse + In all the district from east to west + In every show ring, on every course + They always counted the Swagman best. + + He was a wonder, a raking bay -- + One of the grand old Snowdon strain -- + One of the sort that could race and stay + With his mighty limbs and his length of rein. + Born and bred on the mountain side, + He could race through scrub like a kangaroo, + The girl herself on his back might ride, + And the Swagman would carry her safely through. + + He would travel gaily from daylight's flush + Till after the stars hung out their lamps, + There was never his like in the open bush, + And never his match on the cattle-camps. + For faster horses might well be found + On racing tracks, or a plain's extent, + But few, if any, on broken ground + Could see the way that the Swagman went. + + When this girl's father, old Jim Carew, + Was droving out on the Castlereagh + With Conroy's cattle, a wire came through + To say that his wife couldn't live the day. + And he was a hundred miles from home, + As flies the crow, with never a track, + Through plains as pathless as ocean's foam, + He mounted straight on the Swagman's back. + + He left the camp by the sundown light, + And the settlers out on the Marthaguy + Awoke and heard, in the dead of night, + A single horseman hurrying by. + He crossed the Bogan at Dandaloo, + And many a mile of the silent plain + That lonely rider behind him threw + Before they settled to sleep again. + + He rode all night and he steered his course + By the shining stars with a bushman's skill, + And every time that he pressed his horse + The Swagman answered him gamely still. + He neared his home as the east was bright, + The doctor met him outside the town: + 'Carew! How far did you come last night?' + 'A hundred miles since the sun went down.' + + And his wife got round, and an oath he passed, + So long as he or one of his breed + Could raise a coin, though it took their last + The Swagman never should want a feed. + And Kate Carew, when her father died, + She kept the horse and she kept him well: + The pride of the district far and wide, + He lived in style at the bush hotel. + + Such was the Swagman; and Ryan knew + Nothing about could pace the crack; + Little he'd care for the man in blue + If once he got on the Swagman's back. + But how to do it? A word let fall + Gave him the hint as the girl passed by; + Nothing but 'Swagman -- stable-wall; + 'Go to the stable and mind your eye.' + + He caught her meaning, and quickly turned + To the trooper: 'Reckon you'll gain a stripe + By arresting me, and it's easily earned; + Let's go to the stable and get my pipe, + The Swagman has it.' So off they went, + And soon as ever they turned their backs + The girl slipped down, on some errand bent + Behind the stable, and seized an axe. + + The trooper stood at the stable door + While Ryan went in quite cool and slow, + And then (the trick had been played before) + The girl outside gave the wall a blow. + Three slabs fell out of the stable wall -- + 'Twas done 'fore ever the trooper knew -- + And Ryan, as soon as he saw them fall, + Mounted the Swagman and rushed him through. + + The trooper heard the hoof-beats ring + In the stable yard, and he slammed the gate, + But the Swagman rose with a mighty spring + At the fence, and the trooper fired too late, + As they raced away and his shots flew wide + And Ryan no longer need care a rap, + For never a horse that was lapped in hide + Could catch the Swagman in Conroy's Gap. + + And that's the story. You want to know + If Ryan came back to his Kate Carew; + Of course he should have, as stories go, + But the worst of it is, this story's true: + And in real life it's a certain rule, + Whatever poets and authors say + Of high-toned robbers and all their school, + These horsethief fellows aren't built that way. + + Come back! Don't hope it -- the slinking hound, + He sloped across to the Queensland side, + And sold the Swagman for fifty pound, + And stole the money, and more beside. + And took to drink, and by some good chance + Was killed -- thrown out of a stolen trap. + And that was the end of this small romance, + The end of the story of Conroy's Gap. + + + + +Our New Horse + + + + The boys had come back from the races + All silent and down on their luck; + They'd backed 'em, straight out and for places, + But never a winner they struck. + They lost their good money on Slogan, + And fell, most uncommonly flat, + When Partner, the pride of the Bogan, + Was beaten by Aristocrat. + + And one said, 'I move that instanter + We sell out our horses and quit, + The brutes ought to win in a canter, + Such trials they do when they're fit. + The last one they ran was a snorter -- + A gallop to gladden one's heart -- + Two-twelve for a mile and a quarter, + And finished as straight as a dart. + + 'And then when I think that they're ready + To win me a nice little swag, + They are licked like the veriest neddy -- + They're licked from the fall of the flag. + The mare held her own to the stable, + She died out to nothing at that, + And Partner he never seemed able + To pace it with Aristocrat. + + 'And times have been bad, and the seasons + Don't promise to be of the best; + In short, boys, there's plenty of reasons + For giving the racing a rest. + The mare can be kept on the station -- + Her breeding is good as can be -- + But Partner, his next destination + Is rather a trouble to me. + + 'We can't sell him here, for they know him + As well as the clerk of the course; + He's raced and won races till, blow him, + He's done as a handicap horse. + A jady, uncertain performer, + They weight him right out of the hunt, + And clap it on warmer and warmer + Whenever he gets near the front. + + 'It's no use to paint him or dot him + Or put any 'fake' on his brand, + For bushmen are smart, and they'd spot him + In any sale-yard in the land. + The folk about here could all tell him, + Could swear to each separate hair; + Let us send him to Sydney and sell him, + There's plenty of Jugginses there. + + 'We'll call him a maiden, and treat 'em + To trials will open their eyes, + We'll run their best horses and beat 'em, + And then won't they think him a prize. + I pity the fellow that buys him, + He'll find in a very short space, + No matter how highly he tries him, + The beggar won't _RACE_ in a race.' + + . . . . . + + Next week, under 'Seller and Buyer', + Appeared in the _DAILY GAZETTE_: + 'A racehorse for sale, and a flyer; + Has never been started as yet; + A trial will show what his pace is; + The buyer can get him in light, + And win all the handicap races. + Apply here before Wednesday night.' + + He sold for a hundred and thirty, + Because of a gallop he had + One morning with Bluefish and Bertie, + And donkey-licked both of 'em bad. + And when the old horse had departed, + The life on the station grew tame; + The race-track was dull and deserted, + The boys had gone back on the game. + + . . . . . + + The winter rolled by, and the station + Was green with the garland of spring + A spirit of glad exultation + Awoke in each animate thing. + And all the old love, the old longing, + Broke out in the breasts of the boys, + The visions of racing came thronging + With all its delirious joys. + + The rushing of floods in their courses, + The rattle of rain on the roofs + Recalled the fierce rush of the horses, + The thunder of galloping hoofs. + And soon one broke out: 'I can suffer + No longer the life of a slug, + The man that don't race is a duffer, + Let's have one more run for the mug. + + 'Why, _EVERYTHING_ races, no matter + Whatever its method may be: + The waterfowl hold a regatta; + The 'possums run heats up a tree; + The emus are constantly sprinting + A handicap out on the plain; + It seems like all nature was hinting, + 'Tis time to be at it again. + + 'The cockatoo parrots are talking + Of races to far away lands; + The native companions are walking + A go-as-you-please on the sands; + The little foals gallop for pastime; + The wallabies race down the gap; + Let's try it once more for the last time, + Bring out the old jacket and cap. + + 'And now for a horse; we might try one + Of those that are bred on the place, + But I think it better to buy one, + A horse that has proved he can race. + Let us send down to Sydney to Skinner, + A thorough good judge who can ride, + And ask him to buy us a spinner + To clean out the whole countryside.' + + They wrote him a letter as follows: + 'We want you to buy us a horse; + He must have the speed to catch swallows, + And stamina with it of course. + The price ain't a thing that'll grieve us, + It's getting a bad 'un annoys + The undersigned blokes, and believe us, + We're yours to a cinder, 'the boys'.' + + He answered: 'I've bought you a hummer, + A horse that has never been raced; + I saw him run over the Drummer, + He held him outclassed and outpaced. + His breeding's not known, but they state he + Is born of a thoroughbred strain, + I paid them a hundred and eighty, + And started the horse in the train.' + + They met him -- alas, that these verses + Aren't up to the subject's demands -- + Can't set forth their eloquent curses, + _FOR PARTNER WAS BACK ON THEIR HANDS_. + They went in to meet him in gladness, + They opened his box with delight -- + A silent procession of sadness + They crept to the station at night. + + And life has grown dull on the station, + The boys are all silent and slow; + Their work is a daily vexation, + And sport is unknown to them now. + Whenever they think how they stranded, + They squeal just like guinea-pigs squeal; + They bit their own hook, and were landed + With fifty pounds loss on the deal. + + + + +An Idyll of Dandaloo + + + + On Western plains, where shade is not, + 'Neath summer skies of cloudless blue, + Where all is dry and all is hot, + There stands the town of Dandaloo -- + A township where life's total sum + Is sleep, diversified with rum. + + It's grass-grown streets with dust are deep, + 'Twere vain endeavour to express + The dreamless silence of its sleep, + Its wide, expansive drunkenness. + The yearly races mostly drew + A lively crowd to Dandaloo. + + There came a sportsman from the East, + The eastern land where sportsmen blow, + And brought with him a speedy beast -- + A speedy beast as horses go. + He came afar in hope to 'do' + The little town of Dandaloo. + + Now this was weak of him, I wot -- + Exceeding weak, it seemed to me -- + For we in Dandaloo were not + The Jugginses we seemed to be; + In fact, we rather thought we knew + Our book by heart in Dandaloo. + + We held a meeting at the bar, + And met the question fair and square -- + 'We've stumped the country near and far + To raise the cash for races here; + We've got a hundred pounds or two -- + Not half so bad for Dandaloo. + + 'And now, it seems, we have to be + Cleaned out by this here Sydney bloke, + With his imported horse; and he + Will scoop the pool and leave us broke + Shall we sit still, and make no fuss + While this chap climbs all over us?' + + . . . . . + + The races came to Dandaloo, + And all the cornstalks from the West, + On ev'ry kind of moke and screw, + Came forth in all their glory drest. + The stranger's horse, as hard as nails, + Look'd fit to run for New South Wales. + + He won the race by half a length -- + _QUITE_ half a length, it seemed to me -- + But Dandaloo, with all its strength, + Roared out 'Dead heat!' most fervently; + And, after hesitation meet, + The judge's verdict was 'Dead heat!' + + And many men there were could tell + What gave the verdict extra force: + The stewards, and the judge as well -- + They all had backed the second horse. + For things like this they sometimes do + In larger towns than Dandaloo. + + They ran it off; the stranger won, + Hands down, by near a hundred yards + He smiled to think his troubles done; + But Dandaloo held all the cards. + They went to scale and -- cruel fate! -- + His jockey turned out under-weight. + + Perhaps they'd tampered with the scale! + I cannot tell. I only know + It weighed him _OUT_ all right. I fail + To paint that Sydney sportsman's woe. + He said the stewards were a crew + Of low-lived thieves in Dandaloo. + + He lifted up his voice, irate, + And swore till all the air was blue; + So then we rose to vindicate + The dignity of Dandaloo. + 'Look here,' said we, 'you must not poke + Such oaths at us poor country folk.' + + We rode him softly on a rail, + We shied at him, in careless glee, + Some large tomatoes, rank and stale, + And eggs of great antiquity -- + Their wild, unholy fragrance flew + About the town of Dandaloo. + + He left the town at break of day, + He led his race-horse through the streets, + And now he tells the tale, they say, + To every racing man he meets. + And Sydney sportsmen all eschew + The atmosphere of Dandaloo. + + + + +The Geebung Polo Club + + + + It was somewhere up the country, in a land of rock and scrub, + That they formed an institution called the Geebung Polo Club. + They were long and wiry natives from the rugged mountain side, + And the horse was never saddled that the Geebungs couldn't ride; + But their style of playing polo was irregular and rash -- + They had mighty little science, but a mighty lot of dash: + And they played on mountain ponies that were muscular and strong, + Though their coats were quite unpolished, + and their manes and tails were long. + And they used to train those ponies wheeling cattle in the scrub: + They were demons, were the members of the Geebung Polo Club. + + It was somewhere down the country, in a city's smoke and steam, + That a polo club existed, called 'The Cuff and Collar Team'. + As a social institution 'twas a marvellous success, + For the members were distinguished by exclusiveness and dress. + They had natty little ponies that were nice, and smooth, and sleek, + For their cultivated owners only rode 'em once a week. + So they started up the country in pursuit of sport and fame, + For they meant to show the Geebungs how they ought to play the game; + And they took their valets with them -- just to give their boots a rub + Ere they started operations on the Geebung Polo Club. + + Now my readers can imagine how the contest ebbed and flowed, + When the Geebung boys got going it was time to clear the road; + And the game was so terrific that ere half the time was gone + A spectator's leg was broken -- just from merely looking on. + For they waddied one another till the plain was strewn with dead, + While the score was kept so even that they neither got ahead. + And the Cuff and Collar Captain, when he tumbled off to die, + Was the last surviving player -- so the game was called a tie. + + Then the Captain of the Geebungs raised him slowly from the ground, + Though his wounds were mostly mortal, yet he fiercely gazed around; + There was no one to oppose him -- all the rest were in a trance, + So he scrambled on his pony for his last expiring chance, + For he meant to make an effort to get victory to his side; + So he struck at goal -- and missed it -- then he tumbled off and died. + + . . . . . + + By the old Campaspe River, where the breezes shake the grass, + There's a row of little gravestones that the stockmen never pass, + For they bear a crude inscription saying, 'Stranger, drop a tear, + For the Cuff and Collar players and the Geebung boys lie here.' + And on misty moonlit evenings, while the dingoes howl around, + You can see their shadows flitting down that phantom polo ground; + You can hear the loud collisions as the flying players meet, + And the rattle of the mallets, and the rush of ponies' feet, + Till the terrified spectator rides like blazes to the pub -- + He's been haunted by the spectres of the Geebung Polo Club. + + + + +The Travelling Post Office + + + + The roving breezes come and go, the reed beds sweep and sway, + The sleepy river murmurs low, and loiters on its way, + It is the land of lots o' time along the Castlereagh. + + . . . . . + + The old man's son had left the farm, he found it dull and slow, + He drifted to the great North-west where all the rovers go. + 'He's gone so long,' the old man said, 'he's dropped right out of mind, + But if you'd write a line to him I'd take it very kind; + He's shearing here and fencing there, a kind of waif and stray, + He's droving now with Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh. + + 'The sheep are travelling for the grass, and travelling very slow; + They may be at Mundooran now, or past the Overflow, + Or tramping down the black soil flats across by Waddiwong, + But all those little country towns would send the letter wrong, + The mailman, if he's extra tired, would pass them in his sleep, + It's safest to address the note to 'Care of Conroy's sheep', + For five and twenty thousand head can scarcely go astray, + You write to 'Care of Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh'.' + + . . . . . + + By rock and ridge and riverside the western mail has gone, + Across the great Blue Mountain Range to take that letter on. + A moment on the topmost grade while open fire doors glare, + She pauses like a living thing to breathe the mountain air, + Then launches down the other side across the plains away + To bear that note to 'Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh'. + + And now by coach and mailman's bag it goes from town to town, + And Conroy's Gap and Conroy's Creek have marked it 'further down'. + Beneath a sky of deepest blue where never cloud abides, + A speck upon the waste of plain the lonely mailman rides. + Where fierce hot winds have set the pine and myall boughs asweep + He hails the shearers passing by for news of Conroy's sheep. + By big lagoons where wildfowl play and crested pigeons flock, + By camp fires where the drovers ride around their restless stock, + And past the teamster toiling down to fetch the wool away + My letter chases Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh. + + + + +Saltbush Bill + + + + Now this is the law of the Overland that all in the West obey, + A man must cover with travelling sheep a six-mile stage a day; + But this is the law which the drovers make, right easily understood, + They travel their stage where the grass is bad, + but they camp where the grass is good; + They camp, and they ravage the squatter's grass till never a blade remains, + Then they drift away as the white clouds drift + on the edge of the saltbush plains, + From camp to camp and from run to run they battle it hand to hand, + For a blade of grass and the right to pass on the track of the Overland. + For this is the law of the Great Stock Routes, + 'tis written in white and black -- + The man that goes with a travelling mob must keep to a half-mile track; + And the drovers keep to a half-mile track + on the runs where the grass is dead, + But they spread their sheep on a well-grassed run + till they go with a two-mile spread. + So the squatters hurry the drovers on from dawn till the fall of night, + And the squatters' dogs and the drovers' dogs get mixed in a deadly fight; + Yet the squatters' men, though they hunt the mob, + are willing the peace to keep, + For the drovers learn how to use their hands + when they go with the travelling sheep; + But this is the tale of a Jackaroo that came from a foreign strand, + And the fight that he fought with Saltbush Bill, the King of the Overland. + + Now Saltbush Bill was a drover tough, as ever the country knew, + He had fought his way on the Great Stock Routes + from the sea to the big Barcoo; + He could tell when he came to a friendly run + that gave him a chance to spread, + And he knew where the hungry owners were that hurried his sheep ahead; + He was drifting down in the Eighty drought + with a mob that could scarcely creep, + (When the kangaroos by the thousands starve, + it is rough on the travelling sheep), + And he camped one night at the crossing-place on the edge of the Wilga run, + 'We must manage a feed for them here,' he said, + 'or the half of the mob are done!' + So he spread them out when they left the camp wherever they liked to go, + Till he grew aware of a Jackaroo with a station-hand in tow, + And they set to work on the straggling sheep, + and with many a stockwhip crack + They forced them in where the grass was dead + in the space of the half-mile track; + So William prayed that the hand of fate might suddenly strike him blue + But he'd get some grass for his starving sheep + in the teeth of that Jackaroo. + So he turned and he cursed the Jackaroo, he cursed him alive or dead, + From the soles of his great unwieldy feet to the crown of his ugly head, + With an extra curse on the moke he rode and the cur at his heels that ran, + Till the Jackaroo from his horse got down and he went for the drover-man; + With the station-hand for his picker-up, + though the sheep ran loose the while, + They battled it out on the saltbush plain in the regular prize-ring style. + + Now, the new chum fought for his honour's sake + and the pride of the English race, + But the drover fought for his daily bread with a smile on his bearded face; + So he shifted ground and he sparred for wind and he made it a lengthy mill, + And from time to time as his scouts came in + they whispered to Saltbush Bill -- + 'We have spread the sheep with a two-mile spread, + and the grass it is something grand, + You must stick to him, Bill, for another round + for the pride of the Overland.' + The new chum made it a rushing fight, though never a blow got home, + Till the sun rode high in the cloudless sky + and glared on the brick-red loam, + Till the sheep drew in to the shelter-trees and settled them down to rest, + Then the drover said he would fight no more and he gave his opponent best. + + So the new chum rode to the homestead straight + and he told them a story grand + Of the desperate fight that he fought that day + with the King of the Overland. + And the tale went home to the Public Schools + of the pluck of the English swell, + How the drover fought for his very life, but blood in the end must tell. + But the travelling sheep and the Wilga sheep + were boxed on the Old Man Plain. + 'Twas a full week's work ere they drafted out and hunted them off again, + With a week's good grass in their wretched hides, + with a curse and a stockwhip crack, + They hunted them off on the road once more + to starve on the half-mile track. + And Saltbush Bill, on the Overland, will many a time recite + How the best day's work that ever he did + was the day that he lost the fight. + + + + +A Mountain Station + + + + I bought a run a while ago, + On country rough and ridgy, + Where wallaroos and wombats grow -- + The Upper Murrumbidgee. + The grass is rather scant, it's true, + But this a fair exchange is, + The sheep can see a lovely view + By climbing up the ranges. + + And She-oak Flat's the station's name, + I'm not surprised at that, sirs: + The oaks were there before I came, + And I supplied the flat, sirs. + A man would wonder how it's done, + The stock so soon decreases -- + They sometimes tumble off the run + And break themselves to pieces. + + I've tried to make expenses meet, + But wasted all my labours, + The sheep the dingoes didn't eat + Were stolen by the neighbours. + They stole my pears -- my native pears -- + Those thrice-convicted felons, + And ravished from me unawares + My crop of paddy-melons. + + And sometimes under sunny skies, + Without an explanation, + The Murrumbidgee used to rise + And overflow the station. + But this was caused (as now I know) + When summer sunshine glowing + Had melted all Kiandra's snow + And set the river going. + + And in the news, perhaps you read: + 'Stock passings. Puckawidgee, + Fat cattle: Seven hundred head + Swept down the Murrumbidgee; + Their destination's quite obscure, + But, somehow, there's a notion, + Unless the river falls, they're sure + To reach the Southern Ocean.' + + So after that I'll give it best; + No more with Fate I'll battle. + I'll let the river take the rest, + For those were all my cattle. + And with one comprehensive curse + I close my brief narration, + And advertise it in my verse -- + 'For Sale! A Mountain Station.' + + + + +Been There Before + + + + There came a stranger to Walgett town, + To Walgett town when the sun was low, + And he carried a thirst that was worth a crown, + Yet how to quench it he did not know; + But he thought he might take those yokels down, + The guileless yokels of Walgett town. + + They made him a bet in a private bar, + In a private bar when the talk was high, + And they bet him some pounds no matter how far + He could pelt a stone, yet he could not shy + A stone right over the river so brown, + The Darling river at Walgett town. + + He knew that the river from bank to bank + Was fifty yards, and he smiled a smile + As he trundled down, but his hopes they sank + For there wasn't a stone within fifty mile; + For the saltbush plain and the open down + Produce no quarries in Walgett town. + + The yokels laughed at his hopes o'erthrown, + And he stood awhile like a man in a dream; + Then out of his pocket he fetched a stone, + And pelted it over the silent stream -- + He had been there before: he had wandered down + On a previous visit to Walgett town. + + + + +The Man Who Was Away + + + + The widow sought the lawyer's room with children three in tow, + She told the lawyer man her tale in tones of deepest woe. + Said she, 'My husband took to drink for pains in his inside, + And never drew a sober breath from then until he died. + + 'He never drew a sober breath, he died without a will, + And I must sell the bit of land the childer's mouths to fill. + There's some is grown and gone away, but some is childer yet, + And times is very bad indeed -- a livin's hard to get. + + 'There's Min and Sis and little Chris, they stops at home with me, + And Sal has married Greenhide Bill that breaks for Bingeree. + And Fred is drovin' Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh, + And Charley's shearin' down the Bland, and Peter is away.' + + The lawyer wrote the details down in ink of legal blue -- + 'There's Minnie, Susan, Christopher, they stop at home with you; + There's Sarah, Frederick, and Charles, I'll write to them to-day, + But what about the other one -- the one who is away? + + 'You'll have to furnish his consent to sell the bit of land.' + The widow shuffled in her seat, 'Oh, don't you understand? + I thought a lawyer ought to know -- I don't know what to say -- + You'll have to do without him, boss, for Peter is away.' + + But here the little boy spoke up -- said he, 'We thought you knew; + He's done six months in Goulburn gaol -- he's got six more to do.' + Thus in one comprehensive flash he made it clear as day, + The mystery of Peter's life -- the man who was away. + + + + +The Man from Ironbark + + + + It was the man from Ironbark who struck the Sydney town, + He wandered over street and park, he wandered up and down. + He loitered here, he loitered there, till he was like to drop, + Until at last in sheer despair he sought a barber's shop. + ''Ere! shave my beard and whiskers off, I'll be a man of mark, + I'll go and do the Sydney toff up home in Ironbark.' + + The barber man was small and flash, as barbers mostly are, + He wore a strike-your-fancy sash, he smoked a huge cigar: + He was a humorist of note and keen at repartee, + He laid the odds and kept a 'tote', whatever that may be, + And when he saw our friend arrive, he whispered 'Here's a lark! + Just watch me catch him all alive, this man from Ironbark.' + + There were some gilded youths that sat along the barber's wall, + Their eyes were dull, their heads were flat, they had no brains at all; + To them the barber passed the wink, his dexter eyelid shut, + 'I'll make this bloomin' yokel think his bloomin' throat is cut.' + And as he soaped and rubbed it in he made a rude remark: + 'I s'pose the flats is pretty green up there in Ironbark.' + + A grunt was all reply he got; he shaved the bushman's chin, + Then made the water boiling hot and dipped the razor in. + He raised his hand, his brow grew black, he paused awhile to gloat, + Then slashed the red-hot razor-back across his victim's throat; + Upon the newly shaven skin it made a livid mark -- + No doubt it fairly took him in -- the man from Ironbark. + + He fetched a wild up-country yell might wake the dead to hear, + And though his throat, he knew full well, was cut from ear to ear, + He struggled gamely to his feet, and faced the murd'rous foe: + 'You've done for me! you dog, I'm beat! one hit before I go! + I only wish I had a knife, you blessed murdering shark! + But you'll remember all your life, the man from Ironbark.' + + He lifted up his hairy paw, with one tremendous clout + He landed on the barber's jaw, and knocked the barber out. + He set to work with tooth and nail, he made the place a wreck; + He grabbed the nearest gilded youth, and tried to break his neck. + And all the while his throat he held to save his vital spark, + And 'Murder! Bloody Murder!' yelled the man from Ironbark. + + A peeler man who heard the din came in to see the show; + He tried to run the bushman in, but he refused to go. + And when at last the barber spoke, and said, ''Twas all in fun -- + 'Twas just a little harmless joke, a trifle overdone.' + 'A joke!' he cried, 'By George, that's fine; a lively sort of lark; + I'd like to catch that murdering swine some night in Ironbark.' + + And now while round the shearing floor the list'ning shearers gape, + He tells the story o'er and o'er, and brags of his escape. + 'Them barber chaps what keeps a tote, By George, I've had enough, + One tried to cut my bloomin' throat, but thank the Lord it's tough.' + And whether he's believed or no, there's one thing to remark, + That flowing beards are all the go way up in Ironbark. + + + + +The Open Steeplechase + + + + I had ridden over hurdles up the country once or twice, + By the side of Snowy River with a horse they called 'The Ace'. + And we brought him down to Sydney, and our rider Jimmy Rice, + Got a fall and broke his shoulder, so they nabbed me in a trice -- + Me, that never wore the colours, for the Open Steeplechase. + + 'Make the running,' said the trainer, 'it's your only chance whatever, + Make it hot from start to finish, for the old black horse can stay, + And just think of how they'll take it, when they hear on Snowy River + That the country boy was plucky, and the country horse was clever. + You must ride for old Monaro and the mountain boys to-day.' + + 'Are you ready?' said the starter, as we held the horses back, + All ablazing with impatience, with excitement all aglow; + Before us like a ribbon stretched the steeplechasing track, + And the sun-rays glistened brightly on the chestnut and the black + As the starter's words came slowly, 'Are -- you -- ready? Go!' + + Well, I scarcely knew we'd started, I was stupid-like with wonder + Till the field closed up beside me and a jump appeared ahead. + And we flew it like a hurdle, not a baulk and not a blunder, + As we charged it all together, and it fairly whistled under, + And then some were pulled behind me and a few shot out and led. + + So we ran for half the distance, and I'm making no pretences + When I tell you I was feeling very nervous-like and queer, + For those jockeys rode like demons; + you would think they'd lost their senses + If you saw them rush their horses at those rasping five foot fences -- + And in place of making running I was falling to the rear. + + Till a chap came racing past me on a horse they called 'The Quiver', + And said he, 'My country joker, are you going to give it best? + Are you frightened of the fences? does their stoutness make you shiver? + Have they come to breeding cowards by the side of Snowy River? + Are there riders on Monaro? ----' but I never heard the rest. + + For I drove the Ace and sent him just as fast as he could pace it, + At the big black line of timber stretching fair across the track, + And he shot beside the Quiver. 