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 sumIs sleep, diversified with rum.It's grass-grown streets with dust are deep,'Twere vain endeavour to expressThe dreamless silence of its sleep,Its wide, expansive drunkenness.The yearly races mostly drewA 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 notThe Jugginses we seemed to be;In fact, we rather thought we knewOur 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 farTo 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 beCleaned out by this here Sydney bloke,With his imported horse; and heWill scoop the pool and leave us brokeShall we sit still, and make no fussWhile 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 —QUITEhalf 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 tellWhat 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 doIn larger towns than Dandaloo.They ran it off; the stranger won,Hands down, by near a hundred yardsHe 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 knowIt weighed himOUTall right. I failTo paint that Sydney sportsman's woe.He said the stewards were a crewOf low-lived thieves in Dandaloo.He lifted up his voice, irate,And swore till all the air was blue;So then we rose to vindicateThe dignity of Dandaloo.'Look here,' said we, 'you must not pokeSuch 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 flewAbout 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 eschewThe atmosphere of Dandaloo.
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 rubEre 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 goneA 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 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 awayTo 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 asweepHe 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 awayMy letter chases Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh.
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 drifton 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 trackon the runs where the grass is dead,But they spread their sheep on a well-grassed runtill 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 handswhen 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 Routesfrom the sea to the big Barcoo;He could tell when he came to a friendly runthat 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 droughtwith 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 crackThey forced them in where the grass was deadin the space of the half-mile track;So William prayed that the hand of fate might suddenly strike him blueBut he'd get some grass for his starving sheepin 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 sakeand 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 inthey 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 roundfor 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 skyand 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 straightand he told them a story grandOf the desperate fight that he fought that daywith the King of the Overland.And the tale went home to the Public Schoolsof 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 sheepwere 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 moreto starve on the half-mile track.And Saltbush Bill, on the Overland, will many a time reciteHow the best day's work that ever he didwas the day that he lost the fight.
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 viewBy 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 runAnd break themselves to pieces.I've tried to make expenses meet,But wasted all my labours,The sheep the dingoes didn't eatWere stolen by the neighbours.They stole my pears — my native pears —Those thrice-convicted felons,And ravished from me unawaresMy crop of paddy-melons.And sometimes under sunny skies,Without an explanation,The Murrumbidgee used to riseAnd overflow the station.But this was caused (as now I know)When summer sunshine glowingHad melted all Kiandra's snowAnd set the river going.And in the news, perhaps you read:'Stock passings. Puckawidgee,Fat cattle: Seven hundred headSwept down the Murrumbidgee;Their destination's quite obscure,But, somehow, there's a notion,Unless the river falls, they're sureTo 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 curseI close my brief narration,And advertise it in my verse —'For Sale! A Mountain Station.'
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 farHe could pelt a stone, yet he could not shyA stone right over the river so brown,The Darling river at Walgett town.He knew that the river from bank to bankWas fifty yards, and he smiled a smileAs he trundled down, but his hopes they sankFor there wasn't a stone within fifty mile;For the saltbush plain and the open downProduce 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 downOn a previous visit to Walgett town.
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.
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 cloutHe 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.
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 RiverThat 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 blackAs the starter's words came slowly, 'Are — you — ready? Go!'Well, I scarcely knew we'd started, I was stupid-like with wonderTill 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 pretencesWhen I tell you I was feeling very nervous-like and queer,For those jockeys rode like demons;you would think they'd lost their sensesIf 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 landingI 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 neverMet 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.'
HIMgoing 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 crackOut over fences like these with an object like that on his back.Ride! Don't tellMEhe 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 shakeand 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.
