Rio Grande's Last Race, and Other Verses

  The sun strikes down with a blinding glare,
   The skies are blue and the plains are wide,
  The saltbush plains that are burnt and bare
   By Walgett out on the Barwon side —
  The Barwon river that wanders down
  In a leisurely manner by Walgett Town.

  There came a stranger — a 'Cockatoo' —
   The word means farmer, as all men know
  Who dwell in the land where the kangaroo
   Barks loud at dawn, and the white-eyed crow
  Uplifts his song on the stock-yard fence
  As he watches the lambkins passing hence.

  The sunburnt stranger was gaunt and brown,
   But it soon appeared that he meant to flout
  The iron law of the country town,
   Which is — that the stranger has got to shout:
  'If he will not shout we must take him down,'
  Remarked the yokels of Walgett Town.

  They baited a trap with a crafty bait,
   With a crafty bait, for they held discourse
  Concerning a new chum who of late
   Had bought such a thoroughly lazy horse;
  They would wager that no one could ride him down
  The length of the city of Walgett Town.

  The stranger was born on a horse's hide;
   So he took the wagers, and made them good
  With his hard-earned cash — but his hopes they died,
   For the horse was a clothes-horse, made of wood! —
  'Twas a well-known horse that had taken down
  Full many a stranger in Walgett Town.

  The stranger smiled with a sickly smile —
   'Tis a sickly smile that the loser grins —
  And he said he had travelled for quite a while
   In trying to sell some marsupial skins.
  'And I thought that perhaps, as you've took me down,
  You would buy them from me, in Walgett Town!'

  He said that his home was at Wingadee,
   At Wingadee where he had for sale
  Some fifty skins and would guarantee
   They were full-sized skins, with the ears and tail
  Complete, and he sold them for money down
  To a venturesome buyer in Walgett Town.

  Then he smiled a smile as he pouched the pelf,
   'I'm glad that I'm quit of them, win or lose:
  You can fetch them in when it suits yourself,
   And you'll find the skins — on the kangaroos!'
  Then he left — and the silence settled down
  Like a tangible thing upon Walgett Town.

  'Twas the horse thief, Andy Regan, that was hunted like a dog
   By the troopers of the Upper Murray side,
  They had searched in every gully — they had looked in every log,
   But never sight or track of him they spied,
  Till the priest at Kiley's Crossing heard a knocking very late
   And a whisper 'Father Riley — come across!'
  So his Rev'rence in pyjamas trotted softly to the gate
   And admitted Andy Regan — and a horse!

  'Now, it's listen, Father Riley, to the words I've got to say,
   For its close upon my death I am to-night.
  With the troopers hard behind me I've been hiding all the day
   In the gullies keeping close and out of sight.
  But they're watching all the ranges till there's not a bird could fly,
   And I'm fairly worn to pieces with the strife,
  So I'm taking no more trouble, but I'm going home to die,
   'Tis the only way I see to save my life.

  'Yes, I'm making home to mother's, and I'll die o' Tuesday next
   An' be buried on the Thursday — and, of course,
  I'm prepared to meet my penance, but with one thing I'm perplexed
   And it's — Father, it's this jewel of a horse!
  He was never bought nor paid for, and there's not a man can swear
   To his owner or his breeder, but I know,
  That his sire was by Pedantic from the Old Pretender mare
   And his dam was close related to The Roe.

  'And there's nothing in the district that can race him for a step,
   He could canter while they're going at their top:
  He's the king of all the leppers that was ever seen to lep,
   A five-foot fence — he'd clear it in a hop!
  So I'll leave him with you, Father, till the dead shall rise again,
   'Tis yourself that knows a good 'un; and, of course,
  You can say he's got by Moonlight out of Paddy Murphy's plain
   If you're ever asked the breeding of the horse!

  'But it's getting on to daylight and it's time to say good-bye,
   For the stars above the East are growing pale.
  And I'm making home to mother — and it's hard for me to die!
   But it's harder still, is keeping out of gaol!
  You can ride the old horse over to my grave across the dip
   Where the wattle bloom is waving overhead.
  Sure he'll jump them fences easy — you must never raise the whip
   Or he'll rush 'em! — now, good-bye!' and he had fled!

  So they buried Andy Regan, and they buried him to rights,
   In the graveyard at the back of Kiley's Hill;
  There were five-and-twenty mourners who had five-and-twenty fights
   Till the very boldest fighters had their fill.
  There were fifty horses racing from the graveyard to the pub,
   And their riders flogged each other all the while.
  And the lashins of the liquor!  And the lavins of the grub!
   Oh, poor Andy went to rest in proper style.

  Then the races came to Kiley's — with a steeplechase and all,
   For the folk were mostly Irish round about,
  And it takes an Irish rider to be fearless of a fall,
   They were training morning in and morning out.
  But they never started training till the sun was on the course
   For a superstitious story kept 'em back,
  That the ghost of Andy Regan on a slashing chestnut horse,
   Had been training by the starlight on the track.