'Now,' said I, 'my boy, we'll race it. + You can come with Snowy River if you're only game to face it, + Let us mend the pace a little and we'll see who cries a crack.' + + So we raced away together, and we left the others standing, + And the people cheered and shouted as we settled down to ride, + And we clung beside the Quiver. At his taking off and landing + I could see his scarlet nostril and his mighty ribs expanding, + And the Ace stretched out in earnest and we held him stride for stride. + + But the pace was so terrific that they soon ran out their tether -- + They were rolling in their gallop, they were fairly blown and beat -- + But they both were game as pebbles -- neither one would show the feather. + And we rushed them at the fences, and they cleared them both together, + Nearly every time they clouted, but they somehow kept their feet. + + Then the last jump rose before us, and they faced it game as ever -- + We were both at spur and whipcord, fetching blood at every bound -- + And above the people's cheering and the cries of 'Ace' and 'Quiver', + I could hear the trainer shouting, 'One more run for Snowy River.' + Then we struck the jump together and came smashing to the ground. + + Well, the Quiver ran to blazes, but the Ace stood still and waited, + Stood and waited like a statue while I scrambled on his back. + There was no one next or near me for the field was fairly slated, + So I cantered home a winner with my shoulder dislocated, + While the man that rode the Quiver followed limping down the track. + + And he shook my hand and told me that in all his days he never + Met a man who rode more gamely, and our last set to was prime, + And we wired them on Monaro how we chanced to beat the Quiver. + And they sent us back an answer, 'Good old sort from Snowy River: + Send us word each race you start in and we'll back you every time.' + + + + +The Amateur Rider + + + + _HIM_ going to ride for us! _HIM_ -- + with the pants and the eyeglass and all. + Amateur! don't he just look it -- it's twenty to one on a fall. + Boss must be gone off his head to be sending our steeplechase crack + Out over fences like these with an object like that on his back. + + Ride! Don't tell _ME_ he can ride. + With his pants just as loose as balloons, + How can he sit on his horse? and his spurs like a pair of harpoons; + Ought to be under the Dog Act, he ought, and be kept off the course. + Fall! why, he'd fall off a cart, let alone off a steeplechase horse. + + . . . . . + + Yessir! the 'orse is all ready -- I wish you'd have rode him before; + Nothing like knowing your 'orse, sir, and this chap's a terror to bore; + Battleaxe always could pull, and he rushes his fences like fun -- + Stands off his jump twenty feet, and then springs like a shot from a gun. + + Oh, he can jump 'em all right, sir, you make no mistake, 'e's a toff; + Clouts 'em in earnest, too, sometimes, + you mind that he don't clout you off -- + Don't seem to mind how he hits 'em, his shins is as hard as a nail, + Sometimes you'll see the fence shake + and the splinters fly up from the rail. + + All you can do is to hold him and just let him jump as he likes, + Give him his head at the fences, and hang on like death if he strikes; + Don't let him run himself out -- you can lie third or fourth in the race -- + Until you clear the stone wall, and from that you can put on the pace. + + Fell at that wall once, he did, and it gave him a regular spread, + Ever since that time he flies it -- he'll stop if you pull at his head, + Just let him race -- you can trust him -- + he'll take first-class care he don't fall, + And I think that's the lot -- but remember, + _HE MUST HAVE HIS HEAD AT THE WALL_. + + . . . . . + + Well, he's down safe as far as the start, + and he seems to sit on pretty neat, + Only his baggified breeches would ruinate anyone's seat -- + They're away -- here they come -- the first fence, + and he's head over heels for a crown! + Good for the new chum, he's over, and two of the others are down! + + Now for the treble, my hearty -- By Jove, he can ride, after all; + Whoop, that's your sort -- let him fly them! + He hasn't much fear of a fall. + Who in the world would have thought it? And aren't they just going a pace? + Little Recruit in the lead there will make it a stoutly-run race. + + Lord! But they're racing in earnest -- and down goes Recruit on his head, + Rolling clean over his boy -- it's a miracle if he ain't dead. + Battleaxe, Battleaxe, yet! By the Lord, he's got most of 'em beat -- + Ho! did you see how he struck, and the swell never moved in his seat? + + Second time round, and, by Jingo! he's holding his lead of 'em well; + Hark to him clouting the timber! It don't seem to trouble the swell. + Now for the wall -- let him rush it. A thirty-foot leap, I declare -- + Never a shift in his seat, and he's racing for home like a hare. + + What's that that's chasing him -- Rataplan -- regular demon to stay! + Sit down and ride for your life now! + Oh, good, that's the style -- come away! + Rataplan's certain to beat you, unless you can give him the slip; + Sit down and rub in the whalebone now -- give him the spurs and the whip! + + Battleaxe, Battleaxe, yet -- and it's Battleaxe wins for a crown; + Look at him rushing the fences, he wants to bring t'other chap down. + Rataplan never will catch him if only he keeps on his pins; + Now! the last fence! and he's over it! Battleaxe, Battleaxe wins! + + . . . . . + + Well, sir, you rode him just perfect -- + I knew from the first you could ride. + Some of the chaps said you couldn't, an' I says just like this a' one side: + Mark me, I says, that's a tradesman -- the saddle is where he was bred. + Weight! you're all right, sir, and thank you; + and them was the words that I said. + + + + +On Kiley's Run + + + + The roving breezes come and go + On Kiley's Run, + The sleepy river murmurs low, + And far away one dimly sees + Beyond the stretch of forest trees -- + Beyond the foothills dusk and dun -- + The ranges sleeping in the sun + On Kiley's Run. + + 'Tis many years since first I came + To Kiley's Run, + More years than I would care to name + Since I, a stripling, used to ride + For miles and miles at Kiley's side, + The while in stirring tones he told + The stories of the days of old + On Kiley's Run. + + I see the old bush homestead now + On Kiley's Run, + Just nestled down beneath the brow + Of one small ridge above the sweep + Of river-flat, where willows weep + And jasmine flowers and roses bloom, + The air was laden with perfume + On Kiley's Run. + + We lived the good old station life + On Kiley's Run, + With little thought of care or strife. + Old Kiley seldom used to roam, + He liked to make the Run his home, + The swagman never turned away + With empty hand at close of day + From Kiley's Run. + + We kept a racehorse now and then + On Kiley's Run, + And neighb'ring stations brought their men + To meetings where the sport was free, + And dainty ladies came to see + Their champions ride; with laugh and song + The old house rang the whole night long + On Kiley's Run. + + The station hands were friends I wot + On Kiley's Run, + A reckless, merry-hearted lot -- + All splendid riders, and they knew + The 'boss' was kindness through and through. + Old Kiley always stood their friend, + And so they served him to the end + On Kiley's Run. + + But droughts and losses came apace + To Kiley's Run, + Till ruin stared him in the face; + He toiled and toiled while lived the light, + He dreamed of overdrafts at night: + At length, because he could not pay, + His bankers took the stock away + From Kiley's Run. + + Old Kiley stood and saw them go + From Kiley's Run. + The well-bred cattle marching slow; + His stockmen, mates for many a day, + They wrung his hand and went away. + Too old to make another start, + Old Kiley died -- of broken heart, + On Kiley's Run. + + . . . . . + + The owner lives in England now + Of Kiley's Run. + He knows a racehorse from a cow; + But that is all he knows of stock: + His chiefest care is how to dock + Expenses, and he sends from town + To cut the shearers' wages down + On Kiley's Run. + + There are no neighbours anywhere + Near Kiley's Run. + The hospitable homes are bare, + The gardens gone; for no pretence + Must hinder cutting down expense: + The homestead that we held so dear + Contains a half-paid overseer + On Kiley's Run. + + All life and sport and hope have died + On Kiley's Run. + No longer there the stockmen ride; + For sour-faced boundary riders creep + On mongrel horses after sheep, + Through ranges where, at racing speed, + Old Kiley used to 'wheel the lead' + On Kiley's Run. + + There runs a lane for thirty miles + Through Kiley's Run. + On either side the herbage smiles, + But wretched trav'lling sheep must pass + Without a drink or blade of grass + Thro' that long lane of death and shame: + The weary drovers curse the name + Of Kiley's Run. + + The name itself is changed of late + Of Kiley's Run. + They call it 'Chandos Park Estate'. + The lonely swagman through the dark + Must hump his swag past Chandos Park. + The name is English, don't you see, + The old name sweeter sounds to me + Of 'Kiley's Run'. + + I cannot guess what fate will bring + To Kiley's Run -- + For chances come and changes ring -- + I scarcely think 'twill always be + Locked up to suit an absentee; + And if he lets it out in farms + His tenants soon will carry arms + On Kiley's Run. + + + + +Frying Pan's Theology + + + + Scene: On Monaro. + _DRAMATIS PERSONAE_: + Shock-headed blackfellow, + Boy (on a pony). + Snowflakes are falling + So gentle and slow, + Youngster says, 'Frying Pan, + What makes it snow?' + Frying Pan confident + Makes the reply -- + 'Shake 'em big flour bag + Up in the sky!' + 'What! when there's miles of it! + Sur'ly that's brag. + Who is there strong enough + Shake such a bag?' + 'What parson tellin' you, + Ole Mister Dodd, + Tell you in Sunday-school? + Big feller God! + He drive His bullock dray, + Then thunder go, + He shake His flour bag -- + Tumble down snow!' + + + + +The Two Devines + + + + It was shearing-time at the Myall Lake, + And there rose the sound thro' the livelong day + Of the constant clash that the shear-blades make + When the fastest shearers are making play, + But there wasn't a man in the shearers' lines + That could shear a sheep with the two Devines. + + They had rung the sheds of the east and west, + Had beaten the cracks of the Walgett side, + And the Cooma shearers had giv'n them best -- + When they saw them shear, they were satisfied. + From the southern slopes to the western pines + They were noted men, were the two Devines. + + 'Twas a wether flock that had come to hand, + Great struggling brutes, that the shearers shirk, + For the fleece was filled with the grass and sand, + And seventy sheep was a big day's work. + 'At a pound a hundred it's dashed hard lines + To shear such sheep,' said the two Devines. + + But the shearers knew that they'd make a cheque + When they came to deal with the station ewes; + They were bare of belly and bare of neck + With a fleece as light as a kangaroo's. + 'We will show the boss how a shear-blade shines + When we reach those ewes,' said the two Devines. + + But it chanced next day when the stunted pines + Were swayed and stirred with the dawn-wind's breath, + That a message came for the two Devines + That their father lay at the point of death. + So away at speed through the whispering pines + Down the bridle track rode the two Devines. + + It was fifty miles to their father's hut, + And the dawn was bright when they rode away; + At the fall of night when the shed was shut + And the men had rest from the toilsome day, + To the shed once more through the dark'ning pines + On their weary steeds came the two Devines. + + 'Well, you're back right sudden,' the super. said; + 'Is the old man dead and the funeral done?' + 'Well, no, sir, he ain't not exactly dead, + But as good as dead,' said the eldest son -- + 'And we couldn't bear such a chance to lose, + So we came straight back to tackle the ewes.' + + . . . . . + + They are shearing ewes at the Myall Lake, + And the shed is merry the livelong day + With the clashing sound that the shear-blades make + When the fastest shearers are making play, + And a couple of 'hundred and ninety-nines' + Are the tallies made by the two Devines. + + + + +In the Droving Days + + + + 'Only a pound,' said the auctioneer, + 'Only a pound; and I'm standing here + Selling this animal, gain or loss. + Only a pound for the drover's horse; + One of the sort that was never afraid, + One of the boys of the Old Brigade; + Thoroughly honest and game, I'll swear, + Only a little the worse for wear; + Plenty as bad to be seen in town, + Give me a bid and I'll knock him down; + Sold as he stands, and without recourse, + Give me a bid for the drover's horse.' + + Loitering there in an aimless way + Somehow I noticed the poor old grey, + Weary and battered and screwed, of course, + Yet when I noticed the old grey horse, + The rough bush saddle, and single rein + Of the bridle laid on his tangled mane, + Straightway the crowd and the auctioneer + Seemed on a sudden to disappear, + Melted away in a kind of haze, + For my heart went back to the droving days. + + Back to the road, and I crossed again + Over the miles of the saltbush plain -- + The shining plain that is said to be + The dried-up bed of an inland sea, + Where the air so dry and so clear and bright + Refracts the sun with a wondrous light, + And out in the dim horizon makes + The deep blue gleam of the phantom lakes. + + At dawn of day we would feel the breeze + That stirred the boughs of the sleeping trees, + And brought a breath of the fragrance rare + That comes and goes in that scented air; + For the trees and grass and the shrubs contain + A dry sweet scent on the saltbush plain. + For those that love it and understand, + The saltbush plain is a wonderland. + A wondrous country, where Nature's ways + Were revealed to me in the droving days. + + We saw the fleet wild horses pass, + And the kangaroos through the Mitchell grass, + The emu ran with her frightened brood + All unmolested and unpursued. + But there rose a shout and a wild hubbub + When the dingo raced for his native scrub, + And he paid right dear for his stolen meals + With the drover's dogs at his wretched heels. + For we ran him down at a rattling pace, + While the packhorse joined in the stirring chase. + And a wild halloo at the kill we'd raise -- + We were light of heart in the droving days. + + 'Twas a drover's horse, and my hand again + Made a move to close on a fancied rein. + For I felt the swing and the easy stride + Of the grand old horse that I used to ride + In drought or plenty, in good or ill, + That same old steed was my comrade still; + The old grey horse with his honest ways + Was a mate to me in the droving days. + + When we kept our watch in the cold and damp, + If the cattle broke from the sleeping camp, + Over the flats and across the plain, + With my head bent down on his waving mane, + Through the boughs above and the stumps below + On the darkest night I could let him go + At a racing speed; he would choose his course, + And my life was safe with the old grey horse. + But man and horse had a favourite job, + When an outlaw broke from a station mob, + With a right good will was the stockwhip plied, + As the old horse raced at the straggler's side, + And the greenhide whip such a weal would raise, + We could use the whip in the droving days. + + . . . . . + + 'Only a pound!' and was this the end -- + Only a pound for the drover's friend. + The drover's friend that had seen his day, + And now was worthless, and cast away + With a broken knee and a broken heart + To be flogged and starved in a hawker's cart. + Well, I made a bid for a sense of shame + And the memories dear of the good old game. + + 'Thank you? Guinea! and cheap at that! + Against you there in the curly hat! + Only a guinea, and one more chance, + Down he goes if there's no advance, + Third, and the last time, one! two! three!' + And the old grey horse was knocked down to me. + And now he's wandering, fat and sleek, + On the lucerne flats by the Homestead Creek; + I dare not ride him for fear he'd fall, + But he does a journey to beat them all, + For though he scarcely a trot can raise, + He can take me back to the droving days. + + + + +Lost + + + + 'He ought to be home,' said the old man, 'without there's something amiss. + He only went to the Two-mile -- he ought to be back by this. + He _WOULD_ ride the Reckless filly, he _WOULD_ have his wilful way; + And, here, he's not back at sundown -- and what will his mother say? + + 'He was always his mother's idol, since ever his father died; + And there isn't a horse on the station that he isn't game to ride. + But that Reckless mare is vicious, and if once she gets away + He hasn't got strength to hold her -- and what will his mother say?' + + The old man walked to the sliprail, and peered up the dark'ning track, + And looked and longed for the rider that would never more come back; + And the mother came and clutched him, with sudden, spasmodic fright: + 'What has become of my Willie? -- why isn't he home to-night?' + + Away in the gloomy ranges, at the foot of an ironbark, + The bonnie, winsome laddie was lying stiff and stark; + For the Reckless mare had smashed him against a leaning limb, + And his comely face was battered, and his merry eyes were dim. + + And the thoroughbred chestnut filly, the saddle beneath her flanks, + Was away like fire through the ranges to join the wild mob's ranks; + And a broken-hearted woman and an old man worn and grey + Were searching all night in the ranges till the sunrise brought the day. + + And the mother kept feebly calling, with a hope that would not die, + 'Willie! where are you, Willie?' But how can the dead reply; + And hope died out with the daylight, and the darkness brought despair, + God pity the stricken mother, and answer the widow's prayer! + + Though far and wide they sought him, they found not where he fell; + For the ranges held him precious, and guarded their treasure well. + The wattle blooms above him, and the blue bells blow close by, + And the brown bees buzz the secret, and the wild birds sing reply. + + But the mother pined and faded, and cried, and took no rest, + And rode each day to the ranges on her hopeless, weary quest. + Seeking her loved one ever, she faded and pined away, + But with strength of her great affection she still sought every day. + + 'I know that sooner or later I shall find my boy,' she said. + But she came not home one evening, and they found her lying dead, + And stamped on the poor pale features, as the spirit homeward pass'd, + Was an angel smile of gladness -- she had found the boy at last. + + + + +Over the Range + + + + Little bush maiden, wondering-eyed, + Playing alone in the creek-bed dry, + In the small green flat on every side + Walled in by the Moonbi ranges high; + Tell us the tale of your lonely life, + 'Mid the great grey forests that know no change. + 'I never have left my home,' she said, + 'I have never been over the Moonbi Range. + + 'Father and mother are both long dead, + And I live with granny in yon wee place.' + 'Where are your father and mother?' we said. + She puzzled awhile with thoughtful face, + Then a light came into the shy brown eye, + And she smiled, for she thought the question strange + On a thing so certain -- 'When people die + They go to the country over the range.' + + 'And what is this country like, my lass?' + 'There are blossoming trees and pretty flowers, + And shining creeks where the golden grass + Is fresh and sweet from the summer showers. + They never need work, nor want, nor weep; + No troubles can come their hearts to estrange. + Some summer night I shall fall asleep, + And wake in the country over the range.' + + Child, you are wise in your simple trust, + For the wisest man knows no more than you + Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust: + Our views by a range are bounded too; + But we know that God hath this gift in store, + That when we come to the final change, + We shall meet with our loved ones gone before + To the beautiful country over the range. + + + + +Only a Jockey + + 'Richard Bennison, a jockey, aged 14, while riding William Tell + in his training, was thrown and killed. The horse is luckily uninjured.' + -- Melbourne Wire. + + + + Out in the grey cheerless chill of the morning light, + Out on the track where the night shades still lurk; + Ere the first gleam of the sungod's returning light, + Round come the race-horses early at work. + + Reefing and pulling and racing so readily, + Close sit the jockey-boys holding them hard, + 'Steady the stallion there -- canter him steadily, + Don't let him gallop so much as a yard.' + + Fiercely he fights while the others run wide of him, + Reefs at the bit that would hold him in thrall, + Plunges and bucks till the boy that's astride of him + Goes to the ground with a terrible fall. + + 'Stop him there! Block him there! Drive him in carefully, + Lead him about till he's quiet and cool. + Sound as a bell! though he's blown himself fearfully, + Now let us pick up this poor little fool. + + 'Stunned? Oh, by Jove, I'm afraid it's a case with him; + Ride for the doctor! keep bathing his head! + Send for a cart to go down to our place with him' -- + No use! One long sigh and the little chap's dead. + + Only a jockey-boy, foul-mouthed and bad you see, + Ignorant, heathenish, gone to his rest. + Parson or Presbyter, Pharisee, Sadducee, + What did you do for him? -- bad was the best. + + Negroes and foreigners, all have a claim on you; + Yearly you send your well-advertised hoard, + But the poor jockey-boy -- shame on you, shame on you, + 'Feed ye, my little ones' -- what said the Lord? + + Him ye held less than the outer barbarian, + Left him to die in his ignorant sin; + Have you no principles, humanitarian? + Have you no precept -- 'go gather them in?' + + . . . . . + + Knew he God's name? In his brutal profanity, + That name was an oath -- out of many but one -- + What did he get from our famed Christianity? + Where has his soul -- if he had any -- gone? + + Fourteen years old, and what was he taught of it? + What did he know of God's infinite grace? + Draw the dark curtain of shame o'er the thought of it, + Draw the shroud over the jockey-boy's face. + + + + +How M'Ginnis Went Missing + + + + Let us cease our idle chatter, + Let the tears bedew our cheek, + For a man from Tallangatta + Has been missing for a week. + + Where the roaring flooded Murray + Covered all the lower land, + There he started in a hurry, + With a bottle in his hand. + + And his fate is hid for ever, + But the public seem to think + That he slumbered by the river, + 'Neath the influence of drink. + + And they scarcely seem to wonder + That the river, wide and deep, + Never woke him with its thunder, + Never stirred him in his sleep. + + As the crashing logs came sweeping, + And their tumult filled the air, + Then M'Ginnis murmured, sleeping, + ''Tis a wake in ould Kildare.' + + So the river rose and found him + Sleeping softly by the stream, + And the cruel waters drowned him + Ere he wakened from his dream. + + And the blossom-tufted wattle, + Blooming brightly on the lea, + Saw M'Ginnis and the bottle + Going drifting out to sea. + + + + +A Voice from the Town + + A sequel to [Mowbray Morris's] 'A Voice from the Bush' + + + + I thought, in the days of the droving, + Of steps I might hope to retrace, + To be done with the bush and the roving + And settle once more in my place. + With a heart that was well nigh to breaking, + In the long, lonely rides on the plain, + I thought of the pleasure of taking + The hand of a lady again. + + I am back into civilisation, + Once more in the stir and the strife, + But the old joys have lost their sensation -- + The light has gone out of my life; + The men of my time they have married, + Made fortunes or gone to the wall; + Too long from the scene I have tarried, + And, somehow, I'm out of it all. + + For I go to the balls and the races + A lonely companionless elf, + And the ladies bestow all their graces + On others less grey than myself; + While the talk goes around I'm a dumb one + 'Midst youngsters that chatter and prate, + And they call me 'the Man who was Someone + Way back in the year Sixty-eight.' + + And I look, sour and old, at the dancers + That swing to the strains of the band, + And the ladies all give me the Lancers, + No waltzes -- I quite understand. + For matrons intent upon matching + Their daughters with infinite push, + Would scarce think him worthy the catching, + The broken-down man from the bush. + + New partners have come and new faces, + And I, of the bygone brigade, + Sharply feel that oblivion my place is -- + I must lie with the rest in the shade. + And the youngsters, fresh-featured and pleasant, + They live as we lived -- fairly fast; + But I doubt if the men of the present + Are as good as the men of the past. + + Of excitement and praise they are chary, + There is nothing much good upon earth; + Their watchword is _NIL ADMIRARI_, + They are bored from the days of their birth. + Where the life that we led was a revel + They 'wince and relent and refrain' -- + I could show them the road -- to the devil, + Were I only a youngster again. + + I could show them the road where the stumps are + The pleasures that end in remorse, + And the game where the Devil's three trumps are, + The woman, the card, and the horse. + Shall the blind lead the blind -- shall the sower + Of wind reap the storm as of yore? + Though they get to their goal somewhat slower, + They march where we hurried before. + + For the world never learns -- just as we did, + They gallantly go to their fate, + Unheeded all warnings, unheeded + The maxims of elders sedate. + As the husbandman, patiently toiling, + Draws a harvest each year from the soil, + So the fools grow afresh for the spoiling, + And a new crop of thieves for the spoil. + + But a truce to this dull moralising, + Let them drink while the drops are of gold, + I have tasted the dregs -- 'twere surprising + Were the new wine to me like the old; + And I weary for lack of employment + In idleness day after day, + For the key to the door of enjoyment + Is Youth -- and I've thrown it away. + + + + +A Bunch of Roses + + + + Roses ruddy and roses white, + What are the joys that my heart discloses? + Sitting alone in the fading light + Memories come to me here to-night + With the wonderful scent of the big red roses. + + Memories come as the daylight fades + Down on the hearth where the firelight dozes; + Flicker and flutter the lights and shades, + And I see the face of a queen of maids + Whose memory comes with the scent of roses. + + Visions arise of a scene of mirth, + And a ball-room belle that superbly poses -- + A queenly woman of queenly worth, + And I am the happiest man on earth + With a single flower from a bunch of roses. + + Only her memory lives to-night -- + God in His wisdom her young life closes; + Over her grave may the turf be light, + Cover her coffin with roses white -- + She was always fond of the big white roses. + + . . . . . + + Such are the visions that fade away -- + Man proposes and God disposes; + Look in the glass and I see to-day + Only an old man, worn and grey, + Bending his head to a bunch of roses. + + + + +Black Swans + + + + As I lie at rest on a patch of clover + In the Western Park when the day is done, + I watch as the wild black swans fly over + With their phalanx turned to the sinking sun; + And I hear the clang of their leader crying + To a lagging mate in the rearward flying, + And they fade away in the darkness dying, + Where the stars are mustering one by one. + + Oh! ye wild black swans, 'twere a world of wonder + For a while to join in your westward flight, + With the stars above and the dim earth under, + Through the cooling air of the glorious night. + As we swept along on our pinions winging, + We should catch the chime of a church-bell ringing, + Or the distant note of a torrent singing, + Or the far-off flash of a station light. + + From the northern lakes with the reeds and rushes, + Where the hills are clothed with a purple haze, + Where the bell-birds chime and the songs of thrushes + Make music sweet in the jungle maze, + They will hold their course to the westward ever, + Till they reach the banks of the old grey river, + Where the waters wash, and the reed-beds quiver + In the burning heat of the summer days. + + Oh! ye strange wild birds, will ye bear a greeting + To the folk that live in that western land? + Then for every sweep of your pinions beating, + Ye shall bear a wish to the sunburnt band, + To the stalwart men who are stoutly fighting + With the heat and drought and the dust-storm smiting, + Yet whose life somehow has a strange inviting, + When once to the work they have put their hand. + + Facing it yet! Oh, my friend stout-hearted, + What