Chapter 5

'At the third time round, for the final spin With the pace, and the dust to blind 'em, They'll never notice if you chip in For the last half-mile -- you'll be sure to win, And they'll think you raced behind 'em.

'At the water-jump you may have to swim -- He hasn't a hope to clear it -- Unless he skims like the swallows skim At full speed over, but not for him! He'll never go next or near it.

'But don't you worry -- just plunge across, For he swims like a well-trained setter. Then hide away in the scrub and gorse The rest will be far ahead of course -- The further ahead the better.

'You must rush the jumps in the last half-round For fear that he might refuse 'em; He'll try to baulk with you, I'll be bound, Take whip and spurs on the mean old hound, And don't be afraid to use 'em.

'At the final round, when the field are slow And you are quite fresh to meet 'em, Sit down, and hustle him all you know With the whip and spurs, and he'll have to go -- Remember, you've GOT to beat 'em!'

. . . . .

The flag went down and we seemed to fly, And we made the timbers shiver Of the first big fence, as the stand flashed by, And I caught the ring of the trainer's cry: 'Go on! For the Mooki River!'

I jammed him in with a well-packed crush, And recklessly -- out for slaughter -- Like a living wave over fence and brush We swept and swung with a flying rush, Till we came to the dreaded water.

Ha, ha! I laugh at it now to think Of the way I contrived to work it. Shut in amongst them, before you'd wink, He found himself on the water's brink, With never a chance to shirk it!

The thought of the horror he felt, beguiles The heart of this grizzled rover! He gave a snort you could hear for miles, And a spring would have cleared the Channel Isles And carried me safely over!

Then we neared the scrub, and I pulled him back In the shade where the gum-leaves quiver: And I waited there in the shadows black While the rest of the horses, round the track, Went on like a rushing river!

At the second round, as the field swept by, I saw that the pace was telling; But on they thundered, and by-and-bye As they passed the stand I could hear the cry Of the folk in the distance, yelling!

Then the last time round! And the hoofbeats rang! And I said, 'Well, it's now or never!' And out on the heels of the throng I sprang, And the spurs bit deep and the whipcord sang As I rode! For the Mooki River!

We raced for home in a cloud of dust And the curses rose in chorus. 'Twas flog, and hustle, and jump you must! And The Cow ran well -- but to my disgust There was one got home before us.

'Twas a big black horse, that I had not seen In the part of the race I'd ridden; And his coat was cool and his rider clean, And I thought that perhaps I had not been The only one that had hidden.

. . . . .

And the trainer came with a visage blue With rage, when the race concluded: Said he, 'I thought you'd have pulled us through, But the man on the black horse planted too, AND NEARER TO HOME THAN YOU DID!'

Alas to think that those times so gay Have vanished and passed for ever! You don't believe in the yarn you say? Why, man! 'Twas a matter of every day When we raced on the Mooki River!

In the Stable

What! You don't like him; well, maybe -- we all have our fancies, of course: Brumby to look at you reckon? Well, no: he's a thoroughbred horse; Sired by a son of old Panic -- look at his ears and his head -- Lop-eared and Roman-nosed, ain't he? -- well, that's how the Panics are bred. Gluttonous, ugly and lazy, rough as a tip-cart to ride, Yet if you offered a sovereign apiece for the hairs on his hide That wouldn't buy him, nor twice that; while I've a pound to the good, This here old stager stays by me and lives like a thoroughbred should: Hunt him away from his bedding, and sit yourself down by the wall, Till you hear how the old fellow saved me from Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall.

. . . . .

Gilbert and Hall and O'Maley, back in the bushranging days, Made themselves kings of the district -- ruled it in old-fashioned ways -- Robbing the coach and the escort, stealing our horses at night, Calling sometimes at the homesteads and giving the women a fright: Came to the station one morning -- and why they did this no one knows -- Took a brood mare from the paddock -- wanting some fun, I suppose -- Fastened a bucket beneath her, hung by a strap round her flank, Then turned her loose in the timber back of the seven-mile tank.