  And they read the nominations for the races with surprise
   And amusement at the Father's little joke,
  For a novice had been entered for the steeplechasing prize,
   And they found that it was Father Riley's moke!
  He was neat enough to gallop, he was strong enough to stay!
   But his owner's views of training were immense,
  For the Reverend Father Riley used to ride him every day,
   And he never saw a hurdle nor a fence.

  And the priest would join the laughter; 'Oh,' said he, 'I put him in,
   For there's five and twenty sovereigns to be won.
  And the poor would find it useful, if the chestnut chanced to win,
   And he'll maybe win when all is said and done!'
  He had called him Faugh-a-ballagh, which is French for clear the course,
   And his colours were a vivid shade of green:
  All the Dooleys and O'Donnells were on Father Riley's horse,
   While the Orangemen were backing Mandarin!

  It was Hogan, the dog poisoner — aged man and very wise,
   Who was camping in the racecourse with his swag,
  And who ventured the opinion, to the township's great surprise,
   That the race would go to Father Riley's nag.
  'You can talk about your riders — and the horse has not been schooled,
   And the fences is terrific, and the rest!
  When the field is fairly going, then ye'll see ye've all been fooled,
   And the chestnut horse will battle with the best.

  'For there's some has got condition, and they think the race is sure,
   And the chestnut horse will fall beneath the weight,
  But the hopes of all the helpless, and the prayers of all the poor,
   Will be running by his side to keep him straight.
  And it's what's the need of schoolin' or of workin' on the track,
   Whin the saints are there to guide him round the course!
  I've prayed him over every fence — I've prayed him out and back!
   And I'll bet my cash on Father Riley's horse!'

       .    .    .    .    .

  Oh, the steeple was a caution!  They went tearin' round and round,
   And the fences rang and rattled where they struck.
  There was some that cleared the water — there was more fell in and drowned,
   Some blamed the men and others blamed the luck!
  But the whips were flying freely when the field came into view,
   For the finish down the long green stretch of course,
  And in front of all the flyers — jumpin' like a kangaroo,
   Came the rank outsider — Father Riley's horse!

  Oh, the shouting and the cheering as he rattled past the post!
   For he left the others standing, in the straight;
  And the rider — well they reckoned it was Andy Regan's ghost,
   And it beat 'em how a ghost would draw the weight!
  But he weighed it, nine stone seven, then he laughed and disappeared,
   Like a Banshee (which is Spanish for an elf),
  And old Hogan muttered sagely, 'If it wasn't for the beard
   They'd be thinking it was Andy Regan's self!'

  And the poor of Kiley's Crossing drank the health at Christmastide
   Of the chestnut and his rider dressed in green.
  There was never such a rider, not since Andy Regan died,
   And they wondered who on earth he could have been.
  But they settled it among 'em, for the story got about,
   'Mongst the bushmen and the people on the course,
  That the Devil had been ordered to let Andy Regan out
   For the steeplechase on Father Riley's horse!

  With eyes that searched in the dark,
  Peering along the line,
  Stood the grim Scotchman, Hector Clark,
  Driver of 'Forty-nine',
  And the veldt-fire flamed on the hills ahead,
  Like a blood-red beacon sign.

  There was word of a fight to the north,
  And a column hard-pressed,
  So they started the Highlanders forth,
  Without food, without rest.

  But the pipers gaily played,
  Chanting their fierce delight,
  And the armoured carriages rocked and swayed,
  Laden with men of the Scotch Brigade,
  Hurrying up to the fight,
  And the grim, grey Highland engineer,
  Driving them into the night.

  Then a signal light glowed red,
  And a picket came to the track.
  'Enemy holding the line ahead,
  Three of our mates we have left for dead,
  Only we two got back.'
  And far to the north through the still night air,
  They heard the rifles crack.

  And the boom of a gun rang out,
  Like the sound of a deep appeal,
  And the picket stood in doubt
  By the side of the driving-wheel.

  But the Engineer looked down,
  With his hand on the starting-bar,
  'Ride ye back to the town,
  Ye know what my orders are,
  Maybe they're wanting the Scotch Brigade
  Up on those hills afar.

  'I am no soldier at all,
  Only an engineer,
  But I could not bear that the folk should say,
  Over in Scotland — Glasgow way —
  That Hector Clark stayed here
  With the Scotch Brigade till the foe were gone,
  With ever a rail to run her on.
  Ready behind!  Stand clear!

  'Fireman, get you gone
  Into the armoured train,
  I will drive her alone;
  One more trip — and perhaps the last —
  With a well-raked fire and an open blast —
  Hark to the rifles again.'

       .    .    .    .    .

  On through the choking dark,
  Never a lamp nor a light,
  Never an engine spark,
  Showing her hurried flight.
  Over the lonely plain
  Rushed the great armoured train,
  Hurrying up to the fight.

  Then with her living freight
  On to the foe she came,
  And the rifles snapped their hate,
  And the darkness spouted flame.