does it matter for rain or shine, + For the hopes deferred and the gain departed? + Nothing could conquer that heart of thine. + And thy health and strength are beyond confessing + As the only joys that are worth possessing. + May the days to come be as rich in blessing + As the days we spent in the auld lang syne. + + I would fain go back to the old grey river, + To the old bush days when our hearts were light, + But, alas! those days they have fled for ever, + They are like the swans that have swept from sight. + And I know full well that the strangers' faces + Would meet us now in our dearest places; + For our day is dead and has left no traces + But the thoughts that live in my mind to-night. + + There are folk long dead, and our hearts would sicken -- + We would grieve for them with a bitter pain, + If the past could live and the dead could quicken, + We then might turn to that life again. + But on lonely nights we would hear them calling, + We should hear their steps on the pathways falling, + We should loathe the life with a hate appalling + In our lonely rides by the ridge and plain. + + . . . . . + + In the silent park is a scent of clover, + And the distant roar of the town is dead, + And I hear once more as the swans fly over + Their far-off clamour from overhead. + They are flying west, by their instinct guided, + And for man likewise is his fate decided, + And griefs apportioned and joys divided + By a mighty power with a purpose dread. + + + + +The All Right 'Un + + + + He came from 'further out', + That land of heat and drought + And dust and gravel. + He got a touch of sun, + And rested at the run + Until his cure was done, + And he could travel. + + When spring had decked the plain, + He flitted off again + As flit the swallows. + And from that western land, + When many months were spanned, + A letter came to hand, + Which read as follows: + + 'Dear sir, I take my pen + In hopes that all your men + And you are hearty. + You think that I've forgot + Your kindness, Mr. Scott, + Oh, no, dear sir, I'm not + That sort of party. + + 'You sometimes bet, I know, + Well, now you'll have a show + The 'books' to frighten. + Up here at Wingadee + Young Billy Fife and me + We're training Strife, and he + Is a all right 'un. + + 'Just now we're running byes, + But, sir, first time he tries + I'll send you word of. + And running 'on the crook' + Their measures we have took, + It is the deadest hook + You ever heard of. + + 'So when we lets him go, + Why, then, I'll let you know, + And you can have a show + To put a mite on. + Now, sir, my leave I'll take, + Yours truly, William Blake. + P.S. -- Make no mistake, + _HE'S A ALL RIGHT 'UN_.' + + . . . . . + + By next week's _RIVERINE_ + I saw my friend had been + A bit too cunning. + I read: 'The racehorse Strife + And jockey William Fife + Disqualified for life -- + Suspicious running.' + + But though they spoilt his game, + I reckon all the same + I fairly ought to claim + My friend a white 'un. + For though he wasn't straight, + His deeds would indicate + His heart at any rate + Was 'a all right 'un'. + + + + +The Boss of the 'Admiral Lynch' + + + + Did you ever hear tell of Chili? I was readin' the other day + Of President Balmaceda and of how he was sent away. + It seems that he didn't suit 'em -- they thought that they'd like a change, + So they started an insurrection and chased him across the range. + They seemed to be restless people -- and, judging by what you hear, + They raise up these revolutions 'bout two or three times a year; + And the man that goes out of office, he goes for the boundary _QUICK_, + For there isn't no vote by ballot -- it's bullets that does the trick. + And it ain't like a real battle, where the prisoners' lives are spared, + And they fight till there's one side beaten + and then there's a truce declared, + + And the man that has got the licking goes down like a blooming lord + To hand in his resignation and give up his blooming sword, + And the other man bows and takes it, and everything's all polite -- + This wasn't that kind of a picnic, this wasn't that sort of a fight. + For the pris'ners they took -- they shot 'em; + no odds were they small or great, + If they'd collared old Balmaceda, they reckoned to shoot him straight. + A lot of bloodthirsty devils they were -- but there ain't a doubt + They must have been real plucked 'uns -- the way that they fought it out, + And the king of 'em all, I reckon, the man that could stand a pinch, + Was the boss of a one-horse gunboat. They called her the 'Admiral Lynch'. + + Well, he was for Balmaceda, and after the war was done, + And Balmaceda was beaten and his troops had been forced to run, + The other man fetched his army and proceeded to do things brown, + He marched 'em into the fortress and took command of the town. + Cannon and guns and horses troopin' along the road, + Rumblin' over the bridges, and never a foeman showed + Till they came in sight of the harbour, and the very first thing they see + Was this mite of a one-horse gunboat a-lying against the quay, + And there as they watched they noticed a flutter of crimson rag, + And under their eyes he hoisted old Balmaceda's flag. + Well, I tell you it fairly knocked 'em -- it just took away their breath, + For he must ha' known if they caught him, 'twas nothin' but sudden death. + An' he'd got no fire in his furnace, no chance to put out to sea, + So he stood by his gun and waited with his vessel against the quay. + + Well, they sent him a civil message to say that the war was done, + And most of his side were corpses, and all that were left had run; + And blood had been spilt sufficient, so they gave him a chance to decide + If he'd haul down his bit of bunting and come on the winning side. + He listened and heard their message, and answered them all polite, + That he was a Spanish hidalgo, and the men of his race _MUST_ fight! + A gunboat against an army, and with never a chance to run, + And them with their hundred cannon and him with a single gun: + The odds were a trifle heavy -- but he wasn't the sort to flinch, + So he opened fire on the army, did the boss of the 'Admiral Lynch'. + + They pounded his boat to pieces, they silenced his single gun, + And captured the whole consignment, for none of 'em cared to run; + And it don't say whether they shot him -- it don't even give his name -- + But whatever they did I'll wager that he went to his graveyard game. + I tell you those old hidalgos so stately and so polite, + They turn out the real Maginnis when it comes to an uphill fight. + There was General Alcantara, who died in the heaviest brunt, + And General Alzereca was killed in the battle's front; + But the king of 'em all, I reckon -- the man that could stand a pinch -- + Was the man who attacked the army with the gunboat 'Admiral Lynch'. + + + + +A Bushman's Song + + + + I'm travellin' down the Castlereagh, and I'm a station hand, + I'm handy with the ropin' pole, I'm handy with the brand, + And I can ride a rowdy colt, or swing the axe all day, + But there's no demand for a station-hand along the Castlereagh. + + So it's shift, boys, shift, for there isn't the slightest doubt + That we've got to make a shift to the stations further out, + With the pack-horse runnin' after, for he follows like a dog, + We must strike across the country at the old jig-jog. + + This old black horse I'm riding -- if you'll notice what's his brand, + He wears the crooked R, you see -- none better in the land. + He takes a lot of beatin', and the other day we tried, + For a bit of a joke, with a racing bloke, for twenty pounds a side. + + It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn't the slightest doubt + That I had to make him shift, for the money was nearly out; + But he cantered home a winner, with the other one at the flog -- + He's a red-hot sort to pick up with his old jig-jog. + + I asked a cove for shearin' once along the Marthaguy: + 'We shear non-union here,' says he. 'I call it scab,' says I. + I looked along the shearin' floor before I turned to go -- + There were eight or ten dashed Chinamen a-shearin' in a row. + + It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn't the slightest doubt + It was time to make a shift with the leprosy about. + So I saddled up my horses, and I whistled to my dog, + And I left his scabby station at the old jig-jog. + + I went to Illawarra, where my brother's got a farm, + He has to ask his landlord's leave before he lifts his arm; + The landlord owns the country side -- man, woman, dog, and cat, + They haven't the cheek to dare to speak without they touch their hat. + + It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn't the slightest doubt + Their little landlord god and I would soon have fallen out; + Was I to touch my hat to him? -- was I his bloomin' dog? + So I makes for up the country at the old jig-jog. + + But it's time that I was movin', I've a mighty way to go + Till I drink artesian water from a thousand feet below; + Till I meet the overlanders with the cattle comin' down, + And I'll work a while till I make a pile, then have a spree in town. + + So, it's shift, boys, shift, for there isn't the slightest doubt + We've got to make a shift to the stations further out; + The pack-horse runs behind us, for he follows like a dog, + And we cross a lot of country at the old jig-jog. + + + + +How Gilbert Died + + + + There's never a stone at the sleeper's head, + There's never a fence beside, + And the wandering stock on the grave may tread + Unnoticed and undenied, + But the smallest child on the Watershed + Can tell you how Gilbert died. + + For he rode at dusk, with his comrade Dunn + To the hut at the Stockman's Ford, + In the waning light of the sinking sun + They peered with a fierce accord. + They were outlaws both -- and on each man's head + Was a thousand pounds reward. + + They had taken toll of the country round, + And the troopers came behind + With a black that tracked like a human hound + In the scrub and the ranges blind: + He could run the trail where a white man's eye + No sign of a track could find. + + He had hunted them out of the One Tree Hill + And over the Old Man Plain, + But they wheeled their tracks with a wild beast's skill, + And they made for the range again. + Then away to the hut where their grandsire dwelt, + They rode with a loosened rein. + + And their grandsire gave them a greeting bold: + 'Come in and rest in peace, + No safer place does the country hold -- + With the night pursuit must cease, + And we'll drink success to the roving boys, + And to hell with the black police.' + + But they went to death when they entered there, + In the hut at the Stockman's Ford, + For their grandsire's words were as false as fair -- + They were doomed to the hangman's cord. + He had sold them both to the black police + For the sake of the big reward. + + In the depth of night there are forms that glide + As stealthy as serpents creep, + And around the hut where the outlaws hide + They plant in the shadows deep, + And they wait till the first faint flush of dawn + Shall waken their prey from sleep. + + But Gilbert wakes while the night is dark -- + A restless sleeper, aye, + He has heard the sound of a sheep-dog's bark, + And his horse's warning neigh, + And he says to his mate, 'There are hawks abroad, + And it's time that we went away.' + + Their rifles stood at the stretcher head, + Their bridles lay to hand, + They wakened the old man out of his bed, + When they heard the sharp command: + 'In the name of the Queen lay down your arms, + Now, Dunn and Gilbert, stand!' + + Then Gilbert reached for his rifle true + That close at his hand he kept, + He pointed it straight at the voice and drew, + But never a flash outleapt, + For the water ran from the rifle breech -- + It was drenched while the outlaws slept. + + Then he dropped the piece with a bitter oath, + And he turned to his comrade Dunn: + 'We are sold,' he said, 'we are dead men both, + But there may be a chance for one; + I'll stop and I'll fight with the pistol here, + You take to your heels and run.' + + So Dunn crept out on his hands and knees + In the dim, half-dawning light, + And he made his way to a patch of trees, + And vanished among the night, + And the trackers hunted his tracks all day, + But they never could trace his flight. + + But Gilbert walked from the open door + In a confident style and rash; + He heard at his side the rifles roar, + And he heard the bullets crash. + But he laughed as he lifted his pistol-hand, + And he fired at the rifle flash. + + Then out of the shadows the troopers aimed + At his voice and the pistol sound, + With the rifle flashes the darkness flamed, + He staggered and spun around, + And they riddled his body with rifle balls + As it lay on the blood-soaked ground. + + There's never a stone at the sleeper's head, + There's never a fence beside, + And the wandering stock on the grave may tread + Unnoticed and undenied, + But the smallest child on the Watershed + Can tell you how Gilbert died. + + + + +The Flying Gang + + + + I served my time, in the days gone by, + In the railway's clash and clang, + And I worked my way to the end, and I + Was the head of the 'Flying Gang'. + 'Twas a chosen band that was kept at hand + In case of an urgent need, + Was it south or north we were started forth, + And away at our utmost speed. + If word reached town that a bridge was down, + The imperious summons rang -- + 'Come out with the pilot engine sharp, + And away with the flying gang.' + + Then a piercing scream and a rush of steam + As the engine moved ahead, + With a measured beat by the slum and street + Of the busy town we fled, + By the uplands bright and the homesteads white, + With the rush of the western gale, + And the pilot swayed with the pace we made + As she rocked on the ringing rail. + And the country children clapped their hands + As the engine's echoes rang, + But their elders said: 'There is work ahead + When they send for the flying gang.' + + Then across the miles of the saltbush plain + That gleamed with the morning dew, + Where the grasses waved like the ripening grain + The pilot engine flew, + A fiery rush in the open bush + Where the grade marks seemed to fly, + And the order sped on the wires ahead, + The pilot _MUST_ go by. + The Governor's special must stand aside, + And the fast express go hang, + Let your orders be that the line is free + For the boys of the flying gang. + + + + +Shearing at Castlereagh + + + + The bell is set a-ringing, and the engine gives a toot, + There's five and thirty shearers here are shearing for the loot, + So stir yourselves, you penners-up, and shove the sheep along, + The musterers are fetching them a hundred thousand strong, + And make your collie dogs speak up -- what would the buyers say + In London if the wool was late this year from Castlereagh? + + The man that 'rung' the Tubbo shed is not the ringer here, + That stripling from the Cooma side can teach him how to shear. + They trim away the ragged locks, and rip the cutter goes, + And leaves a track of snowy fleece from brisket to the nose; + It's lovely how they peel it off with never stop nor stay, + They're racing for the ringer's place this year at Castlereagh. + + The man that keeps the cutters sharp is growling in his cage, + He's always in a hurry and he's always in a rage -- + 'You clumsy-fisted mutton-heads, you'd turn a fellow sick, + You pass yourselves as shearers, you were born to swing a pick. + Another broken cutter here, that's two you've broke to-day, + It's awful how such crawlers come to shear at Castlereagh.' + + The youngsters picking up the fleece enjoy the merry din, + They throw the classer up the fleece, he throws it to the bin; + The pressers standing by the rack are waiting for the wool, + There's room for just a couple more, the press is nearly full; + Now jump upon the lever, lads, and heave and heave away, + Another bale of golden fleece is branded 'Castlereagh'. + + + + +The Wind's Message + + + + There came a whisper down the Bland between the dawn and dark, + Above the tossing of the pines, above the river's flow; + It stirred the boughs of giant gums and stalwart ironbark; + It drifted where the wild ducks played amid the swamps below; + It brought a breath of mountain air from off the hills of pine, + A scent of eucalyptus trees in honey-laden bloom; + And drifting, drifting far away along the southern line + It caught from leaf and grass and fern a subtle strange perfume. + + It reached the toiling city folk, but few there were that heard -- + The rattle of their busy life had choked the whisper down; + And some but caught a fresh-blown breeze with scent of pine that stirred + A thought of blue hills far away beyond the smoky town; + And others heard the whisper pass, but could not understand + The magic of the breeze's breath that set their hearts aglow, + Nor how the roving wind could bring across the Overland + A sound of voices silent now and songs of long ago. + + But some that heard the whisper clear were filled with vague unrest; + The breeze had brought its message home, they could not fixed abide; + Their fancies wandered all the day towards the blue hills' breast, + Towards the sunny slopes that lie along the riverside, + The mighty rolling western plains are very fair to see, + Where waving to the passing breeze the silver myalls stand, + But fairer are the giant hills, all rugged though they be, + From which the two great rivers rise that run along the Bland. + + Oh! rocky range and rugged spur and river running clear, + That swings around the sudden bends with swirl of snow-white foam, + Though we, your sons, are far away, we sometimes seem to hear + The message that the breezes bring to call the wanderers home. + The mountain peaks are white with snow that feeds a thousand rills, + Along the river banks the maize grows tall on virgin land, + And we shall live to see once more those sunny southern hills, + And strike once more the bridle track that leads along the Bland. + + + + +Johnson's Antidote + + + + Down along the Snakebite River, where the overlanders camp, + Where the serpents are in millions, all of the most deadly stamp; + Where the station-cook in terror, nearly every time he bakes, + Mixes up among the doughboys half-a-dozen poison-snakes: + Where the wily free-selector walks in armour-plated pants, + And defies the stings of scorpions, and the bites of bull-dog ants: + Where the adder and the viper tear each other by the throat, + There it was that William Johnson sought his snake-bite antidote. + + Johnson was a free-selector, and his brain went rather queer, + For the constant sight of serpents filled him with a deadly fear; + So he tramped his free-selection, morning, afternoon, and night, + Seeking for some great specific that would cure the serpent's bite. + Till King Billy, of the Mooki, chieftain of the flour-bag head, + Told him, 'Spos'n snake bite pfeller, pfeller mostly drop down dead; + Spos'n snake bite old goanna, then you watch a while you see, + Old goanna cure himself with eating little pfeller tree.' + 'That's the cure,' said William Johnson, 'point me out this plant sublime,' + But King Billy, feeling lazy, said he'd go another time. + Thus it came to pass that Johnson, having got the tale by rote, + Followed every stray goanna, seeking for the antidote. + + . . . . . + + Loafing once beside the river, while he thought his heart would break, + There he saw a big goanna fighting with a tiger-snake, + In and out they rolled and wriggled, bit each other, heart and soul, + Till the valiant old goanna swallowed his opponent whole. + Breathless, Johnson sat and watched him, saw him struggle up the bank, + Saw him nibbling at the branches of some bushes, green and rank; + Saw him, happy and contented, lick his lips, as off he crept, + While the bulging in his stomach showed where his opponent slept. + Then a cheer of exultation burst aloud from Johnson's throat; + 'Luck at last,' said he, 'I've struck it! 'tis the famous antidote.' + + 'Here it is, the Grand Elixir, greatest blessing ever known, + Twenty thousand men in India die each year of snakes alone. + Think of all the foreign nations, negro, chow, and blackamoor, + Saved from sudden expiration, by my wondrous snakebite cure. + It will bring me fame and fortune! In the happy days to be, + Men of every clime and nation will be round to gaze on me -- + Scientific men in thousands, men of mark and men of note, + Rushing down the Mooki River, after Johnson's antidote. + It will cure Delirium Tremens, when the patient's eyeballs stare + At imaginary spiders, snakes which really are not there. + When he thinks he sees them wriggle, when he thinks he sees them bloat, + It will cure him just to think of Johnson's Snakebite Antidote.' + + Then he rushed to the museum, found a scientific man -- + 'Trot me out a deadly serpent, just the deadliest you can; + I intend to let him bite me, all the risk I will endure, + Just to prove the sterling value of my wondrous snakebite cure. + Even though an adder bit me, back to life again I'd float; + Snakes are out of date, I tell you, since I've found the antidote.' + + Said the scientific person, 'If you really want to die, + Go ahead -- but, if you're doubtful, let your sheep-dog have a try. + Get a pair of dogs and try it, let the snake give both a nip; + Give your dog the snakebite mixture, let the other fellow rip; + If he dies and yours survives him, then it proves the thing is good. + Will you fetch your dog and try it?' Johnson rather thought he would. + So he went and fetched his canine, hauled him forward by the throat. + 'Stump, old man,' says he, 'we'll show them we've the genwine antidote.' + + Both the dogs were duly loaded with the poison-gland's contents; + Johnson gave his dog the mixture, then sat down to wait events. + 'Mark,' he said, 'in twenty minutes Stump'll be a-rushing round, + While the other wretched creature lies a corpse upon the ground.' + But, alas for William Johnson! ere they'd watched a half-hour's spell + Stumpy was as dead as mutton, t'other dog was live and well. + And the scientific person hurried off with utmost speed, + Tested Johnson's drug and found it was a deadly poison-weed; + Half a tumbler killed an emu, half a spoonful killed a goat, + All the snakes on earth were harmless to that awful antidote. + + . . . . . + + Down along the Mooki River, on the overlanders' camp, + Where the serpents are in millions, all of the most deadly stamp, + Wanders, daily, William Johnson, down among those poisonous hordes, + Shooting every stray goanna, calls them 'black and yaller frauds'. + And King Billy, of the Mooki, cadging for the cast-off coat, + Somehow seems to dodge the subject of the snake-bite antidote. + + + + +Ambition and Art + + + + Ambition + + + I am the maid of the lustrous eyes + Of great fruition, + Whom the sons of men that are over-wise + Have called Ambition. + + And the world's success is the only goal + I have within me; + The meanest man with the smallest soul + May woo and win me. + + For the lust of power and the pride of place + To all I proffer. + Wilt thou take thy part in the crowded race + For what I offer? + + The choice is thine, and the world is wide -- + Thy path is lonely. + I may not lead and I may not guide -- + I urge thee only. + + I am just a whip and a spur that smites + To fierce endeavour. + In the restless days and the sleepless nights + I urge thee ever. + + Thou shalt wake from sleep with a startled cry, + In fright upleaping + At a rival's step as it passes by + Whilst thou art sleeping. + + Honour and truth shall be overthrown + In fierce desire; + Thou shalt use thy friend as a stepping-stone + To mount thee higher. + + When the curtain falls on the sordid strife + That seemed so splendid, + Thou shalt look with pain on the wasted life + That thou hast ended. + + Thou hast sold thy life for a guerdon small + In fitful flashes; + There has been reward -- but the end of all + Is dust and ashes. + + For the night has come and it brings to naught + Thy projects cherished, + And thine epitaph shall in brass be wrought -- + 'He lived and perished.' + + + Art + + + I wait for thee at the outer gate, + My love, mine only; + Wherefore tarriest thou so late + While I am lonely. + + Thou shalt seek my side with a footstep swift, + In thee implanted + Is the love of Art and the greatest gift + That God has granted. + + And the world's concerns with its rights and wrongs + Shall seem but small things -- + Poet or painter, a singer of songs, + Thine art is all things. + + For the wine of life is a woman's love + To keep beside thee; + But the love of Art is a thing above -- + A star to guide thee. + + As the years go by with thy love of Art + All undiminished, + Thou shalt end thy days with a quiet heart -- + Thy work is finished. + + So the painter fashions a picture strong + That fadeth never, + And the singer singeth a wond'rous song + That lives for ever. + + + + +The Daylight is Dying + + + + The daylight is dying + Away in the west, + The wild birds are flying + In silence to rest; + In leafage and frondage + Where shadows are deep, + They pass to its bondage -- + The kingdom of sleep. + And watched in their sleeping + By stars in the height, + They rest in your keeping, + Oh, wonderful night. + + When night doth her glories + Of starshine unfold, + 'Tis then that the stories + Of bush-land are told. + Unnumbered I hold them + In memories bright, + But who could unfold them, + Or read them aright? + Beyond all denials + The stars in their glories + The breeze in the myalls + Are part of these stories. + The waving of grasses, + The song of the river + That sings as it passes + For ever and ever, + The hobble-chains' rattle, + The calling of birds, + The lowing of cattle + Must blend with the words. + Without these, indeed, you + Would find it ere long, + As though I should read you + The words of a song + That lamely would linger + When lacking the rune, + The voice of the singer, + The lilt of the tune. + + But, as one half-hearing + An old-time refrain, + With memory clearing, + Recalls it again, + These tales, roughly wrought of + The bush and its ways, + May call back a thought of + The wandering days, + And, blending with each + In the mem'ries that throng, + There haply shall reach + You some echo of song. + + + + +In Defence of the Bush + + + + So you're back from up the country, Mister Townsman, where you went, + And you're cursing all the business in a bitter discontent; + Well, we grieve to disappoint you, and it makes us sad to hear + That it wasn't cool and shady -- and there wasn't plenty beer, + And the loony bullock snorted when you first came into view; + Well, you know it's not so often that he sees a swell like you; + And the roads were hot and dusty, and the plains were burnt and brown, + And no doubt you're better suited drinking lemon-squash in town. + Yet, perchance, if you should journey down the very track you went + In a month or two at furthest you would wonder what it meant, + Where the sunbaked earth was gasping like a creature in its pain + You would find the grasses waving like a field of summer grain, + And the miles of thirsty gutters blocked with sand and choked with mud, + You would find them mighty rivers with a turbid, sweeping flood; + For the rain and drought and sunshine make no changes in the street, + In the sullen line of buildings and the ceaseless tramp of feet; + But the bush hath moods and changes, as the seasons rise and fall, + And the men who know the bush-land -- they are loyal through it all. + + . . . . . + + But you found the bush was dismal and a land of no delight, + Did you chance to hear a chorus in the shearers' huts at night? + Did they 'rise up, William Riley' by the camp-fire's cheery blaze? + Did they rise him as we rose him in the good old droving days? + And the women of the homesteads and the men you chanced to meet -- + Were their faces sour and saddened like the 'faces in the street', + And the 'shy selector children' -- were they better now or worse + Than the little city urchins who would greet you with a curse? + Is not such a life much better than the squalid street and square + Where the fallen women flaunt it in the fierce electric glare, + Where the sempstress plies her sewing till her eyes are sore and red + In a filthy, dirty attic toiling on for daily bread? + Did you hear no sweeter voices in the music of the bush + Than the roar of trams and 'buses, and the war-whoop of 'the push'? + Did the magpies rouse your slumbers with their carol sweet and strange? + Did you hear the silver chiming of the bell-birds on the range? + But, perchance, the wild birds' music by your senses was despised, + For you say you'll stay in townships till the bush is civilised. + Would you make it a tea-garden and on Sundays have a band + Where the 'blokes' might take their 'donahs', + with a 'public' close at hand? + You had better stick to Sydney and make merry with the 'push', + For the bush will never suit you, and you'll never suit the bush. + + + + +Last Week + + + + Oh, the new-chum went to the back block run, + But he should have gone there last week. + He tramped ten miles with a loaded gun, + But of turkey or duck he saw never a one, + For he should have been there last week, + They said, + There were flocks of 'em there last week. + + He wended his way to a waterfall, + And he should have gone there last week. + He carried a camera, legs and all, + But the day was hot, and the stream was small, + For he should have gone there last week, + They said. + They drowned a man there last week. + + He went for a drive, and he made a start, + Which should have been made last week, + For the old horse died of a broken heart; + So he footed it home and he dragged the cart -- + But the horse was all right last week, + They said. + He trotted a match last week. + + So he asked the bushies who came from far + To visit the town last week, + If they'd dine with him, and they said 'Hurrah!' + But there wasn't a drop in the whisky jar -- + You should have been here last week, + He said, + I drank it all up last week! + + + + +Those Names + + + + The shearers sat in the firelight, hearty and hale and strong, + After the hard day's shearing, passing the joke along: + The 'ringer' that shore a hundred, as they never were shorn before, + And the novice who, toiling bravely, had tommy-hawked half a score, + The tarboy, the cook, and the slushy, the sweeper