The roving breezes come and goOn Kiley's Run,The sleepy river murmurs low,And far away one dimly seesBeyond the stretch of forest trees —Beyond the foothills dusk and dun —The ranges sleeping in the sunOn Kiley's Run.'Tis many years since first I cameTo Kiley's Run,More years than I would care to nameSince I, a stripling, used to rideFor miles and miles at Kiley's side,The while in stirring tones he toldThe stories of the days of oldOn Kiley's Run.I see the old bush homestead nowOn Kiley's Run,Just nestled down beneath the browOf one small ridge above the sweepOf river-flat, where willows weepAnd jasmine flowers and roses bloom,The air was laden with perfumeOn Kiley's Run.We lived the good old station lifeOn 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 awayWith empty hand at close of dayFrom Kiley's Run.We kept a racehorse now and thenOn Kiley's Run,And neighb'ring stations brought their menTo meetings where the sport was free,And dainty ladies came to seeTheir champions ride; with laugh and songThe old house rang the whole night longOn Kiley's Run.The station hands were friends I wotOn Kiley's Run,A reckless, merry-hearted lot —All splendid riders, and they knewThe 'boss' was kindness through and through.Old Kiley always stood their friend,And so they served him to the endOn Kiley's Run.But droughts and losses came apaceTo 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 awayFrom Kiley's Run.Old Kiley stood and saw them goFrom 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 nowOf Kiley's Run.He knows a racehorse from a cow;But that is all he knows of stock:His chiefest care is how to dockExpenses, and he sends from townTo cut the shearers' wages downOn Kiley's Run.There are no neighbours anywhereNear Kiley's Run.The hospitable homes are bare,The gardens gone; for no pretenceMust hinder cutting down expense:The homestead that we held so dearContains a half-paid overseerOn Kiley's Run.All life and sport and hope have diedOn Kiley's Run.No longer there the stockmen ride;For sour-faced boundary riders creepOn 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 milesThrough Kiley's Run.On either side the herbage smiles,But wretched trav'lling sheep must passWithout a drink or blade of grassThro' that long lane of death and shame:The weary drovers curse the nameOf Kiley's Run.The name itself is changed of lateOf Kiley's Run.They call it 'Chandos Park Estate'.The lonely swagman through the darkMust hump his swag past Chandos Park.The name is English, don't you see,The old name sweeter sounds to meOf 'Kiley's Run'.I cannot guess what fate will bringTo Kiley's Run —For chances come and changes ring —I scarcely think 'twill always beLocked up to suit an absentee;And if he lets it out in farmsHis tenants soon will carry armsOn Kiley's Run.
Scene: On Monaro.DRAMATIS PERSONAE:Shock-headed blackfellow,Boy (on a pony).Snowflakes are fallingSo gentle and slow,Youngster says, 'Frying Pan,What makes it snow?'Frying Pan confidentMakes the reply —'Shake 'em big flour bagUp in the sky!''What! when there's miles of it!Sur'ly that's brag.Who is there strong enoughShake 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!'
It was shearing-time at the Myall Lake,And there rose the sound thro' the livelong dayOf the constant clash that the shear-blades makeWhen the fastest shearers are making play,But there wasn't a man in the shearers' linesThat 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 pinesThey 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 linesTo shear such sheep,' said the two Devines.But the shearers knew that they'd make a chequeWhen they came to deal with the station ewes;They were bare of belly and bare of neckWith a fleece as light as a kangaroo's.'We will show the boss how a shear-blade shinesWhen we reach those ewes,' said the two Devines.But it chanced next day when the stunted pinesWere swayed and stirred with the dawn-wind's breath,That a message came for the two DevinesThat their father lay at the point of death.So away at speed through the whispering pinesDown 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 shutAnd the men had rest from the toilsome day,To the shed once more through the dark'ning pinesOn 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 dayWith the clashing sound that the shear-blades makeWhen the fastest shearers are making play,And a couple of 'hundred and ninety-nines'Are the tallies made by the two Devines.
'Only a pound,' said the auctioneer,'Only a pound; and I'm standing hereSelling 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 waySomehow 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 reinOf the bridle laid on his tangled mane,Straightway the crowd and the auctioneerSeemed 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 againOver the miles of the saltbush plain —The shining plain that is said to beThe dried-up bed of an inland sea,Where the air so dry and so clear and brightRefracts the sun with a wondrous light,And out in the dim horizon makesThe deep blue gleam of the phantom lakes.At dawn of day we would feel the breezeThat stirred the boughs of the sleeping trees,And brought a breath of the fragrance rareThat comes and goes in that scented air;For the trees and grass and the shrubs containA 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 waysWere 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 broodAll unmolested and unpursued.But there rose a shout and a wild hubbubWhen the dingo raced for his native scrub,And he paid right dear for his stolen mealsWith 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 againMade a move to close on a fancied rein.For I felt the swing and the easy strideOf the grand old horse that I used to rideIn drought or plenty, in good or ill,That same old steed was my comrade still;The old grey horse with his honest waysWas 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 belowOn the darkest night I could let him goAt 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 awayWith a broken knee and a broken heartTo be flogged and starved in a hawker's cart.Well, I made a bid for a sense of shameAnd 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.