Table of Contents

THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER AND OTHER VERSES

Prelude

The Man from Snowy River

Old Pardon the Son of Reprieve

Clancy of The Overflow

Conroy’s Gap

Our New Horse

An Idyll of Dandaloo

The Geebung Polo Club

The Travelling Post Office

Saltbush Bill

A Mountain Station

Been There Before

The Man Who Was Away

The Man from Ironbark

The Open Steeplechase

The Amateur Rider

On Kiley’s Run

Frying Pan’s Theology

The Two Devines

In the Droving Days

Lost

Over the Range

Only a Jockey

How M’Ginnis Went Missing

A Voice from the Town

A Bunch of Roses

Black Swans

The All Right ’Un

The Boss of the Admiral Lynch

A Bushman’s Song

How Gilbert Died

The Flying Gang

Shearing at Castlereagh

The Wind’s Message

Johnson’s Antidote

Ambition and Art

In Defence of the Bush

Last Week

Those Names

A Bush Christening

How the Favourite Beat Us

The Great Calamity

Come-by-Chance

Under the Shadow of Kiley’s Hill

Jim Carew

The Swagman’s Rest

The Daylight is Dying

RIO GRANDE AND OTHER VERSES

Rio Grande’s Last Race

With French to Kimberley

By the Grey Gulf-water

With the Cattle

The First Surveyor

Mulga Bill’s Bicycle

The Pearl Diver

The City of Dreadful Thirst

Saltbush Bill’s Gamecock

Hay and Hell and Booligal

AWalgett Episode

Father Riley’s Horse

The Scotch Engineer

Song of the Future

Anthony Considine

Song of the Artesian Water

A Disqualified Jockey’s Story

The Road to Gundagai

Saltbush Bill’s Second Fight

Hard Luck

Song of the Federation

The Old Australian Ways

The Ballad of the Calliope

Do They Know?

The Passing of Gundagai

The Wargeilah Handicap

Any Other Time

The Last Trump

Tar and Feathers

It’s Grand

Out of Sight

The Road to Old Man’s Town

The Old Timer’s Steeplechase

In the Stable

“He Giveth His Beloved Sleep”

Driver Smith

There’s Another Blessed Horse Fell Down

On the Trek

The Last Parade

Johnny Boer

Right in Front of the Army

That V.C.

Jock

Santa Claus

SALTBUSH BILL, J.P., AND OTHER VERSES

Song of the Wheat

Brumby’s Run

Saltbush Bill on the Patriarchs

The Reverend Mullineux

Wisdom of Hafiz

Saltbush Bill, J.P.

The Riders in the Stand

Waltzing Matilda

An Answer to Various Bards

T.Y.S.O.N.

As Long as Your Eyes are Blue

The “Bottle-oh” Man

The Story of Mongrel Grey

Gilhooley’s Estate

The Road to Hogan’s Gap

A Singer of the Bush

“Shouting” for a Camel

Mulligan’s Mare

The Mountain Squatter

Pioneers

Santa Claus in the Bush

“In re a Gentleman, One”

At the Melting of the Snow

A Dream of the Melbourne Cup

The Gundaroo Bullock

Lay of the Motor Car

The Corner Man

When Dacey Rode the Mule

The Mylora Elopement

The Pannikin Poet

The Protest

An Evening in Dandaloo

A Ballad of Ducks

Tommy Corrigan

The Reveille

The Maori’s Wool

Sunrise on the Coast

Song of the Pen

A LATE COLLECTION

The Bushfire

The Maori Pig Market

Behind the Scenes

Reconstruction

The Ghost of the Murderer’s Hut

The Matrimonial Stakes

Sydney Cup, 1899

The Federal Bus Conductor and the Old Lady

The Lost Leichhardt

Investigating Flora

Fed Up

Commandeering

The Rum Parade

Now Listen to Me and I’ll Tell You My Views

A Nervous Governor-General

The Premier and the Socialist

The Man from Goondiwindi, Q.

A Motor Courtship

“We’re All Australians Now”

Australia Today—1916

The Army Mules

Moving On

Hawker, the Standard Bearer

Boots

The Old Tin Hat

That Half-Crown Sweep

A Dog’s Mistake

Shearing with a Hoe

The Silent Shearer

The Billy-Goat Overland

Black Harry’s Team

The Weather Prophet

Buffalo Country

Castlebar

Here’s Luck

Queensland Mounted Infantry

Cape Mounted Rifles

Maxims of War

Our Own Flag

Campin’ Round Coonamble

A Grain of Desert Sand

Song of Murray’s Brigade

The Uplift

THE ANIMALS NOAH FORGOT

The Animals Noah Forgot Prologue—Australian Scenery

An Emu Hunt

Benjamin Bandicoot

A Bush Lawyer

Camouflage

A Change of Menu

The Diggers

Flying Squirrels

Frogs in Chorus

Fur and Feathers

High Explosive

The Lung Fish

Morgan’s Dog

Old Man Platypus

Swinging the Lead

Weary Will

White Cockatoos

Why the Jackass Laughs

OTHER VERSE

Barney Devine

The Scapegoat

The Ballad of Ashantie Pagoda

Uncle Bill

Unforgotten

The Lost Drink

The Duties of an Aide-de-Camp

The Quest Eternal

The Wreck of the Golfer

They Met in the Hall, at a Charity Ball

Typographical

Ten Little Jackaroos

A Rule of the A.J.C.

Shakespeare on the Turf

Not On It

Johnny Riley’s Cow

The Ballad of G.R. Dibbs

The Ballad of M.T. Nutt and His Dog

The Dam that Keele Built

The Ballad of that P.N.

The Dauntless Three

The Deficit Demon

El Mahdi to the Australian Troops

The Fitzroy Blacksmith

The Incantation

Gone Down

Jimmy Dooley’s Army

The Ballad of Cockatoo Dock

Macbreath

A Job for McGuinness

Ave Caesar

Our Underpaid Army

The Ballad of the Carpet Bag

Tom Collins—A Political Ballad

The Seven Ages of Wise

The Sausage Candidate

Policeman G.

Who is Kater Anyhow?

The Rhyme of the O’Sullivan

To George Lambert

Old Schooldays

A Triolet

The Hypnotist

Our Mat

The Angel’s Kiss

General Drought and General Rain

I Joined a Contingent

What Have the Cavalry Done?

Cassidy’s Epitaph

Bandy Burke

No Class

The Dry Canteen

THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER AND OTHER VERSES

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.

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 stockhorse 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 stringybarks 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 reed beds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word today,
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—
As 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 featherweight 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 warcry 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 faraway 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 thumbnail 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 wondrous 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 cashbook 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 hoofbeats 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 horse thief 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 saleyard 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 racetrack 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 faraway 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 aint 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.

Its 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 underweight.

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 racehorse 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 mountainside,
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.