that swept the board, + The picker-up, and the penner, with the rest of the shearing horde. + There were men from the inland stations + where the skies like a furnace glow, + And men from the Snowy River, the land of the frozen snow; + There were swarthy Queensland drovers who reckoned all land by miles, + And farmers' sons from the Murray, where many a vineyard smiles. + They started at telling stories when they wearied of cards and games, + And to give these stories a flavour they threw in some local names, + And a man from the bleak Monaro, away on the tableland, + He fixed his eyes on the ceiling, and he started to play his hand. + + He told them of Adjintoothbong, where the pine-clad mountains freeze, + And the weight of the snow in summer breaks branches off the trees, + And, as he warmed to the business, he let them have it strong -- + Nimitybelle, Conargo, Wheeo, Bongongolong; + He lingered over them fondly, because they recalled to mind + A thought of the old bush homestead, and the girl that he left behind. + Then the shearers all sat silent till a man in the corner rose; + Said he, 'I've travelled a-plenty but never heard names like those. + Out in the western districts, out on the Castlereagh + Most of the names are easy -- short for a man to say. + + 'You've heard of Mungrybambone and the Gundabluey pine, + Quobbotha, Girilambone, and Terramungamine, + Quambone, Eunonyhareenyha, Wee Waa, and Buntijo --' + But the rest of the shearers stopped him: + 'For the sake of your jaw, go slow, + If you reckon those names are short ones out where such names prevail, + Just try and remember some long ones before you begin the tale.' + And the man from the western district, though never a word he said, + Just winked with his dexter eyelid, and then he retired to bed. + + + + +A Bush Christening + + + + On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few, + And men of religion are scanty, + On a road never cross'd 'cept by folk that are lost, + One Michael Magee had a shanty. + + Now this Mike was the dad of a ten year old lad, + Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned; + He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest + For the youngster had never been christened. + + And his wife used to cry, 'If the darlin' should die + Saint Peter would not recognise him.' + But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived, + Who agreed straightaway to baptise him. + + Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue, + With his ear to the keyhole was listenin', + And he muttered in fright, while his features turned white, + 'What the divil and all is this christenin'?' + + He was none of your dolts, he had seen them brand colts, + And it seemed to his small understanding, + If the man in the frock made him one of the flock, + It must mean something very like branding. + + So away with a rush he set off for the bush, + While the tears in his eyelids they glistened -- + ''Tis outrageous,' says he, 'to brand youngsters like me, + I'll be dashed if I'll stop to be christened!' + + Like a young native dog he ran into a log, + And his father with language uncivil, + Never heeding the 'praste' cried aloud in his haste, + 'Come out and be christened, you divil!' + + But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug, + And his parents in vain might reprove him, + Till his reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke) + 'I've a notion,' says he, 'that'll move him.' + + 'Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prog; + Poke him aisy -- don't hurt him or maim him, + 'Tis not long that he'll stand, I've the water at hand, + As he rushes out this end I'll name him. + + 'Here he comes, and for shame! ye've forgotten the name -- + Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?' + Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout -- + 'Take your chance, anyhow, wid 'Maginnis'!' + + As the howling young cub ran away to the scrub + Where he knew that pursuit would be risky, + The priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his head + That was labelled '_MAGINNIS'S WHISKY_'! + + And Maginnis Magee has been made a J.P., + And the one thing he hates more than sin is + To be asked by the folk, who have heard of the joke, + How he came to be christened 'Maginnis'! + + + + +How the Favourite Beat Us + + + + 'Aye,' said the boozer, 'I tell you it's true, sir, + I once was a punter with plenty of pelf, + But gone is my glory, I'll tell you the story + How I stiffened my horse and got stiffened myself. + + ''Twas a mare called the Cracker, I came down to back her, + But found she was favourite all of a rush, + The folk just did pour on to lay six to four on, + And several bookies were killed in the crush. + + 'It seems old Tomato was stiff, though a starter; + They reckoned him fit for the Caulfield to keep. + The Bloke and the Donah were scratched by their owner, + He only was offered three-fourths of the sweep. + + 'We knew Salamander was slow as a gander, + The mare could have beat him the length of the straight, + And old Manumission was out of condition, + And most of the others were running off weight. + + 'No doubt someone 'blew it', for everyone knew it, + The bets were all gone, and I muttered in spite + 'If I can't get a copper, by Jingo, I'll stop her, + Let the public fall in, it will serve the brutes right.' + + 'I said to the jockey, 'Now, listen, my cocky, + You watch as you're cantering down by the stand, + I'll wait where that toff is and give you the office, + You're only to win if I lift up my hand.' + + 'I then tried to back her -- 'What price is the Cracker?' + 'Our books are all full, sir,' each bookie did swear; + My mind, then, I made up, my fortune I played up + I bet every shilling against my own mare. + + 'I strolled to the gateway, the mare in the straightway + Was shifting and dancing, and pawing the ground, + The boy saw me enter and wheeled for his canter, + When a darned great mosquito came buzzing around. + + 'They breed 'em at Hexham, it's risky to vex 'em, + They suck a man dry at a sitting, no doubt, + But just as the mare passed, he fluttered my hair past, + I lifted my hand, and I flattened him out. + + 'I was stunned when they started, the mare simply darted + Away to the front when the flag was let fall, + For none there could match her, and none tried to catch her -- + She finished a furlong in front of them all. + + 'You bet that I went for the boy, whom I sent for + The moment he weighed and came out of the stand -- + 'Who paid you to win it? Come, own up this minute.' + 'Lord love yer,' said he, 'why you lifted your hand.' + + ''Twas true, by St. Peter, that cursed 'muskeeter' + Had broke me so broke that I hadn't a brown, + And you'll find the best course is when dealing with horses + To win when you're able, and _KEEP YOUR HANDS DOWN_. + + + + +The Great Calamity + + + + MacFierce'un came to Whiskeyhurst + When summer days were hot, + And bided there wi' Jock McThirst, + A brawny brother Scot. + Gude Faith! They made the whisky fly, + Like Highland chieftains true, + And when they'd drunk the beaker dry + They sang 'We are nae fou!' + + 'There is nae folk like oor ain folk, + Sae gallant and sae true.' + They sang the only Scottish joke + Which is, 'We are nae fou.' + + Said bold McThirst, 'Let Saxons jaw + Aboot their great concerns, + But bonny Scotland beats them a', + The land o' cakes and Burns, + The land o' partridge, deer, and grouse, + Fill up your glass, I beg, + There's muckle whusky i' the house, + Forbye what's in the keg.' + + And here a hearty laugh he laughed, + 'Just come wi' me, I beg.' + MacFierce'un saw with pleasure daft + A fifty-gallon keg. + + 'Losh, man, that's grand,' MacFierce'un cried, + 'Saw ever man the like, + Now, wi' the daylight, I maun ride + To meet a Southron tyke, + But I'll be back ere summer's gone, + So bide for me, I beg, + We'll make a grand assault upon + Yon deevil of a keg.' + + . . . . . + + MacFierce'un rode to Whiskeyhurst, + When summer days were gone, + And there he met with Jock McThirst + Was greetin' all alone. + 'McThirst what gars ye look sae blank? + Have all yer wits gane daft? + Has that accursed Southron bank + Called up your overdraft? + Is all your grass burnt up wi' drouth? + Is wool and hides gone flat?' + McThirst replied, 'Gude friend, in truth, + 'Tis muckle waur than that.' + + 'Has sair misfortune cursed your life + That you should weep sae free? + Is harm upon your bonny wife, + The children at your knee? + Is scaith upon your house and hame?' + McThirst upraised his head: + 'My bairns hae done the deed of shame -- + 'Twere better they were dead. + + 'To think my bonny infant son + Should do the deed o' guilt -- + _HE LET THE WHUSKEY SPIGOT RUN, + AND A' THE WHUSKEY'S SPILT!_' + + . . . . . + + Upon them both these words did bring + A solemn silence deep, + Gude faith, it is a fearsome thing + To see two strong men weep. + + + + +Come-by-Chance + + + + As I pondered very weary o'er a volume long and dreary -- + For the plot was void of interest -- 'twas the Postal Guide, in fact, + There I learnt the true location, distance, size, and population + Of each township, town, and village in the radius of the Act. + + And I learnt that Puckawidgee stands beside the Murrumbidgee, + And that Booleroi and Bumble get their letters twice a year, + Also that the post inspector, when he visited Collector, + Closed the office up instanter, and re-opened Dungalear. + + But my languid mood forsook me, when I found a name that took me, + Quite by chance I came across it -- 'Come-by-Chance' was what I read; + No location was assigned it, not a thing to help one find it, + Just an N which stood for northward, and the rest was all unsaid. + + I shall leave my home, and forthward wander stoutly to the northward + Till I come by chance across it, and I'll straightway settle down, + For there can't be any hurry, nor the slightest cause for worry + Where the telegraph don't reach you nor the railways run to town. + + And one's letters and exchanges come by chance across the ranges, + Where a wiry young Australian leads a pack-horse once a week, + And the good news grows by keeping, and you're spared the pain of weeping + Over bad news when the mailman drops the letters in the creek. + + But I fear, and more's the pity, that there's really no such city, + For there's not a man can find it of the shrewdest folk I know, + 'Come-by-chance', be sure it never means a land of fierce endeavour, + It is just the careless country where the dreamers only go. + + . . . . . + + Though we work and toil and hustle in our life of haste and bustle, + All that makes our life worth living comes unstriven for and free; + Man may weary and importune, but the fickle goddess Fortune + Deals him out his pain or pleasure, careless what his worth may be. + + All the happy times entrancing, days of sport and nights of dancing, + Moonlit rides and stolen kisses, pouting lips and loving glance: + When you think of these be certain you have looked behind the curtain, + You have had the luck to linger just a while in 'Come-by-chance'. + + + + +Under the Shadow of Kiley's Hill + + + + This is the place where they all were bred; + Some of the rafters are standing still; + Now they are scattered and lost and dead, + Every one from the old nest fled, + Out of the shadow of Kiley's Hill. + + Better it is that they ne'er came back -- + Changes and chances are quickly rung; + Now the old homestead is gone to rack, + Green is the grass on the well-worn track + Down by the gate where the roses clung. + + Gone is the garden they kept with care; + Left to decay at its own sweet will, + Fruit trees and flower beds eaten bare, + Cattle and sheep where the roses were, + Under the shadow of Kiley's Hill. + + Where are the children that throve and grew + In the old homestead in days gone by? + One is away on the far Barcoo + Watching his cattle the long year through, + Watching them starve in the droughts and die. + + One in the town where all cares are rife, + Weary with troubles that cramp and kill, + Fain would be done with the restless strife, + Fain would go back to the old bush life, + Back to the shadow of Kiley's Hill. + + One is away on the roving quest, + Seeking his share of the golden spoil, + Out in the wastes of the trackless west, + Wandering ever he gives the best + Of his years and strength to the hopeless toil. + + What of the parents? That unkept mound + Shows where they slumber united still; + Rough is their grave, but they sleep as sound + Out on the range as on holy ground, + Under the shadow of Kiley's Hill. + + + + +Jim Carew + + + + Born of a thoroughbred English race, + Well proportioned and closely knit, + Neat of figure and handsome face, + Always ready and always fit, + Hard and wiry of limb and thew, + That was the ne'er-do-well Jim Carew. + + One of the sons of the good old land -- + Many a year since his like was known; + Never a game but he took command, + Never a sport but he held his own; + Gained at his college a triple blue -- + Good as they make them was Jim Carew. + + Came to grief -- was it card or horse? + Nobody asked and nobody cared; + Ship him away to the bush of course, + Ne'er-do-well fellows are easily spared; + Only of women a tolerable few + Sorrowed at parting with Jim Carew. + + Gentleman Jim on the cattle camp, + Sitting his horse with an easy grace; + But the reckless living has left its stamp + In the deep drawn lines of that handsome face, + And a harder look in those eyes of blue: + Prompt at a quarrel is Jim Carew. + + Billy the Lasher was out for gore -- + Twelve-stone navvy with chest of hair, + When he opened out with a hungry roar + On a ten-stone man it was hardly fair; + But his wife was wise if his face she knew + By the time you were done with him, Jim Carew. + + Gentleman Jim in the stockmen's hut + Works with them, toils with them, side by side; + As to his past -- well, his lips are shut. + 'Gentleman once,' say his mates with pride; + And the wildest Cornstalk can ne'er outdo + In feats of recklessness, Jim Carew. + + What should he live for? A dull despair! + Drink is his master and drags him down, + Water of Lethe that drowns all care. + Gentleman Jim has a lot to drown, + And he reigns as king with a drunken crew, + Sinking to misery, Jim Carew. + + Such is the end of the ne'er-do-well -- + Jimmy the Boozer, all down at heel; + But he straightens up when he's asked to tell + His name and race, and a flash of steel + Still lightens up in those eyes of blue -- + 'I am, or -- no, I _WAS_ -- Jim Carew.' + + + + +The Swagman's Rest + + + + We buried old Bob where the bloodwoods wave + At the foot of the Eaglehawk; + We fashioned a cross on the old man's grave, + For fear that his ghost might walk; + We carved his name on a bloodwood tree, + With the date of his sad decease, + And in place of 'Died from effects of spree', + We wrote 'May he rest in peace'. + + For Bob was known on the Overland, + A regular old bush wag, + Tramping along in the dust and sand, + Humping his well-worn swag. + He would camp for days in the river-bed, + And loiter and 'fish for whales'. + 'I'm into the swagman's yard,' he said, + 'And I never shall find the rails.' + + But he found the rails on that summer night + For a better place -- or worse, + As we watched by turns in the flickering light + With an old black gin for nurse. + The breeze came in with the scent of pine, + The river sounded clear, + When a change came on, and we saw the sign + That told us the end was near. + + But he spoke in a cultured voice and low -- + 'I fancy they've "sent the route"; + I once was an army man, you know, + Though now I'm a drunken brute; + But bury me out where the bloodwoods wave, + And if ever you're fairly stuck, + Just take and shovel me out of the grave + And, maybe, I'll bring you luck. + + 'For I've always heard --' here his voice fell weak, + His strength was well-nigh sped, + He gasped and struggled and tried to speak, + Then fell in a moment -- dead. + Thus ended a wasted life and hard, + Of energies misapplied -- + Old Bob was out of the 'swagman's yard' + And over the Great Divide. + + . . . . . + + The drought came down on the field and flock, + And never a raindrop fell, + Though the tortured moans of the starving stock + Might soften a fiend from hell. + And we thought of the hint that the swagman gave + When he went to the Great Unseen -- + We shovelled the skeleton out of the grave + To see what his hint might mean. + + We dug where the cross and the grave posts were, + We shovelled away the mould, + When sudden a vein of quartz lay bare + All gleaming with yellow gold. + 'Twas a reef with never a fault nor baulk + That ran from the range's crest, + And the richest mine on the Eaglehawk + Is known as 'The Swagman's Rest'. + + + [The End.] + + + + + +[From the section of Advertisements at the end of the 1911 printing.] + + +THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER, AND OTHER VERSES. + + By A. B. Paterson. + +THE LITERARY YEAR BOOK: "The immediate success of this +book of bush ballads is without parallel in Colonial literary annals, +nor can any living English or American poet boast so wide a public, +always excepting Mr. Rudyard Kipling." + +SPECTATOR: "These lines have the true lyrical cry in them. +Eloquent and ardent verses." + +ATHENAEUM: "Swinging, rattling ballads of ready humour, ready pathos, +and crowding adventure. ... Stirring and entertaining ballads +about great rides, in which the lines gallop like the very hoofs +of the horses." + +THE TIMES: "At his best he compares not unfavourably with the author +of 'Barrack-Room Ballads'." + +Mr. A. Patchett Martin, in LITERATURE (London): "In my opinion, +it is the absolutely un-English, thoroughly Australian style and character +of these new bush bards which has given them such immediate popularity, +such wide vogue, among all classes of the rising native generation." + +WESTMINSTER GAZETTE: "Australia has produced in Mr. A. B. Paterson +a national poet whose bush ballads are as distinctly characteristic +of the country as Burns's poetry is characteristic of Scotland." + +THE SCOTSMAN: "A book like this... is worth a dozen of the aspiring, +idealistic sort, since it has a deal of rough laughter +and a dash of real tears in its composition." + +GLASGOW HERALD: "These ballads... are full of such go +that the mere reading of them make the blood tingle.... +But there are other things in Mr. Paterson's book besides +mere racing and chasing, and each piece bears the mark +of special local knowledge, feeling, and colour. +The poet has also a note of pathos, which is always wholesome." + +LITERARY WORLD: "He gallops along with a by no means doubtful music, +shouting his vigorous songs as he rides in pursuit of wild bush horses, +constraining us to listen and applaud by dint of his manly tones +and capital subjects... We turn to Mr. Paterson's roaring muse +with instantaneous gratitude." + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Man from Snowy River, by +Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER *** + +***** This file should be named 213.txt or 213.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/1/213/ + +Produced by A. Light, and Sheridan Ash + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + + +The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses (2 ed.) +by Andrew Barton `Banjo' Paterson [Australian Poet, Reporter -- 1864-1941.] + + + + + + +[Note on text: Italicized stanzas will be indented 5 spaces. +Italicized words or phrases will be capitalized. +Lines longer than 75 characters have been broken according to metre, +and the continuation is indented two spaces. Also, +some obvious errors, after being confirmed against other sources, +have been corrected.] + + +[Note on content: Banjo Paterson and Henry Lawson were writing for +the Sydney `Bulletin' in 1892 when Lawson suggested a `duel' of poetry +to increase the number of poems they could sell to the paper. +It was apparently entered into in all fun, though there are reports +that Lawson was bitter about it later. `In Defence of the Bush', +included in this selection, was one of Paterson's replies to Lawson.] + + +[The 1913 printing (Sydney, Fifty-third Thousand) of the Second Edition +(first published in 1902) was used in the preparation of this etext. +First edition was first published in 1895.] + + + + + + +THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER AND OTHER VERSES by A. B. Paterson ("The Banjo") +with preface by Rolf Boldrewood + + + + + + +Preface + + + +It is not so easy to write ballads descriptive of the bushland of Australia +as on light consideration would appear. Reasonably good verse +on the subject has been supplied in sufficient quantity. +But the maker of folksongs for our newborn nation requires +a somewhat rare combination of gifts and experiences. +Dowered with the poet's heart, he must yet have passed his `wander-jaehre' +amid the stern solitude of the Austral waste -- must have ridden the race +in the back-block township, guided the reckless stock-horse +adown the mountain spur, and followed the night-long moving, +spectral-seeming herd `in the droving days'. Amid such scarce +congenial surroundings comes oft that finer sense which renders visible +bright gleams of humour, pathos, and romance, which, +like undiscovered gold, await the fortunate adventurer. +That the author has touched this treasure-trove, not less delicately +than distinctly, no true Australian will deny. In my opinion +this collection comprises the best bush ballads written +since the death of Lindsay Gordon. + + Rolf Boldrewood + + + + + + +A number of these verses are now published for the first time, +most of the others were written for and appeared in "The Bulletin" +(Sydney, N.S.W.), and are therefore already widely known +to readers in Australasia. + + A. B. Paterson + + + + + + +Prelude + + + + I have gathered these stories afar, + In the wind and the rain, + In the land where the cattle camps are, + On the edge of the plain. + On the overland routes of the west, + When the watches were long, + I have fashioned in earnest and jest + These fragments of song. + + They are just the rude stories one hears + In sadness and mirth, + The records of wandering years, + And scant is their worth + Though their merits indeed are but slight, + I shall not repine, + If they give you one moment's delight, + Old comrades of mine. + + + + + + +Contents + + + +Prelude + I have gathered these stories afar, + +The Man from Snowy River + There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around + +Old Pardon, the Son of Reprieve + You never heard tell of the story? + +Clancy of the Overflow + I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better + +Conroy's Gap + This was the way of it, don't you know -- + +Our New Horse + The boys had come back from the races + +An Idyll of Dandaloo + On Western plains, where shade is not, + +The Geebung Polo Club + It was somewhere up the country, in a land of rock and scrub, + +The Travelling Post Office + The roving breezes come and go, the reed beds sweep and sway, + +Saltbush Bill + Now this is the law of the Overland that all in the West obey, + +A Mountain Station + I bought a run a while ago, + +Been There Before + There came a stranger to Walgett town, + +The Man Who Was Away + The widow sought the lawyer's room with children three in tow, + +The Man from Ironbark + It was the man from Ironbark who struck the Sydney town, + +The Open Steeplechase + I had ridden over hurdles up the country once or twice, + +The Amateur Rider + HIM going to ride for us! HIM -- + with the pants and the eyeglass and all. + +On Kiley's Run + The roving breezes come and go + +Frying Pan's Theology + Scene: On Monaro. + +The Two Devines + It was shearing-time at the Myall Lake, + +In the Droving Days + `Only a pound,' said the auctioneer, + +Lost + `He ought to be home,' said the old man, + `without there's something amiss. + +Over the Range + Little bush maiden, wondering-eyed, + +Only a Jockey + Out in the grey cheerless chill of the morning light, + +How M'Ginnis Went Missing + Let us cease our idle chatter, + +A Voice from the Town + I thought, in the days of the droving, + +A Bunch of Roses + Roses ruddy and roses white, + +Black Swans + As I lie at rest on a patch of clover + +The All Right 'Un + He came from `further out', + +The Boss of the `Admiral Lynch' + Did you ever hear tell of Chili? I was readin' the other day + +A Bushman's Song + I'm travellin' down the Castlereagh, and I'm a station hand, + +How Gilbert Died + There's never a stone at the sleeper's head, + +The Flying Gang + I served my time, in the days gone by, + +Shearing at Castlereagh + The bell is set a-ringing, and the engine gives a toot, + +The Wind's Message + There came a whisper down the Bland between the dawn and dark, + +Johnson's Antidote + Down along the Snakebite River, where the overlanders camp, + +Ambition and Art + I am the maid of the lustrous eyes + +The Daylight is Dying + The daylight is dying + +In Defence of the Bush + So you're back from up the country, Mister Townsman, where you went, + +Last Week + Oh, the new-chum went to the back block run, + +Those Names + The shearers sat in the firelight, hearty and hale and strong, + +A Bush Christening + On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few, + +How the Favourite Beat Us + `Aye,' said the boozer, `I tell you it's true, sir, + +The Great Calamity + MacFierce'un came to Whiskeyhurst + +Come-by-Chance + As I pondered very weary o'er a volume long and dreary -- + +Under the Shadow of Kiley's Hill + This is the place where they all were bred; + +Jim Carew + Born of a thoroughbred English race, + +The Swagman's Rest + We buried old Bob where the bloodwoods wave + + + + + + +The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses + + + + + + +The Man from Snowy River + + + +There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around + That the colt from old Regret had got away, +And had joined the wild bush horses -- he was worth a thousand pound, + So all the cracks had gathered to the fray. +All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far + Had mustered at the homestead overnight, +For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are, + And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight. + +There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup, + The old man with his hair as white as snow; +But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up -- + He would go wherever horse and man could go. +And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand, + No better horseman ever held the reins; +For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand, + He learnt to ride while droving on the plains. + +And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast, + He was something like a racehorse undersized, +With a touch of Timor pony -- three parts thoroughbred at least -- + And such as are by mountain horsemen prized. +He was hard and tough and wiry -- just the sort that won't say die -- + There was courage in his quick impatient tread; +And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye, + And the proud and lofty carriage of his head. + +But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay, + And the old man said, `That horse will never do +For a long and tiring gallop -- lad, you'd better stop away, + Those hills are far too rough for such as you.' +So he waited sad and wistful -- only Clancy stood his friend -- + `I think we ought to let him come,' he said; +`I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end, + For both his horse and he are mountain bred. + +`He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side, + Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough, +Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride, + The man that holds his own is good enough. +And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home, + Where the river runs those giant hills between; +I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam, + But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen.' + +So he went -- they found the horses by the big mimosa clump -- + They raced away towards the mountain's brow, +And the old man gave his orders, `Boys, go at them from the jump, + No use to try for fancy riding now. +And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right. + Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills, +For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight, + If once they gain the shelter of those hills.' + +So Clancy rode to wheel them -- he was racing on the wing + Where the best and boldest riders take their place, +And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring + With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face. +Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash, + But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view, +And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash, + And off into the mountain scrub they flew. + +Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black + Resounded to the thunder of their tread, +And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back + From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead. +And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way, + Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide; +And the old man muttered fiercely, `We may bid the mob good day, + NO man can hold them down the other side.' + +When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull, + It well might make the boldest hold their breath, +The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full + Of wombat holes, and any slip was death. +But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head, + And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer, +And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed, + While the others stood and watched in very fear. + +He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet, + He cleared the fallen timber in his stride, +And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat -- + It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride. +Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground, + Down the hillside at a racing pace he went; +And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound, + At the bottom of that terrible descent. + +He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill, + And