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

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