Chapter 3

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 view By 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 run And break themselves to pieces.

I've tried to make expenses meet, But wasted all my labours, The sheep the dingoes didn't eat Were stolen by the neighbours. They stole my pears -- my native pears -- Those thrice-convicted felons, And ravished from me unawares My crop of paddy-melons.

And sometimes under sunny skies, Without an explanation, The Murrumbidgee used to rise And overflow the station. But this was caused (as now I know) When summer sunshine glowing Had melted all Kiandra's snow And set the river going.

And in the news, perhaps you read: 'Stock passings. Puckawidgee, Fat cattle: Seven hundred head Swept down the Murrumbidgee; Their destination's quite obscure, But, somehow, there's a notion, Unless the river falls, they're sure To 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 curse I close my brief narration, And advertise it in my verse -- 'For Sale! A Mountain Station.'

Been There Before

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 far He could pelt a stone, yet he could not shy A stone right over the river so brown, The Darling river at Walgett town.

He knew that the river from bank to bank Was fifty yards, and he smiled a smile As he trundled down, but his hopes they sank For there wasn't a stone within fifty mile; For the saltbush plain and the open down Produce 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 down On a previous visit to Walgett town.

The Man Who Was Away

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.

The Man from Ironbark

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 clout He 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.

The Open Steeplechase

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 River That 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 black As the starter's words came slowly, 'Are -- you -- ready? Go!'

Well, I scarcely knew we'd started, I was stupid-like with wonder Till 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 pretences When I tell you I was feeling very nervous-like and queer, For those jockeys rode like demons; you would think they'd lost their senses If 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 landing I 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 never Met 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.'

The Amateur Rider

_HIM_ going 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 crack Out over fences like these with an object like that on his back.

Ride! Don't tell _ME_ he 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 shake and 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.

On Kiley's Run

The roving breezes come and go On Kiley's Run, The sleepy river murmurs low, And far away one dimly sees Beyond the stretch of forest trees -- Beyond the foothills dusk and dun -- The ranges sleeping in the sun On Kiley's Run.

'Tis many years since first I came To Kiley's Run, More years than I would care to name Since I, a stripling, used to ride For miles and miles at Kiley's side, The while in stirring tones he told The stories of the days of old On Kiley's Run.

I see the old bush homestead now On Kiley's Run, Just nestled down beneath the brow Of one small ridge above the sweep Of river-flat, where willows weep And jasmine flowers and roses bloom, The air was laden with perfume On Kiley's Run.

We lived the good old station life On 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 away With empty hand at close of day From Kiley's Run.

We kept a racehorse now and then On Kiley's Run, And neighb'ring stations brought their men To meetings where the sport was free, And dainty ladies came to see Their champions ride; with laugh and song The old house rang the whole night long On Kiley's Run.

The station hands were friends I wot On Kiley's Run, A reckless, merry-hearted lot -- All splendid riders, and they knew The 'boss' was kindness through and through. Old Kiley always stood their friend, And so they served him to the end On Kiley's Run.

But droughts and losses came apace To 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 away From Kiley's Run.

Old Kiley stood and saw them go From 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 now Of Kiley's Run. He knows a racehorse from a cow; But that is all he knows of stock: His chiefest care is how to dock Expenses, and he sends from town To cut the shearers' wages down On Kiley's Run.

There are no neighbours anywhere Near Kiley's Run. The hospitable homes are bare, The gardens gone; for no pretence Must hinder cutting down expense: The homestead that we held so dear Contains a half-paid overseer On Kiley's Run.

All life and sport and hope have died On Kiley's Run. No longer there the stockmen ride; For sour-faced boundary riders creep On 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 miles Through Kiley's Run. On either side the herbage smiles, But wretched trav'lling sheep must pass Without a drink or blade of grass Thro' that long lane of death and shame: The weary drovers curse the name Of Kiley's Run.

The name itself is changed of late Of Kiley's Run. They call it 'Chandos Park Estate'. The lonely swagman through the dark Must hump his swag past Chandos Park. The name is English, don't you see, The old name sweeter sounds to me Of 'Kiley's Run'.

I cannot guess what fate will bring To Kiley's Run -- For chances come and changes ring -- I scarcely think 'twill always be Locked up to suit an absentee; And if he lets it out in farms His tenants soon will carry arms On Kiley's Run.

Frying Pan's Theology

Scene: On Monaro. _DRAMATIS PERSONAE_: Shock-headed blackfellow, Boy (on a pony). Snowflakes are falling So gentle and slow, Youngster says, 'Frying Pan, What makes it snow?' Frying Pan confident Makes the reply -- 'Shake 'em big flour bag Up in the sky!' 'What! when there's miles of it! Sur'ly that's brag. Who is there strong enough Shake 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!'

The Two Devines

It was shearing-time at the Myall Lake, And there rose the sound thro' the livelong day Of the constant clash that the shear-blades make When the fastest shearers are making play, But there wasn't a man in the shearers' lines That 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 pines They 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 lines To shear such sheep,' said the two Devines.

But the shearers knew that they'd make a cheque When they came to deal with the station ewes; They were bare of belly and bare of neck With a fleece as light as a kangaroo's. 'We will show the boss how a shear-blade shines When we reach those ewes,' said the two Devines.

But it chanced next day when the stunted pines Were swayed and stirred with the dawn-wind's breath, That a message came for the two Devines That their father lay at the point of death. So 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.