Go! She went mad! She went tearing and screaming with fear through the trees, While the curst bucket beneath her was banging her flanks and her knees. Bucking and racing and screaming she ran to the back of the run, Killed herself there in a gully; by God, but they paid for their fun! Paid for it dear, for the black-boys found tracks, and the bucket, and all, And I swore that I'd live to get even with Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall.

Day after day then I chased them -- 'course they had friends on the sly, Friends who were willing to sell them to those who were willing to buy. Early one morning we found them in camp at the Cockatoo Farm One of us shot at O'Maley and wounded him under the arm: Ran them for miles in the ranges, till Hall, with his horse fairly beat, Took to the rocks and we lost him -- the others made good their retreat. It was war to the knife then, I tell you, and once, on the door of my shed, They nailed up a notice that offered a hundred reward for my head!

Then we heard they were gone from the district; they stuck up a coach in the West, And I rode by myself in the paddocks, taking a bit of a rest, Riding this colt as a youngster -- awkward, half-broken and shy, He wheeled round one day on a sudden; I looked, but I couldn't see why, But I soon found out why, for before me, the hillside rose up like a wall, And there on the top with their rifles were Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall!

'Twas a good three-mile run to the homestead -- bad going, with plenty of trees -- So I gathered the youngster together, and gripped at his ribs with my knees. 'Twas a mighty poor chance to escape them! It puts a man's nerve to the test On a half-broken colt to be hunted by the best mounted men in the West. But the half-broken colt was a racehorse! He lay down to work with a will, Flashed through the scrub like a clean-skin -- by Heavens we FLEW down the hill! Over a twenty-foot gully he swept with the spring of a deer And they fired as we jumped, but they missed me -- a bullet sang close to my ear -- And the jump gained us ground, for they shirked it: but I saw as we raced through the gap That the rails at the homestead were fastened -- I was caught like a rat in a trap. Fenced with barbed wire was the paddock -- barbed wire that would cut like a knife -- How was a youngster to clear it that never had jumped in his life?

Bang went a rifle behind me -- the colt gave a spring, he was hit; Straight at the sliprails I rode him -- I felt him take hold of the bit; Never a foot to the right or the left did he swerve in his stride, Awkward and frightened, but honest, the sort it's a pleasure to ride! Straight at the rails, where they'd fastened barbed wire on the top of the post, Rose like a stag and went over, with hardly a scratch at the most; Into the homestead I darted, and snatched down my gun from the wall, And I tell you I made them step lively, Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall!

Yes! There's the mark of the bullet -- he's got it inside of him yet Mixed up somehow with his victuals, but bless you he don't seem to fret! Gluttonous, ugly, and lazy -- eats any thing he can bite; Now, let us shut up the stable, and bid the old fellow good-night: Ah! We can't breed 'em, the sort that were bred when we old 'uns were young. Yes, I was saying, these bushrangers, none of 'em lived to be hung, Gilbert was shot by the troopers, Hall was betrayed by his friend, Campbell disposed of O'Maley, bringing the lot to an end. But you can talk about riding -- I've ridden a lot in the past -- Wait till there's rifles behind you, you'll know what it means to go fast! I've steeplechased, raced, and 'run horses', but I think the most dashing of all Was the ride when the old fellow saved me from Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall!

"He Giveth His Beloved Sleep"

The long day passes with its load of sorrow: In slumber deep I lay me down to rest until to-morrow -- Thank God for sleep.

Thank God for all respite from weary toiling, From cares that creep Across our lives like evil shadows, spoiling God's kindly sleep.

We plough and sow, and, as the hours grow later, We strive to reap, And build our barns, and hope to build them greater Before we sleep.

We toil and strain and strive with one another In hopes to heap Some greater share of profit than our brother Before we sleep.

What will it profit that with tears or laughter Our watch we keep? Beyond it all there lies the Great Hereafter! Thank God for sleep!

For, at the last, beseeching Christ to save us, We turn with deep Heart-felt thanksgiving unto God, who gave us The Gift of Sleep.

