The Man From Snowy River by Banjo (best way to read books .txt) 📕

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

 

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