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

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 racehorses 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