Chapter 2

'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 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 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 under-weight.

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 race-horse 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 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 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.

The Travelling Post Office

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 away To 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 asweep He 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 away My letter chases Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh.

Saltbush Bill

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 drift on 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 track on the runs where the grass is dead, But they spread their sheep on a well-grassed run till 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 hands when 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 Routes from the sea to the big Barcoo; He could tell when he came to a friendly run that 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 drought with 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 crack They forced them in where the grass was dead in the space of the half-mile track; So William prayed that the hand of fate might suddenly strike him blue But he'd get some grass for his starving sheep in 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 sake and 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 in they 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 round for 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 sky and 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 straight and he told them a story grand Of the desperate fight that he fought that day with the King of the Overland. And the tale went home to the Public Schools of 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 sheep were 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 more to starve on the half-mile track. And Saltbush Bill, on the Overland, will many a time recite How the best day's work that ever he did was the day that he lost the fight.

A Mountain Station