the watchers on the mountain standing mute, +Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still, + As he raced across the clearing in pursuit. +Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met + In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals +On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet, + With the man from Snowy River at their heels. + +And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam. + He followed like a bloodhound on their track, +Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home, + And alone and unassisted brought them back. +But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot, + He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur; +But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot, + For never yet was mountain horse a cur. + +And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise + Their torn and rugged battlements on high, +Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze + At midnight in the cold and frosty sky, +And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway + To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide, +The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day, + And the stockmen tell the story of his ride. + + + + +Old Pardon, the Son of Reprieve + + + +You never heard tell of the story? + Well, now, I can hardly believe! +Never heard of the honour and glory + Of Pardon, the son of Reprieve? +But maybe you're only a Johnnie + And don't know a horse from a hoe? +Well, well, don't get angry, my sonny, + But, really, a young un should know. + +They bred him out back on the `Never', + His mother was Mameluke breed. +To the front -- and then stay there -- was ever + The root of the Mameluke creed. +He seemed to inherit their wiry + Strong frames -- and their pluck to receive -- +As hard as a flint and as fiery + Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve. + +We ran him at many a meeting + At crossing and gully and town, +And nothing could give him a beating -- + At least when our money was down. +For weight wouldn't stop him, nor distance, + Nor odds, though the others were fast, +He'd race with a dogged persistence, + And wear them all down at the last. + +At the Turon the Yattendon filly + Led by lengths at the mile-and-a-half, +And we all began to look silly, + While HER crowd were starting to laugh; +But the old horse came faster and faster, + His pluck told its tale, and his strength, +He gained on her, caught her, and passed her, + And won it, hands-down, by a length. + +And then we swooped down on Menindie + To run for the President's Cup -- +Oh! that's a sweet township -- a shindy + To them is board, lodging, and sup. +Eye-openers they are, and their system + Is never to suffer defeat; +It's `win, tie, or wrangle' -- to best 'em + You must lose 'em, or else it's `dead heat'. + +We strolled down the township and found 'em + At drinking and gaming and play; +If sorrows they had, why they drowned 'em, + And betting was soon under way. +Their horses were good 'uns and fit 'uns, + There was plenty of cash in the town; +They backed their own horses like Britons, + And, Lord! how WE rattled it down! + +With gladness we thought of the morrow, + We counted our wagers with glee, +A simile homely to borrow -- + `There was plenty of milk in our tea.' +You see we were green; and we never + Had even a thought of foul play, +Though we well might have known that the clever + Division would `put us away'. + +Experience `docet', they tell us, + At least so I've frequently heard, +But, `dosing' or `stuffing', those fellows + Were up to each move on the board: +They got to his stall -- it is sinful + To think what such villains would do -- +And they gave him a regular skinful + Of barley -- green barley -- to chew. + +He munched it all night, and we found him + Next morning as full as a hog -- +The girths wouldn't nearly meet round him; + He looked like an overfed frog. +We saw we were done like a dinner -- + The odds were a thousand to one +Against Pardon turning up winner, + 'Twas cruel to ask him to run. + +We got to the course with our troubles, + A crestfallen couple were we; +And we heard the `books' calling the doubles -- + A roar like the surf of the sea; +And over the tumult and louder + Rang `Any price Pardon, I lay!' +Says Jimmy, `The children of Judah + Are out on the warpath to-day.' + +Three miles in three heats: -- Ah, my sonny, + The horses in those days were stout, +They had to run well to win money; + I don't see such horses about. +Your six-furlong vermin that scamper + Half-a-mile with their feather-weight up; +They wouldn't earn much of their damper + In a race like the President's Cup. + +The first heat was soon set a-going; + The Dancer went off to the front; +The Don on his quarters was showing, + With Pardon right out of the hunt. +He rolled and he weltered and wallowed -- + You'd kick your hat faster, I'll bet; +They finished all bunched, and he followed + All lathered and dripping with sweat. + +But troubles came thicker upon us, + For while we were rubbing him dry +The stewards came over to warn us: + `We hear you are running a bye! +If Pardon don't spiel like tarnation + And win the next heat -- if he can -- +He'll earn a disqualification; + Just think over THAT, now, my man!' + +Our money all gone and our credit, + Our horse couldn't gallop a yard; +And then people thought that WE did it! + It really was terribly hard. +We were objects of mirth and derision + To folk in the lawn and the stand, +And the yells of the clever division + Of `Any price Pardon!' were grand. + +We still had a chance for the money, + Two heats still remained to be run; +If both fell to us -- why, my sonny, + The clever division were done. +And Pardon was better, we reckoned, + His sickness was passing away, +So he went to the post for the second + And principal heat of the day. + +They're off and away with a rattle, + Like dogs from the leashes let slip, +And right at the back of the battle + He followed them under the whip. +They gained ten good lengths on him quickly + He dropped right away from the pack; +I tell you it made me feel sickly + To see the blue jacket fall back. + +Our very last hope had departed -- + We thought the old fellow was done, +When all of a sudden he started + To go like a shot from a gun. +His chances seemed slight to embolden + Our hearts; but, with teeth firmly set, +We thought, `Now or never! The old 'un + May reckon with some of 'em yet.' + +Then loud rose the war-cry for Pardon; + He swept like the wind down the dip, +And over the rise by the garden, + The jockey was done with the whip +The field were at sixes and sevens -- + The pace at the first had been fast -- +And hope seemed to drop from the heavens, + For Pardon was coming at last. + +And how he did come! It was splendid; + He gained on them yards every bound, +Stretching out like a greyhound extended, + His girth laid right down on the ground. +A shimmer of silk in the cedars + As into the running they wheeled, +And out flashed the whips on the leaders, + For Pardon had collared the field. + +Then right through the ruck he came sailing -- + I knew that the battle was won -- +The son of Haphazard was failing, + The Yattendon filly was done; +He cut down the Don and the Dancer, + He raced clean away from the mare -- +He's in front! Catch him now if you can, sir! + And up went my hat in the air! + +Then loud from the lawn and the garden + Rose offers of `Ten to one ON!' +`Who'll bet on the field? I back Pardon!' + No use; all the money was gone. +He came for the third heat light-hearted, + A-jumping and dancing about; +The others were done ere they started + Crestfallen, and tired, and worn out. + +He won it, and ran it much faster + Than even the first, I believe +Oh, he was the daddy, the master, + Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve. +He showed 'em the method to travel -- + The boy sat as still as a stone -- +They never could see him for gravel; + He came in hard-held, and alone. + + . . . . . + +But he's old -- and his eyes are grown hollow; + Like me, with my thatch of the snow; +When he dies, then I hope I may follow, + And go where the racehorses go. +I don't want no harping nor singing -- + Such things with my style don't agree; +Where the hoofs of the horses are ringing + There's music sufficient for me. + +And surely the thoroughbred horses + Will rise up again and begin +Fresh races on far-away courses, + And p'raps they might let me slip in. +It would look rather well the race-card on + 'Mongst Cherubs and Seraphs and things, +`Angel Harrison's black gelding Pardon, + Blue halo, white body and wings.' + +And if they have racing hereafter, + (And who is to say they will not?) +When the cheers and the shouting and laughter + Proclaim that the battle grows hot; +As they come down the racecourse a-steering, + He'll rush to the front, I believe; +And you'll hear the great multitude cheering + For Pardon, the son of Reprieve. + + + + +Clancy of the Overflow + + + +I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better + Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago, +He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him, + Just `on spec', addressed as follows, `Clancy, of The Overflow'. + +And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected, + (And I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar) +'Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it: + `Clancy's gone to Queensland droving, and we don't know where he are.' + + . . . . . + +In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy + Gone a-droving `down the Cooper' where the Western drovers go; +As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing, + For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know. + +And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him + In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars, +And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended, + And at night the wond'rous glory of the everlasting stars. + + . . . . . + +I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy + Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall, +And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city + Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all + +And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle + Of the tramways and the 'buses making hurry down the street, +And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting, + Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet. + +And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me + As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste, +With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy, + For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste. + +And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy, + Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go, +While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal -- + But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of `The Overflow'. + + + + +Conroy's Gap + + + +This was the way of it, don't you know -- + Ryan was `wanted' for stealing sheep, +And never a trooper, high or low, + Could find him -- catch a weasel asleep! +Till Trooper Scott, from the Stockman's Ford -- + A bushman, too, as I've heard them tell -- +Chanced to find him drunk as a lord + Round at the Shadow of Death Hotel. + +D'you know the place? It's a wayside inn, + A low grog-shanty -- a bushman trap, +Hiding away in its shame and sin + Under the shelter of Conroy's Gap -- +Under the shade of that frowning range, + The roughest crowd that ever drew breath -- +Thieves and rowdies, uncouth and strange, + Were mustered round at the Shadow of Death. + +The trooper knew that his man would slide + Like a dingo pup, if he saw the chance; +And with half a start on the mountain side + Ryan would lead him a merry dance. +Drunk as he was when the trooper came, + To him that did not matter a rap -- +Drunk or sober, he was the same, + The boldest rider in Conroy's Gap. + +`I want you, Ryan,' the trooper said, + `And listen to me, if you dare resist, +So help me heaven, I'll shoot you dead!' + He snapped the steel on his prisoner's wrist, +And Ryan, hearing the handcuffs click, + Recovered his wits as they turned to go, +For fright will sober a man as quick + As all the drugs that the doctors know. + +There was a girl in that rough bar + Went by the name of Kate Carew, +Quiet and shy as the bush girls are, + But ready-witted and plucky, too. +She loved this Ryan, or so they say, + And passing by, while her eyes were dim +With tears, she said in a careless way, + `The Swagman's round in the stable, Jim.' + +Spoken too low for the trooper's ear, + Why should she care if he heard or not? +Plenty of swagmen far and near, + And yet to Ryan it meant a lot. +That was the name of the grandest horse + In all the district from east to west +In every show ring, on every course + They always counted the Swagman best. + +He was a wonder, a raking bay -- + One of the grand old Snowdon strain -- +One of the sort that could race and stay + With his mighty limbs and his length of rein. +Born and bred on the mountain side, + He could race through scrub like a kangaroo, +The girl herself on his back might ride, + And the Swagman would carry her safely through. + +He would travel gaily from daylight's flush + Till after the stars hung out their lamps, +There was never his like in the open bush, + And never his match on the cattle-camps. +For faster horses might well be found + On racing tracks, or a plain's extent, +But few, if any, on broken ground + Could see the way that the Swagman went. + +When this girl's father, old Jim Carew, + Was droving out on the Castlereagh +With Conroy's cattle, a wire came through + To say that his wife couldn't live the day. +And he was a hundred miles from home, + As flies the crow, with never a track, +Through plains as pathless as ocean's foam, + He mounted straight on the Swagman's back. + +He left the camp by the sundown light, + And the settlers out on the Marthaguy +Awoke and heard, in the dead of night, + A single horseman hurrying by. +He crossed the Bogan at Dandaloo, + And many a mile of the silent plain +That lonely rider behind him threw + Before they settled to sleep again. + +He rode all night and he steered his course + By the shining stars with a bushman's skill, +And every time that he pressed his horse + The Swagman answered him gamely still. +He neared his home as the east was bright, + The doctor met him outside the town: +`Carew! How far did you come last night?' + `A hundred miles since the sun went down.' + +And his wife got round, and an oath he passed, + So long as he or one of his breed +Could raise a coin, though it took their last + The Swagman never should want a feed. +And Kate Carew, when her father died, + She kept the horse and she kept him well: +The pride of the district far and wide, + He lived in style at the bush hotel. + +Such was the Swagman; and Ryan knew + Nothing about could pace the crack; +Little he'd care for the man in blue + If once he got on the Swagman's back. +But how to do it? A word let fall + Gave him the hint as the girl passed by; +Nothing but `Swagman -- stable-wall; + `Go to the stable and mind your eye.' + +He caught her meaning, and quickly turned + To the trooper: `Reckon you'll gain a stripe +By arresting me, and it's easily earned; + Let's go to the stable and get my pipe, +The Swagman has it.' So off they went, + And soon as ever they turned their backs +The girl slipped down, on some errand bent + Behind the stable, and seized an axe. + +The trooper stood at the stable door + While Ryan went in quite cool and slow, +And then (the trick had been played before) + The girl outside gave the wall a blow. +Three slabs fell out of the stable wall -- + 'Twas done 'fore ever the trooper knew -- +And Ryan, as soon as he saw them fall, + Mounted the Swagman and rushed him through. + +The trooper heard the hoof-beats ring + In the stable yard, and he slammed the gate, +But the Swagman rose with a mighty spring + At the fence, and the trooper fired too late, +As they raced away and his shots flew wide + And Ryan no longer need care a rap, +For never a horse that was lapped in hide + Could catch the Swagman in Conroy's Gap. + +And that's the story. You want to know + If Ryan came back to his Kate Carew; +Of course he should have, as stories go, + But the worst of it is, this story's true: +And in real life it's a certain rule, + Whatever poets and authors say +Of high-toned robbers and all their school, + These horsethief fellows aren't built that way. + +Come back! Don't hope it -- the slinking hound, + He sloped across to the Queensland side, +And sold the Swagman for fifty pound, + And stole the money, and more beside. +And took to drink, and by some good chance + Was killed -- thrown out of a stolen trap. +And that was the end of this small romance, + The end of the story of Conroy's Gap. + + + + +Our New Horse + + + +The boys had come back from the races + All silent and down on their luck; +They'd backed 'em, straight out and for places, + But never a winner they struck. +They lost their good money on Slogan, + And fell, most uncommonly flat, +When Partner, the pride of the Bogan, + Was beaten by Aristocrat. + +And one said, `I move that instanter + We sell out our horses and quit, +The brutes ought to win in a canter, + Such trials they do when they're fit. +The last one they ran was a snorter -- + A gallop to gladden one's heart -- +Two-twelve for a mile and a quarter, + And finished as straight as a dart. + +`And then when I think that they're ready + To win me a nice little swag, +They are licked like the veriest neddy -- + They're licked from the fall of the flag. +The mare held her own to the stable, + She died out to nothing at that, +And Partner he never seemed able + To pace it with Aristocrat. + +`And times have been bad, and the seasons + Don't promise to be of the best; +In short, boys, there's plenty of reasons + For giving the racing a rest. +The mare can be kept on the station -- + Her breeding is good as can be -- +But Partner, his next destination + Is rather a trouble to me. + +`We can't sell him here, for they know him + As well as the clerk of the course; +He's raced and won races till, blow him, + He's done as a handicap horse. +A jady, uncertain performer, + They weight him right out of the hunt, +And clap it on warmer and warmer + Whenever he gets near the front. + +`It's no use to paint him or dot him + Or put any `fake' on his brand, +For bushmen are smart, and they'd spot him + In any sale-yard in the land. +The folk about here could all tell him, + Could swear to each separate hair; +Let us send him to Sydney and sell him, + There's plenty of Jugginses there. + +`We'll call him a maiden, and treat 'em + To trials will open their eyes, +We'll run their best horses and beat 'em, + And then won't they think him a prize. +I pity the fellow that buys him, + He'll find in a very short space, +No matter how highly he tries him, + The beggar won't RACE in a race.' + + . . . . . + +Next week, under `Seller and Buyer', + Appeared in the DAILY GAZETTE: +`A racehorse for sale, and a flyer; + Has never been started as yet; +A trial will show what his pace is; + The buyer can get him in light, +And win all the handicap races. + Apply here before Wednesday night.' + +He sold for a hundred and thirty, + Because of a gallop he had +One morning with Bluefish and Bertie, + And donkey-licked both of 'em bad. +And when the old horse had departed, + The life on the station grew tame; +The race-track was dull and deserted, + The boys had gone back on the game. + + . . . . . + +The winter rolled by, and the station + Was green with the garland of spring +A spirit of glad exultation + Awoke in each animate thing. +And all the old love, the old longing, + Broke out in the breasts of the boys, +The visions of racing came thronging + With all its delirious joys. + +The rushing of floods in their courses, + The rattle of rain on the roofs +Recalled the fierce rush of the horses, + The thunder of galloping hoofs. +And soon one broke out: `I can suffer + No longer the life of a slug, +The man that don't race is a duffer, + Let's have one more run for the mug. + +`Why, EVERYTHING races, no matter + Whatever its method may be: +The waterfowl hold a regatta; + The 'possums run heats up a tree; +The emus are constantly sprinting + A handicap out on the plain; +It seems like all nature was hinting, + 'Tis time to be at it again. + +`The cockatoo parrots are talking + Of races to far away lands; +The native companions are walking + A go-as-you-please on the sands; +The little foals gallop for pastime; + The wallabies race down the gap; +Let's try it once more for the last time, + Bring out the old jacket and cap. + +`And now for a horse; we might try one + Of those that are bred on the place, +But I think it better to buy one, + A horse that has proved he can race. +Let us send down to Sydney to Skinner, + A thorough good judge who can ride, +And ask him to buy us a spinner + To clean out the whole countryside.' + +They wrote him a letter as follows: + `We want you to buy us a horse; +He must have the speed to catch swallows, + And stamina with it of course. +The price ain't a thing that'll grieve us, + It's getting a bad 'un annoys +The undersigned blokes, and believe us, + We're yours to a cinder, `the boys'.' + +He answered: `I've bought you a hummer, + A horse that has never been raced; +I saw him run over the Drummer, + He held him outclassed and outpaced. +His breeding's not known, but they state he + Is born of a thoroughbred strain, +I paid them a hundred and eighty, + And started the horse in the train.' + +They met him -- alas, that these verses + Aren't up to the subject's demands -- +Can't set forth their eloquent curses, + FOR PARTNER WAS BACK ON THEIR HANDS. +They went in to meet him in gladness, + They opened his box with delight -- +A silent procession of sadness + They crept to the station at night. + +And life has grown dull on the station, + The boys are all silent and slow; +Their work is a daily vexation, + And sport is unknown to them now. +Whenever they think how they stranded, + They squeal just like guinea-pigs squeal; +They bit their own hook, and were landed + With fifty pounds loss on the deal. + + + + +An Idyll of Dandaloo + + + +On Western plains, where shade is not, + 'Neath summer skies of cloudless blue, +Where all is dry and all is hot, + There stands the town of Dandaloo -- +A township where life's total sum +Is sleep, diversified with rum. + +It's grass-grown streets with dust are deep, + 'Twere vain endeavour to express +The dreamless silence of its sleep, + Its wide, expansive drunkenness. +The yearly races mostly drew +A lively crowd to Dandaloo. + +There came a sportsman from the East, + The eastern land where sportsmen blow, +And brought with him a speedy beast -- + A speedy beast as horses go. +He came afar in hope to `do' +The little town of Dandaloo. + +Now this was weak of him, I wot -- + Exceeding weak, it seemed to me -- +For we in Dandaloo were not + The Jugginses we seemed to be; +In fact, we rather thought we knew +Our book by heart in Dandaloo. + +We held a meeting at the bar, + And met the question fair and square -- +`We've stumped the country near and far + To raise the cash for races here; +We've got a hundred pounds or two -- +Not half so bad for Dandaloo. + +`And now, it seems, we have to be + Cleaned out by this here Sydney bloke, +With his imported horse; and he + Will scoop the pool and leave us broke +Shall we sit still, and make no fuss +While this chap climbs all over us?' + + . . . . . + +The races came to Dandaloo, + And all the cornstalks from the West, +On ev'ry kind of moke and screw, + Came forth in all their glory drest. +The stranger's horse, as hard as nails, +Look'd fit to run for New South Wales. + +He won the race by half a length -- + QUITE half a length, it seemed to me -- +But Dandaloo, with all its strength, + Roared out `Dead heat!' most fervently; +And, after hesitation meet, +The judge's verdict was `Dead heat!' + +And many men there were could tell + What gave the verdict extra force: +The stewards, and the judge as well -- + They all had backed the second horse. +For things like this they sometimes do +In larger towns than Dandaloo. + +They ran it off; the stranger won, + Hands down, by near a hundred yards +He smiled to think his troubles done; + But Dandaloo held all the cards. +They went to scale and -- cruel fate! -- +His jockey turned out under-weight. + +Perhaps they'd tampered with the scale! + I cannot tell. I only know +It weighed him OUT all right. I fail + To paint that Sydney sportsman's woe. +He said the stewards were a crew +Of low-lived thieves in Dandaloo. + +He lifted up his voice, irate, + And swore till all the air was blue; +So then we rose to vindicate + The dignity of Dandaloo. +`Look here,' said we, `you must not poke +Such oaths at us poor country folk.' + +We rode him softly on a rail, + We shied at him, in careless glee, +Some large tomatoes, rank and stale, + And eggs of great antiquity -- +Their wild, unholy fragrance flew +About the town of Dandaloo. + +He left the town at break of day, + He led his race-horse through the streets, +And now he tells the tale, they say, + To every racing man he meets. +And Sydney sportsmen all eschew +The atmosphere of Dandaloo. + + + + +The Geebung Polo Club + + + +It was somewhere up the country, in a land of rock and scrub, +That they formed an institution called the Geebung Polo Club. +They were long and wiry natives from the rugged mountain side, +And the horse was never saddled that the Geebungs couldn't ride; +But their style of playing polo was irregular and rash -- +They had mighty little science, but a mighty lot of dash: +And they played on mountain ponies that were muscular and strong, +Though their coats were quite unpolished, + and their manes and tails were long. +And they used to train those ponies wheeling cattle in the scrub: +They were demons, were the members of the Geebung Polo Club. + +It was somewhere down the country, in a city's smoke and steam, +That a polo club existed, called `The Cuff and Collar Team'. +As a social institution 'twas a marvellous success, +For the members were distinguished by exclusiveness and dress. +They had natty little ponies that were nice, and smooth, and sleek, +For their cultivated owners only rode 'em once a week. +So they started up the country in pursuit of sport and fame, +For they meant to show the Geebungs how they ought to play the game; +And they took their valets with them -- just to give their boots a rub +Ere they started operations on the Geebung Polo Club. + +Now my readers can imagine how the contest ebbed and flowed, +When the Geebung boys got going it was time to clear the road; +And the game was so terrific that ere half the time was gone +A spectator's leg was broken -- just from merely looking on. +For they waddied one another till the plain was strewn with dead, +While the score was kept so even that they neither got ahead. +And the Cuff and Collar Captain, when he tumbled off to die, +Was the last surviving player -- so the game was called a tie. + +Then the Captain of the Geebungs raised him slowly from the ground, +Though his wounds were mostly mortal, yet he fiercely gazed around; +There was no one to oppose him -- all the rest were in a trance, +So he scrambled on his pony for his last expiring chance, +For he meant to make an effort to get victory to his side; +So he struck at goal -- and missed it -- then he tumbled off and died. + + . . . . . + +By the old Campaspe River, where the breezes shake the grass, +There's a row of little gravestones that the stockmen never pass, +For they bear a crude inscription saying, `Stranger, drop a tear, +For the Cuff and Collar players and the Geebung boys lie here.' +And on misty moonlit evenings, while the dingoes howl around, +You can see their shadows flitting down that phantom polo ground; +You can hear the loud collisions as the flying players meet, +And the rattle of the mallets, and the rush of ponies' feet, +Till the terrified spectator rides like blazes to the pub -- +He's been haunted by the spectres of the Geebung Polo Club. + + + + +The Travelling Post Office + + + +The roving breezes come and go, the reed beds sweep and sway, +The sleepy river murmurs low, and loiters on its way, +It is the land of lots o' time along the Castlereagh. + + . . . . . + +The old man's son had left the farm, he found it dull and slow, +He drifted to the great North-west where all the rovers go. +`He's gone so long,' the old man said, `he's dropped right out of mind, +But if you'd write a line to him I'd take it very kind; +He's shearing here and fencing there, a kind of waif and stray, +He's droving now with Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh. + +`The sheep are travelling for the grass, and travelling very slow; +They may be at Mundooran now, or past the Overflow, +Or tramping down the black soil flats across by Waddiwong, +But all those little country towns would send the letter wrong, +The mailman, if he's extra tired, would pass them in his sleep, +It's safest to address the note to `Care of Conroy's sheep', +For five and twenty thousand head can scarcely go astray, +You write to `Care of Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh'.' + + . . . . . + +By rock and ridge and riverside the western mail has gone, +Across the great Blue Mountain Range to take that letter on. +A moment on the topmost grade while open fire doors glare, +She pauses like a living thing to breathe the mountain air, +Then launches down the other side across the plains away +To bear that note to `Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh'. + +And now by coach and mailman's bag it goes from town to town, +And Conroy's Gap and Conroy's Creek have marked it `further down'. +Beneath a sky of deepest blue where never cloud abides, +A speck upon the waste of plain the lonely mailman rides. +Where fierce hot winds have set the pine and myall boughs asweep +He hails the shearers passing by for news of Conroy's sheep. +By big lagoons where wildfowl play and crested pigeons flock, +By camp fires where the drovers ride around their restless stock, +And past the teamster toiling down to fetch the wool away +My letter