Driver Smith

'Twas Driver Smith of Battery A was anxious to see a fight; He thought of the Transvaal all the day, he thought of it all the night -- 'Well, if the battery's left behind, I'll go to the war,' says he, 'I'll go a-driving an ambulance in the ranks of the A.M.C.

'I'm fairly sick of these here parades, it's want of a change that kills A-charging the Randwick Rifle Range and aiming at Surry Hills. And I think if I go with the ambulance I'm certain to find a show, For they have to send the Medical men wherever the troops can go.

'Wherever the rifle bullets flash and the Maxims raise a din, It's there you'll find the Medical men a-raking the wounded in -- A-raking 'em in like human flies -- and a driver smart like me Will find some scope for his extra skill in the ranks of the A.M.C.'

So Driver Smith he went to the war a-cracking his driver's whip, From ambulance to collecting base they showed him his regular trip. And he said to the boys that were marching past, as he gave his whip a crack, 'You'll walk yourselves to the fight,' says he -- 'Lord spare me, I'll drive you back.'

Now, the fight went on in the Transvaal hills for the half of a day or more, And Driver Smith he worked his trip -- all aboard for the seat of war! He took his load from the stretcher men and hurried 'em homeward fast Till he heard a sound that he knew full well -- a battery rolling past.

He heard the clink of the leading chains and the roll of the guns behind -- He heard the crack of the drivers' whips, and he says to 'em, 'Strike me blind, I'll miss me trip with this ambulance, although I don't care to shirk, But I'll take the car off the line to-day and follow the guns at work.'

Then up the Battery Colonel came a-cursing 'em black in the face. 'Sit down and shift 'em, you drivers there, and gallop 'em into place.' So off the Battery rolled and swung, a-going a merry dance, And holding his own with the leading gun goes Smith with his ambulance.

They opened fire on the mountain side, a-peppering by and large, When over the hill above their flank the Boers came down at the charge; They rushed the guns with a daring rush, a-volleying left and right, And Driver Smith with his ambulance moved up to the edge of the fight.

The gunners stuck to their guns like men, and fought like the wild cats fight, For a Battery man don't leave his gun with ever a hope in sight; But the bullets sang and the Mausers cracked and the Battery men gave way, Till Driver Smith with his ambulance drove into the thick of the fray.

He saw the head of the Transvaal troop a-thundering to and fro, A hard old face with a monkey beard -- a face that he seemed to know; 'Now, who's that leader,' said Driver Smith, 'I've seen him before to-day. Why, bless my heart, but it's Kruger's self,' and he jumped for him straight away.

He collared old Kruger round the waist and hustled him into the van. It wasn't according to stretcher drill for raising a wounded man; But he forced him in and said, 'All aboard, we're off for a little ride, And you'll have the car to yourself,' says he, 'I reckon we're full inside.'

He wheeled his team on the mountain side and set 'em a merry pace, A-galloping over the rocks and stones, and a lot of the Boers gave chase; But Driver Smith had a fairish start, and he said to the Boers, 'Good-day, You have Buckley's chance for to catch a man that was trained in Battery A.'

He drove his team to the hospital and said to the P.M.O., 'Beg pardon, sir, but I missed a trip, mistaking the way to go; And Kruger came to the ambulance and asked could we spare a bed, So I fetched him here, and we'll take him home to show for a bob a head.'

So the word went round to the English troops to say they need fight no more, For Driver Smith with his ambulance had ended the blooming war: And in London now at the music halls he's starring it every night, And drawing a hundred pounds a week to tell how he won the fight.

There's Another Blessed Horse Fell Down

When you're lying in your hammock, sleeping soft and sleeping sound, Without a care or trouble on your mind, And there's nothing to disturb you but the engines going round, And you're dreaming of the girl you left behind; In the middle of your joys you'll be wakened by a noise, And a clatter on the deck above your crown, And you'll hear the corporal shout as he turns the picket out, 'There's another blessed horse fell down.'

