him for gravel; He came in hard-held, and alone. . … . But he's old—and his eyes are grown hollow; Like me, with my thatch of the snow; When he dies, then I hope I may follow, And go where the racehorses go. I don't want no harping nor singing— Such things with my style don't agree; Where the hoofs of the horses are ringing There's music sufficient for me. And surely the thoroughbred horses Will rise up again and begin Fresh races on far-away courses, And p'raps they might let me slip in. It would look rather well the race-card on 'Mongst Cherubs and Seraphs and things, 'Angel Harrison's black gelding Pardon, Blue halo, white body and wings.' And if they have racing hereafter, (And who is to say they will not?) When the cheers and the shouting and laughter Proclaim that the battle grows hot; As they come down the racecourse a-steering, He'll rush to the front, I believe; And you'll hear the great multitude cheering For Pardon, the son of Reprieve.
Clancy of the Overflow
I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better
Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago,
He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him,
Just 'on spec', addressed as follows, 'Clancy, of The Overflow'.
And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected,
(And I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar)
'Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it:
'Clancy's gone to Queensland droving, and we don't know where he are.'
. … .
In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy
Gone a-droving 'down the Cooper' where the Western drovers go;
As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing,
For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know.
And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him
In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,
And at night the wond'rous glory of the everlasting stars.
. … .
I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy
Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,
And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city
Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all
And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle
Of the tramways and the 'buses making hurry down the street,
And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting,
Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet.
And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me
As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,
With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy,
For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.
And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy,
Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,
While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal—
But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of 'The Overflow'.
Conroy's Gap
This was the way of it, don't you know—
Ryan was 'wanted' for stealing sheep,
And never a trooper, high or low,
Could find him—catch a weasel asleep!
Till Trooper Scott, from the Stockman's Ford—
A bushman, too, as I've heard them tell—
Chanced to find him drunk as a lord
Round at the Shadow of Death Hotel.
D'you know the place? It's a wayside inn,
A low grog-shanty—a bushman trap,
Hiding away in its shame and sin
Under the shelter of Conroy's Gap—
Under the shade of that frowning range,
The roughest crowd that ever drew breath—
Thieves and rowdies, uncouth and strange,
Were mustered round at the Shadow of Death.
The trooper knew that his man would slide
Like a dingo pup, if he saw the chance;
And with half a start on the mountain side
Ryan would lead him a merry dance.
Drunk as he was when the trooper came,
To him that did not matter a rap—
Drunk or sober, he was the same,
The boldest rider in Conroy's Gap.
'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.