chases Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh. + + + + +Saltbush Bill + + + +Now this is the law of the Overland that all in the West obey, +A man must cover with travelling sheep a six-mile stage a day; +But this is the law which the drovers make, right easily understood, +They travel their stage where the grass is bad, + but they camp where the grass is good; +They camp, and they ravage the squatter's grass till never a blade remains, +Then they drift away as the white clouds drift + on the edge of the saltbush plains, +From camp to camp and from run to run they battle it hand to hand, +For a blade of grass and the right to pass on the track of the Overland. +For this is the law of the Great Stock Routes, + 'tis written in white and black -- +The man that goes with a travelling mob must keep to a half-mile track; +And the drovers keep to a half-mile track + on the runs where the grass is dead, +But they spread their sheep on a well-grassed run + till they go with a two-mile spread. +So the squatters hurry the drovers on from dawn till the fall of night, +And the squatters' dogs and the drovers' dogs get mixed in a deadly fight; +Yet the squatters' men, though they hunt the mob, + are willing the peace to keep, +For the drovers learn how to use their hands + when they go with the travelling sheep; +But this is the tale of a Jackaroo that came from a foreign strand, +And the fight that he fought with Saltbush Bill, the King of the Overland. + +Now Saltbush Bill was a drover tough, as ever the country knew, +He had fought his way on the Great Stock Routes + from the sea to the big Barcoo; +He could tell when he came to a friendly run + that gave him a chance to spread, +And he knew where the hungry owners were that hurried his sheep ahead; +He was drifting down in the Eighty drought + with a mob that could scarcely creep, +(When the kangaroos by the thousands starve, + it is rough on the travelling sheep), +And he camped one night at the crossing-place on the edge of the Wilga run, +`We must manage a feed for them here,' he said, + `or the half of the mob are done!' +So he spread them out when they left the camp wherever they liked to go, +Till he grew aware of a Jackaroo with a station-hand in tow, +And they set to work on the straggling sheep, + and with many a stockwhip crack +They forced them in where the grass was dead + in the space of the half-mile track; +So William prayed that the hand of fate might suddenly strike him blue +But he'd get some grass for his starving sheep + in the teeth of that Jackaroo. +So he turned and he cursed the Jackaroo, he cursed him alive or dead, +From the soles of his great unwieldy feet to the crown of his ugly head, +With an extra curse on the moke he rode and the cur at his heels that ran, +Till the Jackaroo from his horse got down and he went for the drover-man; +With the station-hand for his picker-up, + though the sheep ran loose the while, +They battled it out on the saltbush plain in the regular prize-ring style. + +Now, the new chum fought for his honour's sake + and the pride of the English race, +But the drover fought for his daily bread with a smile on his bearded face; +So he shifted ground and he sparred for wind and he made it a lengthy mill, +And from time to time as his scouts came in + they whispered to Saltbush Bill -- +`We have spread the sheep with a two-mile spread, + and the grass it is something grand, +You must stick to him, Bill, for another round + for the pride of the Overland.' +The new chum made it a rushing fight, though never a blow got home, +Till the sun rode high in the cloudless sky + and glared on the brick-red loam, +Till the sheep drew in to the shelter-trees and settled them down to rest, +Then the drover said he would fight no more and he gave his opponent best. + +So the new chum rode to the homestead straight + and he told them a story grand +Of the desperate fight that he fought that day + with the King of the Overland. +And the tale went home to the Public Schools + of the pluck of the English swell, +How the drover fought for his very life, but blood in the end must tell. +But the travelling sheep and the Wilga sheep + were boxed on the Old Man Plain. +'Twas a full week's work ere they drafted out and hunted them off again, +With a week's good grass in their wretched hides, + with a curse and a stockwhip crack, +They hunted them off on the road once more + to starve on the half-mile track. +And Saltbush Bill, on the Overland, will many a time recite +How the best day's work that ever he did + was the day that he lost the fight. + + + + +A Mountain Station + + + +I bought a run a while ago, + On country rough and ridgy, +Where wallaroos and wombats grow -- + The Upper Murrumbidgee. +The grass is rather scant, it's true, + But this a fair exchange is, +The sheep can see a lovely view + By climbing up the ranges. + +And She-oak Flat's the station's name, + I'm not surprised at that, sirs: +The oaks were there before I came, + And I supplied the flat, sirs. +A man would wonder how it's done, + The stock so soon decreases -- +They sometimes tumble off the run + And break themselves to pieces. + +I've tried to make expenses meet, + But wasted all my labours, +The sheep the dingoes didn't eat + Were stolen by the neighbours. +They stole my pears -- my native pears -- + Those thrice-convicted felons, +And ravished from me unawares + My crop of paddy-melons. + +And sometimes under sunny skies, + Without an explanation, +The Murrumbidgee used to rise + And overflow the station. +But this was caused (as now I know) + When summer sunshine glowing +Had melted all Kiandra's snow + And set the river going. + +And in the news, perhaps you read: + `Stock passings. Puckawidgee, +Fat cattle: Seven hundred head + Swept down the Murrumbidgee; +Their destination's quite obscure, + But, somehow, there's a notion, +Unless the river falls, they're sure + To reach the Southern Ocean.' + +So after that I'll give it best; + No more with Fate I'll battle. +I'll let the river take the rest, + For those were all my cattle. +And with one comprehensive curse + I close my brief narration, +And advertise it in my verse -- + `For Sale! A Mountain Station.' + + + + +Been There Before + + + +There came a stranger to Walgett town, + To Walgett town when the sun was low, +And he carried a thirst that was worth a crown, + Yet how to quench it he did not know; +But he thought he might take those yokels down, +The guileless yokels of Walgett town. + +They made him a bet in a private bar, + In a private bar when the talk was high, +And they bet him some pounds no matter how far + He could pelt a stone, yet he could not shy +A stone right over the river so brown, +The Darling river at Walgett town. + +He knew that the river from bank to bank + Was fifty yards, and he smiled a smile +As he trundled down, but his hopes they sank + For there wasn't a stone within fifty mile; +For the saltbush plain and the open down +Produce no quarries in Walgett town. + +The yokels laughed at his hopes o'erthrown, + And he stood awhile like a man in a dream; +Then out of his pocket he fetched a stone, + And pelted it over the silent stream -- +He had been there before: he had wandered down +On a previous visit to Walgett town. + + + + +The Man Who Was Away + + + +The widow sought the lawyer's room with children three in tow, +She told the lawyer man her tale in tones of deepest woe. +Said she, `My husband took to drink for pains in his inside, +And never drew a sober breath from then until he died. + +`He never drew a sober breath, he died without a will, +And I must sell the bit of land the childer's mouths to fill. +There's some is grown and gone away, but some is childer yet, +And times is very bad indeed -- a livin's hard to get. + +`There's Min and Sis and little Chris, they stops at home with me, +And Sal has married Greenhide Bill that breaks for Bingeree. +And Fred is drovin' Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh, +And Charley's shearin' down the Bland, and Peter is away.' + +The lawyer wrote the details down in ink of legal blue -- +`There's Minnie, Susan, Christopher, they stop at home with you; +There's Sarah, Frederick, and Charles, I'll write to them to-day, +But what about the other one -- the one who is away? + +`You'll have to furnish his consent to sell the bit of land.' +The widow shuffled in her seat, `Oh, don't you understand? +I thought a lawyer ought to know -- I don't know what to say -- +You'll have to do without him, boss, for Peter is away.' + +But here the little boy spoke up -- said he, `We thought you knew; +He's done six months in Goulburn gaol -- he's got six more to do.' +Thus in one comprehensive flash he made it clear as day, +The mystery of Peter's life -- the man who was away. + + + + +The Man from Ironbark + + + +It was the man from Ironbark who struck the Sydney town, +He wandered over street and park, he wandered up and down. +He loitered here, he loitered there, till he was like to drop, +Until at last in sheer despair he sought a barber's shop. +`'Ere! shave my beard and whiskers off, I'll be a man of mark, +I'll go and do the Sydney toff up home in Ironbark.' + +The barber man was small and flash, as barbers mostly are, +He wore a strike-your-fancy sash, he smoked a huge cigar: +He was a humorist of note and keen at repartee, +He laid the odds and kept a `tote', whatever that may be, +And when he saw our friend arrive, he whispered `Here's a lark! +Just watch me catch him all alive, this man from Ironbark.' + +There were some gilded youths that sat along the barber's wall, +Their eyes were dull, their heads were flat, they had no brains at all; +To them the barber passed the wink, his dexter eyelid shut, +`I'll make this bloomin' yokel think his bloomin' throat is cut.' +And as he soaped and rubbed it in he made a rude remark: +`I s'pose the flats is pretty green up there in Ironbark.' + +A grunt was all reply he got; he shaved the bushman's chin, +Then made the water boiling hot and dipped the razor in. +He raised his hand, his brow grew black, he paused awhile to gloat, +Then slashed the red-hot razor-back across his victim's throat; +Upon the newly shaven skin it made a livid mark -- +No doubt it fairly took him in -- the man from Ironbark. + +He fetched a wild up-country yell might wake the dead to hear, +And though his throat, he knew full well, was cut from ear to ear, +He struggled gamely to his feet, and faced the murd'rous foe: +`You've done for me! you dog, I'm beat! one hit before I go! +I only wish I had a knife, you blessed murdering shark! +But you'll remember all your life, the man from Ironbark.' + +He lifted up his hairy paw, with one tremendous clout +He landed on the barber's jaw, and knocked the barber out. +He set to work with tooth and nail, he made the place a wreck; +He grabbed the nearest gilded youth, and tried to break his neck. +And all the while his throat he held to save his vital spark, +And `Murder! Bloody Murder!' yelled the man from Ironbark. + +A peeler man who heard the din came in to see the show; +He tried to run the bushman in, but he refused to go. +And when at last the barber spoke, and said, `'Twas all in fun -- +'Twas just a little harmless joke, a trifle overdone.' +`A joke!' he cried, `By George, that's fine; a lively sort of lark; +I'd like to catch that murdering swine some night in Ironbark.' + +And now while round the shearing floor the list'ning shearers gape, +He tells the story o'er and o'er, and brags of his escape. +`Them barber chaps what keeps a tote, By George, I've had enough, +One tried to cut my bloomin' throat, but thank the Lord it's tough.' +And whether he's believed or no, there's one thing to remark, +That flowing beards are all the go way up in Ironbark. + + + + +The Open Steeplechase + + + +I had ridden over hurdles up the country once or twice, +By the side of Snowy River with a horse they called `The Ace'. +And we brought him down to Sydney, and our rider Jimmy Rice, +Got a fall and broke his shoulder, so they nabbed me in a trice -- +Me, that never wore the colours, for the Open Steeplechase. + +`Make the running,' said the trainer, `it's your only chance whatever, +Make it hot from start to finish, for the old black horse can stay, +And just think of how they'll take it, when they hear on Snowy River +That the country boy was plucky, and the country horse was clever. +You must ride for old Monaro and the mountain boys to-day.' + +`Are you ready?' said the starter, as we held the horses back, +All ablazing with impatience, with excitement all aglow; +Before us like a ribbon stretched the steeplechasing track, +And the sun-rays glistened brightly on the chestnut and the black +As the starter's words came slowly, `Are -- you -- ready? Go!' + +Well, I scarcely knew we'd started, I was stupid-like with wonder +Till the field closed up beside me and a jump appeared ahead. +And we flew it like a hurdle, not a baulk and not a blunder, +As we charged it all together, and it fairly whistled under, +And then some were pulled behind me and a few shot out and led. + +So we ran for half the distance, and I'm making no pretences +When I tell you I was feeling very nervous-like and queer, +For those jockeys rode like demons; + you would think they'd lost their senses +If you saw them rush their horses at those rasping five foot fences -- +And in place of making running I was falling to the rear. + +Till a chap came racing past me on a horse they called `The Quiver', +And said he, `My country joker, are you going to give it best? +Are you frightened of the fences? does their stoutness make you shiver? +Have they come to breeding cowards by the side of Snowy River? +Are there riders on Monaro? ----' but I never heard the rest. + +For I drove the Ace and sent him just as fast as he could pace it, +At the big black line of timber stretching fair across the track, +And he shot beside the Quiver. `Now,' said I, `my boy, we'll race it. +You can come with Snowy River if you're only game to face it, +Let us mend the pace a little and we'll see who cries a crack.' + +So we raced away together, and we left the others standing, +And the people cheered and shouted as we settled down to ride, +And we clung beside the Quiver. At his taking off and landing +I could see his scarlet nostril and his mighty ribs expanding, +And the Ace stretched out in earnest and we held him stride for stride. + +But the pace was so terrific that they soon ran out their tether -- +They were rolling in their gallop, they were fairly blown and beat -- +But they both were game as pebbles -- neither one would show the feather. +And we rushed them at the fences, and they cleared them both together, +Nearly every time they clouted, but they somehow kept their feet. + +Then the last jump rose before us, and they faced it game as ever -- +We were both at spur and whipcord, fetching blood at every bound -- +And above the people's cheering and the cries of `Ace' and `Quiver', +I could hear the trainer shouting, `One more run for Snowy River.' +Then we struck the jump together and came smashing to the ground. + +Well, the Quiver ran to blazes, but the Ace stood still and waited, +Stood and waited like a statue while I scrambled on his back. +There was no one next or near me for the field was fairly slated, +So I cantered home a winner with my shoulder dislocated, +While the man that rode the Quiver followed limping down the track. + +And he shook my hand and told me that in all his days he never +Met a man who rode more gamely, and our last set to was prime, +And we wired them on Monaro how we chanced to beat the Quiver. +And they sent us back an answer, `Good old sort from Snowy River: +Send us word each race you start in and we'll back you every time.' + + + + +The Amateur Rider + + + +HIM going to ride for us! HIM -- + with the pants and the eyeglass and all. +Amateur! don't he just look it -- it's twenty to one on a fall. +Boss must be gone off his head to be sending our steeplechase crack +Out over fences like these with an object like that on his back. + +Ride! Don't tell ME he can ride. + With his pants just as loose as balloons, +How can he sit on his horse? and his spurs like a pair of harpoons; +Ought to be under the Dog Act, he ought, and be kept off the course. +Fall! why, he'd fall off a cart, let alone off a steeplechase horse. + + . . . . . + +Yessir! the 'orse is all ready -- I wish you'd have rode him before; +Nothing like knowing your 'orse, sir, and this chap's a terror to bore; +Battleaxe always could pull, and he rushes his fences like fun -- +Stands off his jump twenty feet, and then springs like a shot from a gun. + +Oh, he can jump 'em all right, sir, you make no mistake, 'e's a toff; +Clouts 'em in earnest, too, sometimes, + you mind that he don't clout you off -- +Don't seem to mind how he hits 'em, his shins is as hard as a nail, +Sometimes you'll see the fence shake + and the splinters fly up from the rail. + +All you can do is to hold him and just let him jump as he likes, +Give him his head at the fences, and hang on like death if he strikes; +Don't let him run himself out -- you can lie third or fourth in the race -- +Until you clear the stone wall, and from that you can put on the pace. + +Fell at that wall once, he did, and it gave him a regular spread, +Ever since that time he flies it -- he'll stop if you pull at his head, +Just let him race -- you can trust him -- + he'll take first-class care he don't fall, +And I think that's the lot -- but remember, + HE MUST HAVE HIS HEAD AT THE WALL. + + . . . . . + +Well, he's down safe as far as the start, + and he seems to sit on pretty neat, +Only his baggified breeches would ruinate anyone's seat -- +They're away -- here they come -- the first fence, + and he's head over heels for a crown! +Good for the new chum, he's over, and two of the others are down! + +Now for the treble, my hearty -- By Jove, he can ride, after all; +Whoop, that's your sort -- let him fly them! + He hasn't much fear of a fall. +Who in the world would have thought it? And aren't they just going a pace? +Little Recruit in the lead there will make it a stoutly-run race. + +Lord! But they're racing in earnest -- and down goes Recruit on his head, +Rolling clean over his boy -- it's a miracle if he ain't dead. +Battleaxe, Battleaxe, yet! By the Lord, he's got most of 'em beat -- +Ho! did you see how he struck, and the swell never moved in his seat? + +Second time round, and, by Jingo! he's holding his lead of 'em well; +Hark to him clouting the timber! It don't seem to trouble the swell. +Now for the wall -- let him rush it. A thirty-foot leap, I declare -- +Never a shift in his seat, and he's racing for home like a hare. + +What's that that's chasing him -- Rataplan -- regular demon to stay! +Sit down and ride for your life now! + Oh, good, that's the style -- come away! +Rataplan's certain to beat you, unless you can give him the slip; +Sit down and rub in the whalebone now -- give him the spurs and the whip! + +Battleaxe, Battleaxe, yet -- and it's Battleaxe wins for a crown; +Look at him rushing the fences, he wants to bring t'other chap down. +Rataplan never will catch him if only he keeps on his pins; +Now! the last fence! and he's over it! Battleaxe, Battleaxe wins! + + . . . . . + +Well, sir, you rode him just perfect -- + I knew from the first you could ride. +Some of the chaps said you couldn't, an' I says just like this a' one side: +Mark me, I says, that's a tradesman -- the saddle is where he was bred. +Weight! you're all right, sir, and thank you; + and them was the words that I said. + + + + +On Kiley's Run + + + +The roving breezes come and go + On Kiley's Run, +The sleepy river murmurs low, +And far away one dimly sees +Beyond the stretch of forest trees -- +Beyond the foothills dusk and dun -- +The ranges sleeping in the sun + On Kiley's Run. + +'Tis many years since first I came + To Kiley's Run, +More years than I would care to name +Since I, a stripling, used to ride +For miles and miles at Kiley's side, +The while in stirring tones he told +The stories of the days of old + On Kiley's Run. + +I see the old bush homestead now + On Kiley's Run, +Just nestled down beneath the brow +Of one small ridge above the sweep +Of river-flat, where willows weep +And jasmine flowers and roses bloom, +The air was laden with perfume + On Kiley's Run. + +We lived the good old station life + On Kiley's Run, +With little thought of care or strife. +Old Kiley seldom used to roam, +He liked to make the Run his home, +The swagman never turned away +With empty hand at close of day + From Kiley's Run. + +We kept a racehorse now and then + On Kiley's Run, +And neighb'ring stations brought their men +To meetings where the sport was free, +And dainty ladies came to see +Their champions ride; with laugh and song +The old house rang the whole night long + On Kiley's Run. + +The station hands were friends I wot + On Kiley's Run, +A reckless, merry-hearted lot -- +All splendid riders, and they knew +The `boss' was kindness through and through. +Old Kiley always stood their friend, +And so they served him to the end + On Kiley's Run. + +But droughts and losses came apace + To Kiley's Run, +Till ruin stared him in the face; +He toiled and toiled while lived the light, +He dreamed of overdrafts at night: +At length, because he could not pay, +His bankers took the stock away + From Kiley's Run. + +Old Kiley stood and saw them go + From Kiley's Run. +The well-bred cattle marching slow; +His stockmen, mates for many a day, +They wrung his hand and went away. +Too old to make another start, +Old Kiley died -- of broken heart, + On Kiley's Run. + + . . . . . + +The owner lives in England now + Of Kiley's Run. +He knows a racehorse from a cow; +But that is all he knows of stock: +His chiefest care is how to dock +Expenses, and he sends from town +To cut the shearers' wages down + On Kiley's Run. + +There are no neighbours anywhere + Near Kiley's Run. +The hospitable homes are bare, +The gardens gone; for no pretence +Must hinder cutting down expense: +The homestead that we held so dear +Contains a half-paid overseer + On Kiley's Run. + +All life and sport and hope have died + On Kiley's Run. +No longer there the stockmen ride; +For sour-faced boundary riders creep +On mongrel horses after sheep, +Through ranges where, at racing speed, +Old Kiley used to `wheel the lead' + On Kiley's Run. + +There runs a lane for thirty miles + Through Kiley's Run. +On either side the herbage smiles, +But wretched trav'lling sheep must pass +Without a drink or blade of grass +Thro' that long lane of death and shame: +The weary drovers curse the name + Of Kiley's Run. + +The name itself is changed of late + Of Kiley's Run. +They call it `Chandos Park Estate'. +The lonely swagman through the dark +Must hump his swag past Chandos Park. +The name is English, don't you see, +The old name sweeter sounds to me + Of `Kiley's Run'. + +I cannot guess what fate will bring + To Kiley's Run -- +For chances come and changes ring -- +I scarcely think 'twill always be +Locked up to suit an absentee; +And if he lets it out in farms +His tenants soon will carry arms + On Kiley's Run. + + + + +Frying Pan's Theology + + + +Scene: On Monaro. + DRAMATIS PERSONAE: +Shock-headed blackfellow, + Boy (on a pony). +Snowflakes are falling + So gentle and slow, +Youngster says, `Frying Pan, + What makes it snow?' +Frying Pan confident + Makes the reply -- +`Shake 'em big flour bag + Up in the sky!' +`What! when there's miles of it! + Sur'ly that's brag. +Who is there strong enough + Shake such a bag?' +`What parson tellin' you, + Ole Mister Dodd, +Tell you in Sunday-school? + Big feller God! +He drive His bullock dray, + Then thunder go, +He shake His flour bag -- + Tumble down snow!' + + + + +The Two Devines + + + +It was shearing-time at the Myall Lake, + And there rose the sound thro' the livelong day +Of the constant clash that the shear-blades make + When the fastest shearers are making play, +But there wasn't a man in the shearers' lines +That could shear a sheep with the two Devines. + +They had rung the sheds of the east and west, + Had beaten the cracks of the Walgett side, +And the Cooma shearers had giv'n them best -- + When they saw them shear, they were satisfied. +From the southern slopes to the western pines +They were noted men, were the two Devines. + +'Twas a wether flock that had come to hand, + Great struggling brutes, that the shearers shirk, +For the fleece was filled with the grass and sand, + And seventy sheep was a big day's work. +`At a pound a hundred it's dashed hard lines +To shear such sheep,' said the two Devines. + +But the shearers knew that they'd make a cheque + When they came to deal with the station ewes; +They were bare of belly and bare of neck + With a fleece as light as a kangaroo's. +`We will show the boss how a shear-blade shines +When we reach those ewes,' said the two Devines. + +But it chanced next day when the stunted pines + Were swayed and stirred with the dawn-wind's breath, +That a message came for the two Devines + That their father lay at the point of death. +So away at speed through the whispering pines +Down the bridle track rode the two Devines. + +It was fifty miles to their father's hut, + And the dawn was bright when they rode away; +At the fall of night when the shed was shut + And the men had rest from the toilsome day, +To the shed once more through the dark'ning pines +On their weary steeds came the two Devines. + +`Well, you're back right sudden,' the super. said; + `Is the old man dead and the funeral done?' +`Well, no, sir, he ain't not exactly dead, + But as good as dead,' said the eldest son -- +`And we couldn't bear such a chance to lose, +So we came straight back to tackle the ewes.' + + . . . . . + +They are shearing ewes at the Myall Lake, + And the shed is merry the livelong day +With the clashing sound that the shear-blades make + When the fastest shearers are making play, +And a couple of `hundred and ninety-nines' +Are the tallies made by the two Devines. + + + + +In the Droving Days + + + +`Only a pound,' said the auctioneer, +`Only a pound; and I'm standing here +Selling this animal, gain or loss. +Only a pound for the drover's horse; +One of the sort that was never afraid, +One of the boys of the Old Brigade; +Thoroughly honest and game, I'll swear, +Only a little the worse for wear; +Plenty as bad to be seen in town, +Give me a bid and I'll knock him down; +Sold as he stands, and without recourse, +Give me a bid for the drover's horse.' + +Loitering there in an aimless way +Somehow I noticed the poor old grey, +Weary and battered and screwed, of course, +Yet when I noticed the old grey horse, +The rough bush saddle, and single rein +Of the bridle laid on his tangled mane, +Straightway the crowd and the auctioneer +Seemed on a sudden to disappear, +Melted away in a kind of haze, +For my heart went back to the droving days. + +Back to the road, and I crossed again +Over the miles of the saltbush plain -- +The shining plain that is said to be +The dried-up bed of an inland sea, +Where the air so dry and so clear and bright +Refracts the sun with a wondrous light, +And out in the dim horizon makes +The deep blue gleam of the phantom lakes. + +At dawn of day we would feel the breeze +That stirred the boughs of the sleeping trees, +And brought a breath of the fragrance rare +That comes and goes in that scented air; +For the trees and grass and the shrubs contain +A dry sweet scent on the saltbush plain. +For those that love it and understand, +The saltbush plain is a wonderland. +A wondrous country, where Nature's ways +Were revealed to me in the droving days. + +We saw the fleet wild horses pass, +And the kangaroos through the Mitchell grass, +The emu ran with her frightened brood +All unmolested and unpursued. +But there rose a shout and a wild hubbub +When the dingo raced for his native scrub, +And he paid right dear for his stolen meals +With the drover's dogs at his wretched heels. +For we ran him down at a rattling pace, +While the packhorse joined in the stirring chase. +And a wild halloo at the kill we'd raise -- +We were light of heart in the droving days. + +'Twas a drover's horse, and my hand again +Made a move to close on a fancied rein. +For I felt the swing and the easy stride +Of the grand old horse that I used to ride +In drought or plenty, in good or ill, +That same old steed was my comrade still; +The old grey horse with his honest ways +Was a mate to me in the droving days. + +When we kept our watch in the cold and damp, +If the cattle broke from the sleeping camp, +Over the flats and across the plain, +With my head bent down on his waving mane, +Through the boughs above and the stumps below +On the darkest night I could let him go +At a racing speed; he would choose his course, +And my life was safe with the old grey horse. +But man and horse had a favourite job, +When an outlaw broke from a station mob, +With a right good will was the stockwhip plied, +As the old horse raced at the straggler's side, +And the greenhide whip such a weal would raise, +We could use the whip in the droving days. + + . . . . . + +`Only a pound!' and was this the end -- +Only a pound for the drover's friend. +The drover's friend that had seen his day, +And now was worthless, and cast away +With a broken knee and a broken heart +To be flogged and starved in a hawker's cart. +Well, I made a bid for a sense of shame +And the memories dear of the good old game. + +`Thank you? Guinea! and cheap at that! +Against you there in the curly hat! +Only a guinea, and one more chance, +Down he goes if there's no advance, +Third, and the last time, one! two! three!' +And the old grey horse was knocked down to me. +And now he's wandering, fat and sleek, +On the lucerne flats by the Homestead Creek; +I dare not ride him for fear he'd fall, +But he does a journey to beat them all, +For though he scarcely a trot can raise, +He can take me back to the droving days. + + + + +Lost + + + +`He ought to be home,' said the old man, `without there's something amiss. +He only went to the Two-mile -- he ought to be back by this. +He WOULD ride the Reckless filly, he WOULD have his wilful way; +And, here, he's not back at sundown -- and what will his mother say? + +`He was always his mother's idol, since ever his father died; +And there isn't a horse on the station that he isn't game to ride. +But that Reckless mare is vicious, and if once she gets away +He hasn't got strength to hold her -- and