You can see 'em in the morning, when you're cleaning out the stall, A-leaning on the railings nearly dead, And you reckon by the evening they'll be pretty sure to fall, And you curse them as you tumble into bed. Oh, you'll hear it pretty soon, 'Pass the word for Denny Moon, There's a horse here throwing handsprings like a clown; And it's 'Shove the others back or he'll cripple half the pack, There's another blessed horse fell down.'

And when the war is over and the fighting all is done, And you're all at home with medals on your chest, And you've learnt to sleep so soundly that the firing of a gun At your bedside wouldn't rob you of your rest; As you lie in slumber deep, if your wife walks in her sleep, And tumbles down the stairs and breaks her crown, Oh, it won't awaken you, for you'll say, 'It's nothing new, It's another blessed horse fell down.'

On the Trek

Oh, the weary, weary journey on the trek, day after day, With sun above and silent veldt below; And our hearts keep turning homeward to the youngsters far away, And the homestead where the climbing roses grow. Shall we see the flats grow golden with the ripening of the grain? Shall we hear the parrots calling on the bough? Ah! the weary months of marching ere we hear them call again, For we're going on a long job now.

In the drowsy days on escort, riding slowly half asleep, With the endless line of waggons stretching back, While the khaki soldiers travel like a mob of travelling sheep, Plodding silent on the never-ending track, While the constant snap and sniping of the foe you never see Makes you wonder will your turn come -- when and how? As the Mauser ball hums past you like a vicious kind of bee -- Oh! we're going on a long job now.

When the dash and the excitement and the novelty are dead, And you've seen a load of wounded once or twice, Or you've watched your old mate dying -- with the vultures overhead, Well, you wonder if the war is worth the price. And down along Monaro now they're starting out to shear, I can picture the excitement and the row; But they'll miss me on the Lachlan when they call the roll this year, For we're going on a long job now.

The Last Parade

With never a sound of trumpet, With never a flag displayed, The last of the old campaigners Lined up for the last parade.

Weary they were and battered, Shoeless, and knocked about; From under their ragged forelocks Their hungry eyes looked out.

And they watched as the old commander Read out, to the cheering men, The Nation's thanks and the orders To carry them home again.

And the last of the old campaigners, Sinewy, lean, and spare -- He spoke for his hungry comrades: 'Have we not done our share?

'Starving and tired and thirsty We limped on the blazing plain; And after a long night's picket You saddled us up again.

'We froze on the wind-swept kopjes When the frost lay snowy-white. Never a halt in the daytime, Never a rest at night!

'We knew when the rifles rattled From the hillside bare and brown, And over our weary shoulders We felt warm blood run down,

'As we turned for the stretching gallop, Crushed to the earth with weight; But we carried our riders through it -- Carried them p'raps too late.

'Steel! We were steel to stand it -- We that have lasted through, We that are old campaigners Pitiful, poor, and few.

'Over the sea you brought us, Over the leagues of foam: Now we have served you fairly Will you not take us home?

'Home to the Hunter River, To the flats where the lucerne grows; Home where the Murrumbidgee Runs white with the melted snows.

'This is a small thing surely! Will not you give command That the last of the old campaigners Go back to their native land?'

. . . . .

They looked at the grim commander, But never a sign he made. 'Dismiss!' and the old campaigners Moved off from their last parade.

With French to Kimberley

The Boers were down on Kimberley with siege and Maxim gun; The Boers were down on Kimberley, their numbers ten to one! Faint were the hopes the British had to make the struggle good, Defenceless in an open plain the Diamond City stood. They built them forts from bags of sand, they fought from roof and wall, They flashed a message to the south 'Help! or the town must fall!' And down our ranks the order ran to march at dawn of day, For French was off to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.

