The Man From Snowy River, Banjo [good short books .txt] 📗

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