what will his mother say?' + +The old man walked to the sliprail, and peered up the dark'ning track, +And looked and longed for the rider that would never more come back; +And the mother came and clutched him, with sudden, spasmodic fright: +`What has become of my Willie? -- why isn't he home to-night?' + +Away in the gloomy ranges, at the foot of an ironbark, +The bonnie, winsome laddie was lying stiff and stark; +For the Reckless mare had smashed him against a leaning limb, +And his comely face was battered, and his merry eyes were dim. + +And the thoroughbred chestnut filly, the saddle beneath her flanks, +Was away like fire through the ranges to join the wild mob's ranks; +And a broken-hearted woman and an old man worn and grey +Were searching all night in the ranges till the sunrise brought the day. + +And the mother kept feebly calling, with a hope that would not die, +`Willie! where are you, Willie?' But how can the dead reply; +And hope died out with the daylight, and the darkness brought despair, +God pity the stricken mother, and answer the widow's prayer! + +Though far and wide they sought him, they found not where he fell; +For the ranges held him precious, and guarded their treasure well. +The wattle blooms above him, and the blue bells blow close by, +And the brown bees buzz the secret, and the wild birds sing reply. + +But the mother pined and faded, and cried, and took no rest, +And rode each day to the ranges on her hopeless, weary quest. +Seeking her loved one ever, she faded and pined away, +But with strength of her great affection she still sought every day. + +`I know that sooner or later I shall find my boy,' she said. +But she came not home one evening, and they found her lying dead, +And stamped on the poor pale features, as the spirit homeward pass'd, +Was an angel smile of gladness -- she had found the boy at last. + + + + +Over the Range + + + +Little bush maiden, wondering-eyed, + Playing alone in the creek-bed dry, +In the small green flat on every side + Walled in by the Moonbi ranges high; +Tell us the tale of your lonely life, + 'Mid the great grey forests that know no change. +`I never have left my home,' she said, + `I have never been over the Moonbi Range. + +`Father and mother are both long dead, + And I live with granny in yon wee place.' +`Where are your father and mother?' we said. + She puzzled awhile with thoughtful face, +Then a light came into the shy brown eye, + And she smiled, for she thought the question strange +On a thing so certain -- `When people die + They go to the country over the range.' + +`And what is this country like, my lass?' + `There are blossoming trees and pretty flowers, +And shining creeks where the golden grass + Is fresh and sweet from the summer showers. +They never need work, nor want, nor weep; + No troubles can come their hearts to estrange. +Some summer night I shall fall asleep, + And wake in the country over the range.' + +Child, you are wise in your simple trust, + For the wisest man knows no more than you +Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust: + Our views by a range are bounded too; +But we know that God hath this gift in store, + That when we come to the final change, +We shall meet with our loved ones gone before + To the beautiful country over the range. + + + + +Only a Jockey + + `Richard Bennison, a jockey, aged 14, while riding William Tell +in his training, was thrown and killed. The horse is luckily uninjured.' +-- Melbourne Wire. + + + +Out in the grey cheerless chill of the morning light, + Out on the track where the night shades still lurk; +Ere the first gleam of the sungod's returning light, + Round come the race-horses early at work. + +Reefing and pulling and racing so readily, + Close sit the jockey-boys holding them hard, +`Steady the stallion there -- canter him steadily, + Don't let him gallop so much as a yard.' + +Fiercely he fights while the others run wide of him, + Reefs at the bit that would hold him in thrall, +Plunges and bucks till the boy that's astride of him + Goes to the ground with a terrible fall. + +`Stop him there! Block him there! Drive him in carefully, + Lead him about till he's quiet and cool. +Sound as a bell! though he's blown himself fearfully, + Now let us pick up this poor little fool. + +`Stunned? Oh, by Jove, I'm afraid it's a case with him; + Ride for the doctor! keep bathing his head! +Send for a cart to go down to our place with him' -- + No use! One long sigh and the little chap's dead. + +Only a jockey-boy, foul-mouthed and bad you see, + Ignorant, heathenish, gone to his rest. +Parson or Presbyter, Pharisee, Sadducee, + What did you do for him? -- bad was the best. + +Negroes and foreigners, all have a claim on you; + Yearly you send your well-advertised hoard, +But the poor jockey-boy -- shame on you, shame on you, + `Feed ye, my little ones' -- what said the Lord? + +Him ye held less than the outer barbarian, + Left him to die in his ignorant sin; +Have you no principles, humanitarian? + Have you no precept -- `go gather them in?' + + . . . . . + +Knew he God's name? In his brutal profanity, + That name was an oath -- out of many but one -- +What did he get from our famed Christianity? + Where has his soul -- if he had any -- gone? + +Fourteen years old, and what was he taught of it? + What did he know of God's infinite grace? +Draw the dark curtain of shame o'er the thought of it, + Draw the shroud over the jockey-boy's face. + + + + +How M'Ginnis Went Missing + + + +Let us cease our idle chatter, + Let the tears bedew our cheek, +For a man from Tallangatta + Has been missing for a week. + +Where the roaring flooded Murray + Covered all the lower land, +There he started in a hurry, + With a bottle in his hand. + +And his fate is hid for ever, + But the public seem to think +That he slumbered by the river, + 'Neath the influence of drink. + +And they scarcely seem to wonder + That the river, wide and deep, +Never woke him with its thunder, + Never stirred him in his sleep. + +As the crashing logs came sweeping, + And their tumult filled the air, +Then M'Ginnis murmured, sleeping, + `'Tis a wake in ould Kildare.' + +So the river rose and found him + Sleeping softly by the stream, +And the cruel waters drowned him + Ere he wakened from his dream. + +And the blossom-tufted wattle, + Blooming brightly on the lea, +Saw M'Ginnis and the bottle + Going drifting out to sea. + + + + +A Voice from the Town + + A sequel to [Mowbray Morris's] `A Voice from the Bush' + + + +I thought, in the days of the droving, + Of steps I might hope to retrace, +To be done with the bush and the roving + And settle once more in my place. +With a heart that was well nigh to breaking, + In the long, lonely rides on the plain, +I thought of the pleasure of taking + The hand of a lady again. + +I am back into civilisation, + Once more in the stir and the strife, +But the old joys have lost their sensation -- + The light has gone out of my life; +The men of my time they have married, + Made fortunes or gone to the wall; +Too long from the scene I have tarried, + And, somehow, I'm out of it all. + +For I go to the balls and the races + A lonely companionless elf, +And the ladies bestow all their graces + On others less grey than myself; +While the talk goes around I'm a dumb one + 'Midst youngsters that chatter and prate, +And they call me `the Man who was Someone + Way back in the year Sixty-eight.' + +And I look, sour and old, at the dancers + That swing to the strains of the band, +And the ladies all give me the Lancers, + No waltzes -- I quite understand. +For matrons intent upon matching + Their daughters with infinite push, +Would scarce think him worthy the catching, + The broken-down man from the bush. + +New partners have come and new faces, + And I, of the bygone brigade, +Sharply feel that oblivion my place is -- + I must lie with the rest in the shade. +And the youngsters, fresh-featured and pleasant, + They live as we lived -- fairly fast; +But I doubt if the men of the present + Are as good as the men of the past. + +Of excitement and praise they are chary, + There is nothing much good upon earth; +Their watchword is NIL ADMIRARI, + They are bored from the days of their birth. +Where the life that we led was a revel + They `wince and relent and refrain' -- +I could show them the road -- to the devil, + Were I only a youngster again. + +I could show them the road where the stumps are + The pleasures that end in remorse, +And the game where the Devil's three trumps are, + The woman, the card, and the horse. +Shall the blind lead the blind -- shall the sower + Of wind reap the storm as of yore? +Though they get to their goal somewhat slower, + They march where we hurried before. + +For the world never learns -- just as we did, + They gallantly go to their fate, +Unheeded all warnings, unheeded + The maxims of elders sedate. +As the husbandman, patiently toiling, + Draws a harvest each year from the soil, +So the fools grow afresh for the spoiling, + And a new crop of thieves for the spoil. + +But a truce to this dull moralising, + Let them drink while the drops are of gold, +I have tasted the dregs -- 'twere surprising + Were the new wine to me like the old; +And I weary for lack of employment + In idleness day after day, +For the key to the door of enjoyment + Is Youth -- and I've thrown it away. + + + + +A Bunch of Roses + + + +Roses ruddy and roses white, + What are the joys that my heart discloses? +Sitting alone in the fading light +Memories come to me here to-night + With the wonderful scent of the big red roses. + +Memories come as the daylight fades + Down on the hearth where the firelight dozes; +Flicker and flutter the lights and shades, +And I see the face of a queen of maids + Whose memory comes with the scent of roses. + +Visions arise of a scene of mirth, + And a ball-room belle that superbly poses -- +A queenly woman of queenly worth, +And I am the happiest man on earth + With a single flower from a bunch of roses. + +Only her memory lives to-night -- + God in His wisdom her young life closes; +Over her grave may the turf be light, +Cover her coffin with roses white -- + She was always fond of the big white roses. + + . . . . . + +Such are the visions that fade away -- + Man proposes and God disposes; +Look in the glass and I see to-day +Only an old man, worn and grey, + Bending his head to a bunch of roses. + + + + +Black Swans + + + +As I lie at rest on a patch of clover +In the Western Park when the day is done, +I watch as the wild black swans fly over +With their phalanx turned to the sinking sun; +And I hear the clang of their leader crying +To a lagging mate in the rearward flying, +And they fade away in the darkness dying, +Where the stars are mustering one by one. + +Oh! ye wild black swans, 'twere a world of wonder +For a while to join in your westward flight, +With the stars above and the dim earth under, +Through the cooling air of the glorious night. +As we swept along on our pinions winging, +We should catch the chime of a church-bell ringing, +Or the distant note of a torrent singing, +Or the far-off flash of a station light. + +From the northern lakes with the reeds and rushes, +Where the hills are clothed with a purple haze, +Where the bell-birds chime and the songs of thrushes +Make music sweet in the jungle maze, +They will hold their course to the westward ever, +Till they reach the banks of the old grey river, +Where the waters wash, and the reed-beds quiver +In the burning heat of the summer days. + +Oh! ye strange wild birds, will ye bear a greeting +To the folk that live in that western land? +Then for every sweep of your pinions beating, +Ye shall bear a wish to the sunburnt band, +To the stalwart men who are stoutly fighting +With the heat and drought and the dust-storm smiting, +Yet whose life somehow has a strange inviting, +When once to the work they have put their hand. + +Facing it yet! Oh, my friend stout-hearted, +What does it matter for rain or shine, +For the hopes deferred and the gain departed? +Nothing could conquer that heart of thine. +And thy health and strength are beyond confessing +As the only joys that are worth possessing. +May the days to come be as rich in blessing +As the days we spent in the auld lang syne. + +I would fain go back to the old grey river, +To the old bush days when our hearts were light, +But, alas! those days they have fled for ever, +They are like the swans that have swept from sight. +And I know full well that the strangers' faces +Would meet us now in our dearest places; +For our day is dead and has left no traces +But the thoughts that live in my mind to-night. + +There are folk long dead, and our hearts would sicken -- +We would grieve for them with a bitter pain, +If the past could live and the dead could quicken, +We then might turn to that life again. +But on lonely nights we would hear them calling, +We should hear their steps on the pathways falling, +We should loathe the life with a hate appalling +In our lonely rides by the ridge and plain. + + . . . . . + +In the silent park is a scent of clover, +And the distant roar of the town is dead, +And I hear once more as the swans fly over +Their far-off clamour from overhead. +They are flying west, by their instinct guided, +And for man likewise is his fate decided, +And griefs apportioned and joys divided +By a mighty power with a purpose dread. + + + + +The All Right 'Un + + + +He came from `further out', +That land of heat and drought +And dust and gravel. +He got a touch of sun, +And rested at the run +Until his cure was done, +And he could travel. + +When spring had decked the plain, +He flitted off again +As flit the swallows. +And from that western land, +When many months were spanned, +A letter came to hand, +Which read as follows: + +`Dear sir, I take my pen +In hopes that all your men +And you are hearty. +You think that I've forgot +Your kindness, Mr. Scott, +Oh, no, dear sir, I'm not +That sort of party. + +`You sometimes bet, I know, +Well, now you'll have a show +The `books' to frighten. +Up here at Wingadee +Young Billy Fife and me +We're training Strife, and he +Is a all right 'un. + +`Just now we're running byes, +But, sir, first time he tries +I'll send you word of. +And running `on the crook' +Their measures we have took, +It is the deadest hook +You ever heard of. + +`So when we lets him go, +Why, then, I'll let you know, +And you can have a show +To put a mite on. +Now, sir, my leave I'll take, +Yours truly, William Blake. +P.S. -- Make no mistake, +HE'S A ALL RIGHT 'UN.' + + . . . . . + +By next week's RIVERINE +I saw my friend had been +A bit too cunning. +I read: `The racehorse Strife +And jockey William Fife +Disqualified for life -- +Suspicious running.' + +But though they spoilt his game, +I reckon all the same +I fairly ought to claim +My friend a white 'un. +For though he wasn't straight, +His deeds would indicate +His heart at any rate +Was `a all right 'un'. + + + + +The Boss of the `Admiral Lynch' + + + +Did you ever hear tell of Chili? I was readin' the other day +Of President Balmaceda and of how he was sent away. +It seems that he didn't suit 'em -- they thought that they'd like a change, +So they started an insurrection and chased him across the range. +They seemed to be restless people -- and, judging by what you hear, +They raise up these revolutions 'bout two or three times a year; +And the man that goes out of office, he goes for the boundary QUICK, +For there isn't no vote by ballot -- it's bullets that does the trick. +And it ain't like a real battle, where the prisoners' lives are spared, +And they fight till there's one side beaten + and then there's a truce declared, + +And the man that has got the licking goes down like a blooming lord +To hand in his resignation and give up his blooming sword, +And the other man bows and takes it, and everything's all polite -- +This wasn't that kind of a picnic, this wasn't that sort of a fight. +For the pris'ners they took -- they shot 'em; + no odds were they small or great, +If they'd collared old Balmaceda, they reckoned to shoot him straight. +A lot of bloodthirsty devils they were -- but there ain't a doubt +They must have been real plucked 'uns -- the way that they fought it out, +And the king of 'em all, I reckon, the man that could stand a pinch, +Was the boss of a one-horse gunboat. They called her the `Admiral Lynch'. + +Well, he was for Balmaceda, and after the war was done, +And Balmaceda was beaten and his troops had been forced to run, +The other man fetched his army and proceeded to do things brown, +He marched 'em into the fortress and took command of the town. +Cannon and guns and horses troopin' along the road, +Rumblin' over the bridges, and never a foeman showed +Till they came in sight of the harbour, and the very first thing they see +Was this mite of a one-horse gunboat a-lying against the quay, +And there as they watched they noticed a flutter of crimson rag, +And under their eyes he hoisted old Balmaceda's flag. +Well, I tell you it fairly knocked 'em -- it just took away their breath, +For he must ha' known if they caught him, 'twas nothin' but sudden death. +An' he'd got no fire in his furnace, no chance to put out to sea, +So he stood by his gun and waited with his vessel against the quay. + +Well, they sent him a civil message to say that the war was done, +And most of his side were corpses, and all that were left had run; +And blood had been spilt sufficient, so they gave him a chance to decide +If he'd haul down his bit of bunting and come on the winning side. +He listened and heard their message, and answered them all polite, +That he was a Spanish hidalgo, and the men of his race MUST fight! +A gunboat against an army, and with never a chance to run, +And them with their hundred cannon and him with a single gun: +The odds were a trifle heavy -- but he wasn't the sort to flinch, +So he opened fire on the army, did the boss of the `Admiral Lynch'. + +They pounded his boat to pieces, they silenced his single gun, +And captured the whole consignment, for none of 'em cared to run; +And it don't say whether they shot him -- it don't even give his name -- +But whatever they did I'll wager that he went to his graveyard game. +I tell you those old hidalgos so stately and so polite, +They turn out the real Maginnis when it comes to an uphill fight. +There was General Alcantara, who died in the heaviest brunt, +And General Alzereca was killed in the battle's front; +But the king of 'em all, I reckon -- the man that could stand a pinch -- +Was the man who attacked the army with the gunboat `Admiral Lynch'. + + + + +A Bushman's Song + + + +I'm travellin' down the Castlereagh, and I'm a station hand, +I'm handy with the ropin' pole, I'm handy with the brand, +And I can ride a rowdy colt, or swing the axe all day, +But there's no demand for a station-hand along the Castlereagh. + +So it's shift, boys, shift, for there isn't the slightest doubt +That we've got to make a shift to the stations further out, +With the pack-horse runnin' after, for he follows like a dog, +We must strike across the country at the old jig-jog. + +This old black horse I'm riding -- if you'll notice what's his brand, +He wears the crooked R, you see -- none better in the land. +He takes a lot of beatin', and the other day we tried, +For a bit of a joke, with a racing bloke, for twenty pounds a side. + +It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn't the slightest doubt +That I had to make him shift, for the money was nearly out; +But he cantered home a winner, with the other one at the flog -- +He's a red-hot sort to pick up with his old jig-jog. + +I asked a cove for shearin' once along the Marthaguy: +`We shear non-union here,' says he. `I call it scab,' says I. +I looked along the shearin' floor before I turned to go -- +There were eight or ten dashed Chinamen a-shearin' in a row. + +It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn't the slightest doubt +It was time to make a shift with the leprosy about. +So I saddled up my horses, and I whistled to my dog, +And I left his scabby station at the old jig-jog. + +I went to Illawarra, where my brother's got a farm, +He has to ask his landlord's leave before he lifts his arm; +The landlord owns the country side -- man, woman, dog, and cat, +They haven't the cheek to dare to speak without they touch their hat. + +It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn't the slightest doubt +Their little landlord god and I would soon have fallen out; +Was I to touch my hat to him? -- was I his bloomin' dog? +So I makes for up the country at the old jig-jog. + +But it's time that I was movin', I've a mighty way to go +Till I drink artesian water from a thousand feet below; +Till I meet the overlanders with the cattle comin' down, +And I'll work a while till I make a pile, then have a spree in town. + +So, it's shift, boys, shift, for there isn't the slightest doubt +We've got to make a shift to the stations further out; +The pack-horse runs behind us, for he follows like a dog, +And we cross a lot of country at the old jig-jog. + + + + +How Gilbert Died + + + +There's never a stone at the sleeper's head, + There's never a fence beside, +And the wandering stock on the grave may tread + Unnoticed and undenied, +But the smallest child on the Watershed + Can tell you how Gilbert died. + +For he rode at dusk, with his comrade Dunn + To the hut at the Stockman's Ford, +In the waning light of the sinking sun + They peered with a fierce accord. +They were outlaws both -- and on each man's head + Was a thousand pounds reward. + +They had taken toll of the country round, + And the troopers came behind +With a black that tracked like a human hound + In the scrub and the ranges blind: +He could run the trail where a white man's eye + No sign of a track could find. + +He had hunted them out of the One Tree Hill + And over the Old Man Plain, +But they wheeled their tracks with a wild beast's skill, + And they made for the range again. +Then away to the hut where their grandsire dwelt, + They rode with a loosened rein. + +And their grandsire gave them a greeting bold: + `Come in and rest in peace, +No safer place does the country hold -- + With the night pursuit must cease, +And we'll drink success to the roving boys, + And to hell with the black police.' + +But they went to death when they entered there, + In the hut at the Stockman's Ford, +For their grandsire's words were as false as fair -- + They were doomed to the hangman's cord. +He had sold them both to the black police + For the sake of the big reward. + +In the depth of night there are forms that glide + As stealthy as serpents creep, +And around the hut where the outlaws hide + They plant in the shadows deep, +And they wait till the first faint flush of dawn + Shall waken their prey from sleep. + +But Gilbert wakes while the night is dark -- + A restless sleeper, aye, +He has heard the sound of a sheep-dog's bark, + And his horse's warning neigh, +And he says to his mate, `There are hawks abroad, + And it's time that we went away.' + +Their rifles stood at the stretcher head, + Their bridles lay to hand, +They wakened the old man out of his bed, + When they heard the sharp command: +`In the name of the Queen lay down your arms, + Now, Dunn and Gilbert, stand!' + +Then Gilbert reached for his rifle true + That close at his hand he kept, +He pointed it straight at the voice and drew, + But never a flash outleapt, +For the water ran from the rifle breech -- + It was drenched while the outlaws slept. + +Then he dropped the piece with a bitter oath, + And he turned to his comrade Dunn: +`We are sold,' he said, `we are dead men both, + But there may be a chance for one; +I'll stop and I'll fight with the pistol here, + You take to your heels and run.' + +So Dunn crept out on his hands and knees + In the dim, half-dawning light, +And he made his way to a patch of trees, + And vanished among the night, +And the trackers hunted his tracks all day, + But they never could trace his flight. + +But Gilbert walked from the open door + In a confident style and rash; +He heard at his side the rifles roar, + And he heard the bullets crash. +But he laughed as he lifted his pistol-hand, + And he fired at the rifle flash. + +Then out of the shadows the troopers aimed + At his voice and the pistol sound, +With the rifle flashes the darkness flamed, + He staggered and spun around, +And they riddled his body with rifle balls + As it lay on the blood-soaked ground. + +There's never a stone at the sleeper's head, + There's never a fence beside, +And the wandering stock on the grave may tread + Unnoticed and undenied, +But the smallest child on the Watershed + Can tell you how Gilbert died. + + + + +The Flying Gang + + + +I served my time, in the days gone by, + In the railway's clash and clang, +And I worked my way to the end, and I + Was the head of the `Flying Gang'. +`Twas a chosen band that was kept at hand + In case of an urgent need, +Was it south or north we were started forth, + And away at our utmost speed. + If word reached town that a bridge was down, + The imperious summons rang -- + `Come out with the pilot engine sharp, + And away with the flying gang.' + +Then a piercing scream and a rush of steam + As the engine moved ahead, +With a measured beat by the slum and street + Of the busy town we fled, +By the uplands bright and the homesteads white, + With the rush of the western gale, +And the pilot swayed with the pace we made + As she rocked on the ringing rail. + And the country children clapped their hands + As the engine's echoes rang, + But their elders said: `There is work ahead + When they send for the flying gang.' + +Then across the miles of the saltbush plain + That gleamed with the morning dew, +Where the grasses waved like the ripening grain + The pilot engine flew, +A fiery rush in the open bush + Where the grade marks seemed to fly, +And the order sped on the wires ahead, + The pilot MUST go by. + The Governor's special must stand aside, + And the fast express go hang, + Let your orders be that the line is free + For the boys of the flying gang. + + + + +Shearing at Castlereagh + + + +The bell is set a-ringing, and the engine gives a toot, +There's five and thirty shearers here are shearing for the loot, +So stir yourselves, you penners-up, and shove the sheep along, +The musterers are fetching them a hundred thousand strong, +And make your collie dogs speak up -- what would the buyers say +In London if the wool was late this year from Castlereagh? + +The man that `rung' the Tubbo shed is not the ringer here, +That stripling from the Cooma side can teach him how to shear. +They trim away the ragged locks, and rip the cutter goes, +And leaves a track of snowy fleece from brisket to the nose; +It's lovely how they peel it off with never stop nor stay, +They're racing for the ringer's place this year at Castlereagh. + +The man that keeps the cutters sharp is growling in his cage, +He's always in a hurry and he's always in a rage -- +`You clumsy-fisted mutton-heads, you'd turn a fellow sick, +You pass yourselves as shearers, you were born to swing a pick. +Another broken cutter here, that's two you've broke to-day, +It's awful how such crawlers come to shear at Castlereagh.' + +The youngsters picking up the fleece enjoy the merry din, +They throw the classer up the fleece, he throws it to the bin; +The pressers standing by the rack are waiting for the wool, +There's room for just a couple more, the press is nearly full; +Now jump upon the lever, lads, and heave and heave away, +Another bale of golden fleece is branded `Castlereagh'. + + + + +The Wind's Message + + + +There came a whisper down the Bland between the dawn and dark, +Above the tossing of the pines, above the river's flow; +It stirred the boughs of giant gums and stalwart ironbark; +It drifted where the wild ducks played amid the swamps below; +It brought a breath of mountain air from off the hills of pine, +A scent of eucalyptus trees in honey-laden bloom; +And drifting, drifting far away along the southern line +It caught from leaf and grass and fern a subtle strange perfume. + +It reached the toiling city folk, but few there were that heard -- +The rattle of their busy life had choked the whisper down; +And some but caught a fresh-blown breeze with scent of pine that stirred +A thought of blue hills far away beyond the smoky town; +And others heard the whisper pass, but could not understand +The magic of the breeze's breath that set their hearts aglow, +Nor how the roving wind could bring across the Overland +A sound of voices silent now and songs of long ago. + +But some that heard the whisper clear were filled with vague unrest; +The breeze had brought its message home, they could not fixed abide; +Their fancies wandered all the day towards the blue hills' breast, +Towards the sunny slopes that lie along the riverside, +The mighty rolling western plains are very fair to see, +Where waving to the passing breeze the silver myalls stand, +But fairer are the giant hills, all rugged though they be, +From which the two great rivers rise that run along the Bland. + +Oh! rocky range and rugged spur and river running clear, +That swings around the sudden bends with swirl of snow-white foam, +Though we, your sons, are far away, we sometimes seem to hear +The message that the breezes bring to call the wanderers home. +The mountain peaks are white with snow that feeds a thousand rills, +Along the river banks the maize grows tall on virgin land, +And we shall live to see once more those sunny southern hills, +And strike once more the bridle track that leads along the Bland. + + + + +Johnson's Antidote + + + +Down along the Snakebite River, where the overlanders camp, +Where the serpents are in millions, all of the most deadly stamp; +Where the station-cook in terror, nearly every time he bakes, +Mixes up among the doughboys half-a-dozen poison-snakes: +Where the wily free-selector walks in armour-plated pants, +And defies the stings of scorpions, and the bites of bull-dog ants: +Where the adder and the viper tear each other by the throat, +There it was that William Johnson sought his snake-bite antidote. + +Johnson was a free-selector, and his brain went rather queer, +For the constant sight of serpents filled him with a deadly fear; +So he tramped his free-selection, morning, afternoon, and night, +Seeking for some great specific that would cure the serpent's bite. +Till King Billy, of the Mooki, chieftain of the flour-bag head, +Told him, `Spos'n snake bite pfeller, pfeller mostly drop down dead; +Spos'n snake bite old goanna, then you watch a while you see, +Old goanna cure himself with eating little pfeller tree.' +`That's the cure,' said William Johnson, `point me out this plant sublime,' +But King Billy, feeling lazy, said he'd go another time. +Thus it came to pass that Johnson, having got the tale by rote, +Followed every stray goanna, seeking for the antidote. + + . . . . . + +Loafing once beside the river, while he thought his heart would break, +There he saw a big goanna fighting with a tiger-snake, +In and out they rolled and wriggled, bit each other, heart and soul, +Till the valiant old goanna swallowed his opponent whole. +Breathless, Johnson sat and watched him, saw him struggle up the bank, +Saw him nibbling at the branches of some bushes, green and rank; +Saw him, happy and contented, lick his lips, as off he crept, +While the bulging in his stomach showed where his opponent slept. +Then a cheer of exultation burst aloud from Johnson's throat; +`Luck at last,' said he, `I've struck it! 