He made no march along the line; he made no front attack Upon those Magersfontein heights that drove the Scotchmen back; But eastward over pathless plains by open veldt and vley, Across the front of Cronje's force his troopers held their way. The springbuck, feeding on the flats where Modder River runs, Were startled by his horses' hoofs, the rumble of his guns. The Dutchman's spies that watched his march from every rocky wall Rode back in haste: 'He marches east! He threatens Jacobsdal!' Then north he wheeled as wheels the hawk and showed to their dismay, That French was off to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.

His column was five thousand strong -- all mounted men -- and guns: There met, beneath the world-wide flag, the world-wide Empire's sons; They came to prove to all the earth that kinship conquers space, And those who fight the British Isles must fight the British race! From far New Zealand's flax and fern, from cold Canadian snows, From Queensland plains, where hot as fire the summer sunshine glows; And in the front the Lancers rode that New South Wales had sent: With easy stride across the plain their long, lean Walers went. Unknown, untried, those squadrons were, but proudly out they drew Beside the English regiments that fought at Waterloo. From every coast, from every clime, they met in proud array, To go with French to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.

He crossed the Reit and fought his way towards the Modder bank. The foemen closed behind his march, and hung upon the flank. The long, dry grass was all ablaze, and fierce the veldt fire runs; He fought them through a wall of flame that blazed around the guns! Then limbered up and drove at speed, though horses fell and died; We might not halt for man nor beast on that wild, daring ride. Black with the smoke and parched with thirst, we pressed the livelong day Our headlong march to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.

We reached the drift at fall of night, and camped across the ford. Next day from all the hills around the Dutchman's cannons roared. A narrow pass between the hills, with guns on either side; The boldest man might well turn pale before that pass he tried, For if the first attack should fail then every hope was gone: But French looked once, and only once, and then he said, 'Push on!' The gunners plied their guns amain; the hail of shrapnel flew; With rifle fire and lancer charge their squadrons back we threw; And through the pass between the hills we swept in furious fray, And French was through to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.

Ay, French was through to Kimberley! And ere the day was done We saw the Diamond City stand, lit by the evening sun: Above the town the heliograph hung like an eye of flame: Around the town the foemen camped -- they knew not that we came; But soon they saw us, rank on rank; they heard our squadrons' tread; In panic fear they left their tents, in hopeless rout they fled; And French rode into Kimberley; the people cheered amain, The women came with tear-stained eyes to touch his bridle rein, The starving children lined the streets to raise a feeble cheer, The bells rang out a joyous peal to say 'Relief is here!' Ay! we that saw that stirring march are proud that we can say We went with French to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.

Johnny Boer

Men fight all shapes and sizes as the racing horses run, And no man knows his courage till he stands before a gun. At mixed-up fighting, hand to hand, and clawing men about They reckon Fuzzy-wuzzy is the hottest fighter out. But Fuzzy gives himself away -- his style is out of date, He charges like a driven grouse that rushes on its fate; You've nothing in the world to do but pump him full of lead: But when you're fighting Johnny Boer you have to use your head; He don't believe in front attacks or charging at the run, He fights you from a kopje with his little Maxim gun.

For when the Lord He made the earth, it seems uncommon clear, He gave the job of Africa to some good engineer, Who started building fortresses on fashions of his own -- Lunettes, redoubts, and counterscarps all made of rock and stone. The Boer needs only bring a gun, for ready to his hand He finds these heaven-built fortresses all scattered through the land; And there he sits and winks his eye and wheels his gun about, And we must charge across the plain to hunt the beggar out. It ain't a game that grows on us, there's lots of better fun Than charging at old Johnny with his little Maxim gun.

On rocks a goat could scarcely climb, steep as the walls of Troy, He wheels a four-point-seven about as easy as a toy; With bullocks yoked and drag-ropes manned, he lifts her up the rocks And shifts her every now and then, as cunning as a fox. At night you mark her right ahead, you see her clean and clear, Next day at dawn -- 'What, ho! she bumps' -- from somewhere in the rear. Or else the keenest-eyed patrol will miss him with the glass -- He's lying hidden in the rocks to let the leaders pass; But when the main guard comes along he opens up the fun, There's lots of ammunition for the little Maxim gun.