'tis the famous antidote.' + +`Here it is, the Grand Elixir, greatest blessing ever known, +Twenty thousand men in India die each year of snakes alone. +Think of all the foreign nations, negro, chow, and blackamoor, +Saved from sudden expiration, by my wondrous snakebite cure. +It will bring me fame and fortune! In the happy days to be, +Men of every clime and nation will be round to gaze on me -- +Scientific men in thousands, men of mark and men of note, +Rushing down the Mooki River, after Johnson's antidote. +It will cure Delirium Tremens, when the patient's eyeballs stare +At imaginary spiders, snakes which really are not there. +When he thinks he sees them wriggle, when he thinks he sees them bloat, +It will cure him just to think of Johnson's Snakebite Antidote.' + +Then he rushed to the museum, found a scientific man -- +`Trot me out a deadly serpent, just the deadliest you can; +I intend to let him bite me, all the risk I will endure, +Just to prove the sterling value of my wondrous snakebite cure. +Even though an adder bit me, back to life again I'd float; +Snakes are out of date, I tell you, since I've found the antidote.' + +Said the scientific person, `If you really want to die, +Go ahead -- but, if you're doubtful, let your sheep-dog have a try. +Get a pair of dogs and try it, let the snake give both a nip; +Give your dog the snakebite mixture, let the other fellow rip; +If he dies and yours survives him, then it proves the thing is good. +Will you fetch your dog and try it?' Johnson rather thought he would. +So he went and fetched his canine, hauled him forward by the throat. +`Stump, old man,' says he, `we'll show them we've the genwine antidote.' + +Both the dogs were duly loaded with the poison-gland's contents; +Johnson gave his dog the mixture, then sat down to wait events. +`Mark,' he said, `in twenty minutes Stump'll be a-rushing round, +While the other wretched creature lies a corpse upon the ground.' +But, alas for William Johnson! ere they'd watched a half-hour's spell +Stumpy was as dead as mutton, t'other dog was live and well. +And the scientific person hurried off with utmost speed, +Tested Johnson's drug and found it was a deadly poison-weed; +Half a tumbler killed an emu, half a spoonful killed a goat, +All the snakes on earth were harmless to that awful antidote. + + . . . . . + +Down along the Mooki River, on the overlanders' camp, +Where the serpents are in millions, all of the most deadly stamp, +Wanders, daily, William Johnson, down among those poisonous hordes, +Shooting every stray goanna, calls them `black and yaller frauds'. +And King Billy, of the Mooki, cadging for the cast-off coat, +Somehow seems to dodge the subject of the snake-bite antidote. + + + + +Ambition and Art + + + + Ambition + + +I am the maid of the lustrous eyes + Of great fruition, +Whom the sons of men that are over-wise + Have called Ambition. + +And the world's success is the only goal + I have within me; +The meanest man with the smallest soul + May woo and win me. + +For the lust of power and the pride of place + To all I proffer. +Wilt thou take thy part in the crowded race + For what I offer? + +The choice is thine, and the world is wide -- + Thy path is lonely. +I may not lead and I may not guide -- + I urge thee only. + +I am just a whip and a spur that smites + To fierce endeavour. +In the restless days and the sleepless nights + I urge thee ever. + +Thou shalt wake from sleep with a startled cry, + In fright upleaping +At a rival's step as it passes by + Whilst thou art sleeping. + +Honour and truth shall be overthrown + In fierce desire; +Thou shalt use thy friend as a stepping-stone + To mount thee higher. + +When the curtain falls on the sordid strife + That seemed so splendid, +Thou shalt look with pain on the wasted life + That thou hast ended. + +Thou hast sold thy life for a guerdon small + In fitful flashes; +There has been reward -- but the end of all + Is dust and ashes. + +For the night has come and it brings to naught + Thy projects cherished, +And thine epitaph shall in brass be wrought -- + `He lived and perished.' + + + Art + + +I wait for thee at the outer gate, + My love, mine only; +Wherefore tarriest thou so late + While I am lonely. + +Thou shalt seek my side with a footstep swift, + In thee implanted +Is the love of Art and the greatest gift + That God has granted. + +And the world's concerns with its rights and wrongs + Shall seem but small things -- +Poet or painter, a singer of songs, + Thine art is all things. + +For the wine of life is a woman's love + To keep beside thee; +But the love of Art is a thing above -- + A star to guide thee. + +As the years go by with thy love of Art + All undiminished, +Thou shalt end thy days with a quiet heart -- + Thy work is finished. + +So the painter fashions a picture strong + That fadeth never, +And the singer singeth a wond'rous song + That lives for ever. + + + + +The Daylight is Dying + + + +The daylight is dying + Away in the west, +The wild birds are flying + In silence to rest; +In leafage and frondage + Where shadows are deep, +They pass to its bondage -- + The kingdom of sleep. +And watched in their sleeping + By stars in the height, +They rest in your keeping, + Oh, wonderful night. + +When night doth her glories + Of starshine unfold, +'Tis then that the stories + Of bush-land are told. +Unnumbered I hold them + In memories bright, +But who could unfold them, + Or read them aright? +Beyond all denials + The stars in their glories +The breeze in the myalls + Are part of these stories. +The waving of grasses, + The song of the river +That sings as it passes + For ever and ever, +The hobble-chains' rattle, + The calling of birds, +The lowing of cattle + Must blend with the words. +Without these, indeed, you + Would find it ere long, +As though I should read you + The words of a song +That lamely would linger + When lacking the rune, +The voice of the singer, + The lilt of the tune. + +But, as one half-hearing + An old-time refrain, +With memory clearing, + Recalls it again, +These tales, roughly wrought of + The bush and its ways, +May call back a thought of + The wandering days, +And, blending with each + In the mem'ries that throng, +There haply shall reach + You some echo of song. + + + + +In Defence of the Bush + + + +So you're back from up the country, Mister Townsman, where you went, +And you're cursing all the business in a bitter discontent; +Well, we grieve to disappoint you, and it makes us sad to hear +That it wasn't cool and shady -- and there wasn't plenty beer, +And the loony bullock snorted when you first came into view; +Well, you know it's not so often that he sees a swell like you; +And the roads were hot and dusty, and the plains were burnt and brown, +And no doubt you're better suited drinking lemon-squash in town. +Yet, perchance, if you should journey down the very track you went +In a month or two at furthest you would wonder what it meant, +Where the sunbaked earth was gasping like a creature in its pain +You would find the grasses waving like a field of summer grain, +And the miles of thirsty gutters blocked with sand and choked with mud, +You would find them mighty rivers with a turbid, sweeping flood; +For the rain and drought and sunshine make no changes in the street, +In the sullen line of buildings and the ceaseless tramp of feet; +But the bush hath moods and changes, as the seasons rise and fall, +And the men who know the bush-land -- they are loyal through it all. + + . . . . . + +But you found the bush was dismal and a land of no delight, +Did you chance to hear a chorus in the shearers' huts at night? +Did they `rise up, William Riley' by the camp-fire's cheery blaze? +Did they rise him as we rose him in the good old droving days? +And the women of the homesteads and the men you chanced to meet -- +Were their faces sour and saddened like the `faces in the street', +And the `shy selector children' -- were they better now or worse +Than the little city urchins who would greet you with a curse? +Is not such a life much better than the squalid street and square +Where the fallen women flaunt it in the fierce electric glare, +Where the sempstress plies her sewing till her eyes are sore and red +In a filthy, dirty attic toiling on for daily bread? +Did you hear no sweeter voices in the music of the bush +Than the roar of trams and 'buses, and the war-whoop of `the push'? +Did the magpies rouse your slumbers with their carol sweet and strange? +Did you hear the silver chiming of the bell-birds on the range? +But, perchance, the wild birds' music by your senses was despised, +For you say you'll stay in townships till the bush is civilised. +Would you make it a tea-garden and on Sundays have a band +Where the `blokes' might take their `donahs', + with a `public' close at hand? +You had better stick to Sydney and make merry with the `push', +For the bush will never suit you, and you'll never suit the bush. + + + + +Last Week + + + +Oh, the new-chum went to the back block run, +But he should have gone there last week. +He tramped ten miles with a loaded gun, +But of turkey or duck he saw never a one, +For he should have been there last week, + They said, +There were flocks of 'em there last week. + +He wended his way to a waterfall, +And he should have gone there last week. +He carried a camera, legs and all, +But the day was hot, and the stream was small, +For he should have gone there last week, + They said. +They drowned a man there last week. + +He went for a drive, and he made a start, +Which should have been made last week, +For the old horse died of a broken heart; +So he footed it home and he dragged the cart -- +But the horse was all right last week, + They said. +He trotted a match last week. + +So he asked the bushies who came from far +To visit the town last week, +If they'd dine with him, and they said `Hurrah!' +But there wasn't a drop in the whisky jar -- +You should have been here last week, + He said, +I drank it all up last week! + + + + +Those Names + + + +The shearers sat in the firelight, hearty and hale and strong, +After the hard day's shearing, passing the joke along: +The `ringer' that shore a hundred, as they never were shorn before, +And the novice who, toiling bravely, had tommy-hawked half a score, +The tarboy, the cook, and the slushy, the sweeper that swept the board, +The picker-up, and the penner, with the rest of the shearing horde. +There were men from the inland stations + where the skies like a furnace glow, +And men from the Snowy River, the land of the frozen snow; +There were swarthy Queensland drovers who reckoned all land by miles, +And farmers' sons from the Murray, where many a vineyard smiles. +They started at telling stories when they wearied of cards and games, +And to give these stories a flavour they threw in some local names, +And a man from the bleak Monaro, away on the tableland, +He fixed his eyes on the ceiling, and he started to play his hand. + +He told them of Adjintoothbong, where the pine-clad mountains freeze, +And the weight of the snow in summer breaks branches off the trees, +And, as he warmed to the business, he let them have it strong -- +Nimitybelle, Conargo, Wheeo, Bongongolong; +He lingered over them fondly, because they recalled to mind +A thought of the old bush homestead, and the girl that he left behind. +Then the shearers all sat silent till a man in the corner rose; +Said he, `I've travelled a-plenty but never heard names like those. +Out in the western districts, out on the Castlereagh +Most of the names are easy -- short for a man to say. + +`You've heard of Mungrybambone and the Gundabluey pine, +Quobbotha, Girilambone, and Terramungamine, +Quambone, Eunonyhareenyha, Wee Waa, and Buntijo --' +But the rest of the shearers stopped him: + `For the sake of your jaw, go slow, +If you reckon those names are short ones out where such names prevail, +Just try and remember some long ones before you begin the tale.' +And the man from the western district, though never a word he said, +Just winked with his dexter eyelid, and then he retired to bed. + + + + +A Bush Christening + + + +On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few, + And men of religion are scanty, +On a road never cross'd 'cept by folk that are lost, + One Michael Magee had a shanty. + +Now this Mike was the dad of a ten year old lad, + Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned; +He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest + For the youngster had never been christened. + +And his wife used to cry, `If the darlin' should die + Saint Peter would not recognise him.' +But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived, + Who agreed straightaway to baptise him. + +Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue, + With his ear to the keyhole was listenin', +And he muttered in fright, while his features turned white, + `What the divil and all is this christenin'?' + +He was none of your dolts, he had seen them brand colts, + And it seemed to his small understanding, +If the man in the frock made him one of the flock, + It must mean something very like branding. + +So away with a rush he set off for the bush, + While the tears in his eyelids they glistened -- +`'Tis outrageous,' says he, `to brand youngsters like me, + I'll be dashed if I'll stop to be christened!' + +Like a young native dog he ran into a log, + And his father with language uncivil, +Never heeding the `praste' cried aloud in his haste, + `Come out and be christened, you divil!' + +But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug, + And his parents in vain might reprove him, +Till his reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke) + `I've a notion,' says he, `that'll move him.' + +`Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prog; + Poke him aisy -- don't hurt him or maim him, +'Tis not long that he'll stand, I've the water at hand, + As he rushes out this end I'll name him. + +`Here he comes, and for shame! ye've forgotten the name -- + Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?' +Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout -- + `Take your chance, anyhow, wid `Maginnis'!' + +As the howling young cub ran away to the scrub + Where he knew that pursuit would be risky, +The priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his head + That was labelled `MAGINNIS'S WHISKY'! + +And Maginnis Magee has been made a J.P., + And the one thing he hates more than sin is +To be asked by the folk, who have heard of the joke, + How he came to be christened `Maginnis'! + + + + +How the Favourite Beat Us + + + +`Aye,' said the boozer, `I tell you it's true, sir, +I once was a punter with plenty of pelf, +But gone is my glory, I'll tell you the story +How I stiffened my horse and got stiffened myself. + +`'Twas a mare called the Cracker, I came down to back her, +But found she was favourite all of a rush, +The folk just did pour on to lay six to four on, +And several bookies were killed in the crush. + +`It seems old Tomato was stiff, though a starter; +They reckoned him fit for the Caulfield to keep. +The Bloke and the Donah were scratched by their owner, +He only was offered three-fourths of the sweep. + +`We knew Salamander was slow as a gander, +The mare could have beat him the length of the straight, +And old Manumission was out of condition, +And most of the others were running off weight. + +`No doubt someone `blew it', for everyone knew it, +The bets were all gone, and I muttered in spite +`If I can't get a copper, by Jingo, I'll stop her, +Let the public fall in, it will serve the brutes right.' + +`I said to the jockey, `Now, listen, my cocky, +You watch as you're cantering down by the stand, +I'll wait where that toff is and give you the office, +You're only to win if I lift up my hand.' + +`I then tried to back her -- `What price is the Cracker?' +`Our books are all full, sir,' each bookie did swear; +My mind, then, I made up, my fortune I played up +I bet every shilling against my own mare. + +`I strolled to the gateway, the mare in the straightway +Was shifting and dancing, and pawing the ground, +The boy saw me enter and wheeled for his canter, +When a darned great mosquito came buzzing around. + +`They breed 'em at Hexham, it's risky to vex 'em, +They suck a man dry at a sitting, no doubt, +But just as the mare passed, he fluttered my hair past, +I lifted my hand, and I flattened him out. + +`I was stunned when they started, the mare simply darted +Away to the front when the flag was let fall, +For none there could match her, and none tried to catch her -- +She finished a furlong in front of them all. + +`You bet that I went for the boy, whom I sent for +The moment he weighed and came out of the stand -- +`Who paid you to win it? Come, own up this minute.' +`Lord love yer,' said he, `why you lifted your hand.' + +`'Twas true, by St. Peter, that cursed `muskeeter' +Had broke me so broke that I hadn't a brown, +And you'll find the best course is when dealing with horses +To win when you're able, and KEEP YOUR HANDS DOWN. + + + + +The Great Calamity + + + +MacFierce'un came to Whiskeyhurst + When summer days were hot, +And bided there wi' Jock McThirst, + A brawny brother Scot. +Gude Faith! They made the whisky fly, + Like Highland chieftains true, +And when they'd drunk the beaker dry + They sang `We are nae fou!' + + `There is nae folk like oor ain folk, + Sae gallant and sae true.' + They sang the only Scottish joke + Which is, `We are nae fou.' + +Said bold McThirst, `Let Saxons jaw + Aboot their great concerns, +But bonny Scotland beats them a', + The land o' cakes and Burns, +The land o' partridge, deer, and grouse, + Fill up your glass, I beg, +There's muckle whusky i' the house, + Forbye what's in the keg.' + + And here a hearty laugh he laughed, + `Just come wi' me, I beg.' + MacFierce'un saw with pleasure daft + A fifty-gallon keg. + +`Losh, man, that's grand,' MacFierce'un cried, + `Saw ever man the like, +Now, wi' the daylight, I maun ride + To meet a Southron tyke, +But I'll be back ere summer's gone, + So bide for me, I beg, +We'll make a grand assault upon + Yon deevil of a keg.' + + . . . . . + +MacFierce'un rode to Whiskeyhurst, + When summer days were gone, +And there he met with Jock McThirst + Was greetin' all alone. +`McThirst what gars ye look sae blank? + Have all yer wits gane daft? +Has that accursed Southron bank + Called up your overdraft? +Is all your grass burnt up wi' drouth? + Is wool and hides gone flat?' +McThirst replied, `Gude friend, in truth, + 'Tis muckle waur than that.' + +`Has sair misfortune cursed your life + That you should weep sae free? +Is harm upon your bonny wife, + The children at your knee? +Is scaith upon your house and hame?' + McThirst upraised his head: +`My bairns hae done the deed of shame -- + 'Twere better they were dead. + +`To think my bonny infant son + Should do the deed o' guilt -- +HE LET THE WHUSKEY SPIGOT RUN, + AND A' THE WHUSKEY'S SPILT!' + + . . . . . + +Upon them both these words did bring + A solemn silence deep, +Gude faith, it is a fearsome thing + To see two strong men weep. + + + + +Come-by-Chance + + + +As I pondered very weary o'er a volume long and dreary -- +For the plot was void of interest -- 'twas the Postal Guide, in fact, +There I learnt the true location, distance, size, and population +Of each township, town, and village in the radius of the Act. + +And I learnt that Puckawidgee stands beside the Murrumbidgee, +And that Booleroi and Bumble get their letters twice a year, +Also that the post inspector, when he visited Collector, +Closed the office up instanter, and re-opened Dungalear. + +But my languid mood forsook me, when I found a name that took me, +Quite by chance I came across it -- `Come-by-Chance' was what I read; +No location was assigned it, not a thing to help one find it, +Just an N which stood for northward, and the rest was all unsaid. + +I shall leave my home, and forthward wander stoutly to the northward +Till I come by chance across it, and I'll straightway settle down, +For there can't be any hurry, nor the slightest cause for worry +Where the telegraph don't reach you nor the railways run to town. + +And one's letters and exchanges come by chance across the ranges, +Where a wiry young Australian leads a pack-horse once a week, +And the good news grows by keeping, and you're spared the pain of weeping +Over bad news when the mailman drops the letters in the creek. + +But I fear, and more's the pity, that there's really no such city, +For there's not a man can find it of the shrewdest folk I know, +`Come-by-chance', be sure it never means a land of fierce endeavour, +It is just the careless country where the dreamers only go. + + . . . . . + +Though we work and toil and hustle in our life of haste and bustle, +All that makes our life worth living comes unstriven for and free; +Man may weary and importune, but the fickle goddess Fortune +Deals him out his pain or pleasure, careless what his worth may be. + +All the happy times entrancing, days of sport and nights of dancing, +Moonlit rides and stolen kisses, pouting lips and loving glance: +When you think of these be certain you have looked behind the curtain, +You have had the luck to linger just a while in `Come-by-chance'. + + + + +Under the Shadow of Kiley's Hill + + + +This is the place where they all were bred; + Some of the rafters are standing still; +Now they are scattered and lost and dead, +Every one from the old nest fled, + Out of the shadow of Kiley's Hill. + +Better it is that they ne'er came back -- + Changes and chances are quickly rung; +Now the old homestead is gone to rack, +Green is the grass on the well-worn track + Down by the gate where the roses clung. + +Gone is the garden they kept with care; + Left to decay at its own sweet will, +Fruit trees and flower beds eaten bare, +Cattle and sheep where the roses were, + Under the shadow of Kiley's Hill. + +Where are the children that throve and grew + In the old homestead in days gone by? +One is away on the far Barcoo +Watching his cattle the long year through, + Watching them starve in the droughts and die. + +One in the town where all cares are rife, + Weary with troubles that cramp and kill, +Fain would be done with the restless strife, +Fain would go back to the old bush life, + Back to the shadow of Kiley's Hill. + +One is away on the roving quest, + Seeking his share of the golden spoil, +Out in the wastes of the trackless west, +Wandering ever he gives the best + Of his years and strength to the hopeless toil. + +What of the parents? That unkept mound + Shows where they slumber united still; +Rough is their grave, but they sleep as sound +Out on the range as on holy ground, + Under the shadow of Kiley's Hill. + + + + +Jim Carew + + + +Born of a thoroughbred English race, + Well proportioned and closely knit, +Neat of figure and handsome face, + Always ready and always fit, +Hard and wiry of limb and thew, +That was the ne'er-do-well Jim Carew. + +One of the sons of the good old land -- + Many a year since his like was known; +Never a game but he took command, + Never a sport but he held his own; +Gained at his college a triple blue -- +Good as they make them was Jim Carew. + +Came to grief -- was it card or horse? + Nobody asked and nobody cared; +Ship him away to the bush of course, + Ne'er-do-well fellows are easily spared; +Only of women a tolerable few +Sorrowed at parting with Jim Carew. + +Gentleman Jim on the cattle camp, + Sitting his horse with an easy grace; +But the reckless living has left its stamp + In the deep drawn lines of that handsome face, +And a harder look in those eyes of blue: +Prompt at a quarrel is Jim Carew. + +Billy the Lasher was out for gore -- + Twelve-stone navvy with chest of hair, +When he opened out with a hungry roar + On a ten-stone man it was hardly fair; +But his wife was wise if his face she knew +By the time you were done with him, Jim Carew. + +Gentleman Jim in the stockmen's hut + Works with them, toils with them, side by side; +As to his past -- well, his lips are shut. + `Gentleman once,' say his mates with pride; +And the wildest Cornstalk can ne'er outdo +In feats of recklessness, Jim Carew. + +What should he live for? A dull despair! + Drink is his master and drags him down, +Water of Lethe that drowns all care. + Gentleman Jim has a lot to drown, +And he reigns as king with a drunken crew, +Sinking to misery, Jim Carew. + +Such is the end of the ne'er-do-well -- + Jimmy the Boozer, all down at heel; +But he straightens up when he's asked to tell + His name and race, and a flash of steel +Still lightens up in those eyes of blue -- +`I am, or -- no, I WAS -- Jim Carew.' + + + + +The Swagman's Rest + + + +We buried old Bob where the bloodwoods wave + At the foot of the Eaglehawk; +We fashioned a cross on the old man's grave, + For fear that his ghost might walk; +We carved his name on a bloodwood tree, + With the date of his sad decease, +And in place of `Died from effects of spree', + We wrote `May he rest in peace'. + +For Bob was known on the Overland, + A regular old bush wag, +Tramping along in the dust and sand, + Humping his well-worn swag. +He would camp for days in the river-bed, + And loiter and `fish for whales'. +`I'm into the swagman's yard,' he said, + `And I never shall find the rails.' + +But he found the rails on that summer night + For a better place -- or worse, +As we watched by turns in the flickering light + With an old black gin for nurse. +The breeze came in with the scent of pine, + The river sounded clear, +When a change came on, and we saw the sign + That told us the end was near. + +But he spoke in a cultured voice and low -- + `I fancy they've "sent the route"; +I once was an army man, you know, + Though now I'm a drunken brute; +But bury me out where the bloodwoods wave, + And if ever you're fairly stuck, +Just take and shovel me out of the grave + And, maybe, I'll bring you luck. + +`For I've always heard --' here his voice fell weak, + His strength was well-nigh sped, +He gasped and struggled and tried to speak, + Then fell in a moment -- dead. +Thus ended a wasted life and hard, + Of energies misapplied -- +Old Bob was out of the `swagman's yard' + And over the Great Divide. + + . . . . . + +The drought came down on the field and flock, + And never a raindrop fell, +Though the tortured moans of the starving stock + Might soften a fiend from hell. +And we thought of the hint that the swagman gave + When he went to the Great Unseen -- +We shovelled the skeleton out of the grave + To see what his hint might mean. + +We dug where the cross and the grave posts were, + We shovelled away the mould, +When sudden a vein of quartz lay bare + All gleaming with yellow gold. +'Twas a reef with never a fault nor baulk + That ran from the range's crest, +And the richest mine on the Eaglehawk + Is known as `The Swagman's Rest'. + + + + + + +[The End.] + + + + + +[From the section of Advertisements at the end of the 1911 printing.] + + + + + +THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER, +AND OTHER VERSES. + + By A. B. Paterson. + +THE LITERARY YEAR BOOK: "The immediate success of this +book of bush ballads is without parallel in Colonial literary annals, +nor can any living English or American poet boast so wide a public, +always excepting Mr. Rudyard Kipling." + +SPECTATOR: "These lines have the true lyrical cry in them. +Eloquent and ardent verses." + +ATHENAEUM: "Swinging, rattling ballads of ready humour, ready pathos, +and crowding adventure. . . . Stirring and entertaining ballads +about great rides, in which the lines gallop like the very hoofs +of the horses." + +THE TIMES: "At his best he compares not unfavourably with the author +of `Barrack-Room Ballads'." + +Mr. A. Patchett Martin, in LITERATURE (London): "In my opinion, +it is the absolutely un-English, thoroughly Australian style and character +of these new bush bards which has given them such immediate popularity, +such wide vogue, among all classes of the rising native generation." + +WESTMINSTER GAZETTE: "Australia has produced in Mr. A. B. Paterson +a national poet whose bush ballads are as distinctly characteristic +of the country as Burns's poetry is characteristic of Scotland." + +THE SCOTSMAN: "A book like this . . . is worth a dozen of the aspiring, +idealistic sort, since it has a deal of rough laughter +and a dash of real tears in its composition." + +GLASGOW HERALD: "These ballads . . . are full of such go +that the mere reading of them make the blood tingle. . . . +But there are other things in Mr. Paterson's book besides +mere racing and chasing, and each piece bears the mark +of special local knowledge, feeling, and colour. +The poet has also a note of pathos, which is always wholesome." + +LITERARY WORLD: "He gallops along with a by no means doubtful music, +shouting his vigorous songs as he rides in pursuit of wild bush horses, +constraining us to listen and applaud by dint of his manly tones +and capital subjects . . . We turn to Mr. Paterson's roaring muse +with instantaneous gratitude." + + + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of + The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses + + + + diff --git a/old/snowy11.zip b/old/snowy11.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..7d12934 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/snowy11.zip |