  Over the roar of the fray
  The hungry bullets whined,
  As she dashed through the foe that lay
  Loading and firing blind,
  Till the glare of the furnace burning clear
  Showed them the form of the engineer,
  Sharply and well defined.

  Through!  They were safely through!
  Hark to the column's cheer!
  Surely the driver knew
  He was to halt her here;
  But he took no heed of the signals red,
  And the fireman found, when he climbed ahead,
  There on the floor of his engine — dead,
  Lay the Scotch Engineer!

  'Tis strange that in a land so strong,
  So strong and bold in mighty youth,
  We have no poet's voice of truth
  To sing for us a wondrous song.

  Our chiefest singer yet has sung
  In wild, sweet notes a passing strain,
  All carelessly and sadly flung
  To that dull world he thought so vain.

  'I care for nothing, good nor bad,
  My hopes are gone, my pleasures fled,
  I am but sifting sand,' he said:
  What wonder Gordon's songs were sad!

  And yet, not always sad and hard;
  In cheerful mood and light of heart
  He told the tale of Britomarte,
  And wrote the Rhyme of Joyous Guard.

  And some have said that Nature's face
  To us is always sad; but these
  Have never felt the smiling grace
  Of waving grass and forest trees
  On sunlit plains as wide as seas.

  'A land where dull Despair is king
  O'er scentless flower and songless bird!'
  But we have heard the bell-birds ring
  Their silver bells at eventide,
  Like fairies on the mountain side,
  The sweetest note man ever heard.

  The wild thrush lifts a note of mirth;
  The bronzewing pigeons call and coo
  Beside their nests the long day through;
  The magpie warbles clear and strong
  A joyous, glad, thanksgiving song,
  For all God's mercies upon earth.

  And many voices such as these
  Are joyful sounds for those to tell,
  Who know the Bush and love it well,
  With all its hidden mysteries.

  We cannot love the restless sea,
  That rolls and tosses to and fro
  Like some fierce creature in its glee;
  For human weal or human woe
  It has no touch of sympathy.

  For us the bush is never sad:
  Its myriad voices whisper low,
  In tones the bushmen only know,
  Its sympathy and welcome glad.

  For us the roving breezes bring
  From many a blossom-tufted tree —
  Where wild bees murmur dreamily —
  The honey-laden breath of Spring.

       .    .    .    .    .

  We have no tales of other days,
  No bygone history to tell;
  Our tales are told where camp-fires blaze
  At midnight, when the solemn hush
  Of that vast wonderland, the Bush,
  Hath laid on every heart its spell.

  Although we have no songs of strife,
  Of bloodshed reddening the land,
  We yet may find achievements grand
  Within the bushman's quiet life.

  Lift ye your faces to the sky
  Ye far blue mountains of the West,
  Who lie so peacefully at rest
  Enshrouded in a haze of blue;
  'Tis hard to feel that years went by
  Before the pioneers broke through
  Your rocky heights and walls of stone,
  And made your secrets all their own.

  For years the fertile Western plains
  Were hid behind your sullen walls,
  Your cliffs and crags and waterfalls
  All weatherworn with tropic rains.

  Between the mountains and the sea,
  Like Israelites with staff in hand,
  The people waited restlessly:
  They looked towards the mountains old
  And saw the sunsets come and go
  With gorgeous golden afterglow,
  That made the West a fairyland,
  And marvelled what that West might be
  Of which such wondrous tales were told.

  For tales were told of inland seas
  Like sullen oceans, salt and dead,
  And sandy deserts, white and wan,
  Where never trod the foot of man,
  Nor bird went winging overhead,
  Nor ever stirred a gracious breeze
  To wake the silence with its breath —
  A land of loneliness and death.

  At length the hardy pioneers
  By rock and crag found out the way,
  And woke with voices of to-day,
  A silence kept for years and years.

  Upon the Western slope they stood
  And saw — a wide expanse of plain
  As far as eye could stretch or see
  Go rolling westward endlessly.
  The native grasses, tall as grain,
  Were waved and rippled in the breeze;
  From boughs of blossom-laden trees
  The parrots answered back again.
  They saw the land that it was good,
  A land of fatness all untrod,
  And gave their silent thanks to God.

  The way is won!  The way is won!
  And straightway from the barren coast
  There came a westward-marching host,
  That aye and ever onward prest
  With eager faces to the West,
  Along the pathway of the sun.

  The mountains saw them marching by:
  They faced the all-consuming drought,
  They would not rest in settled land:
  But, taking each his life in hand,
  Their faces ever westward bent
  Beyond the farthest settlement,
  Responding to the challenge cry
  Of 'better country further out.'

  And lo a miracle! the land
  But yesterday was all unknown,
  The wild man's boomerang was thrown
  Where now great busy cities stand.
  It was not much, you say, that these
  Should win their way where none withstood;
  In sooth there was not much of blood
  No war was fought between the seas.

  It was not much! but we who know
  The strange capricious land they trod —
  At times a stricken, parching sod,
  At times with raging floods beset —
  Through which they found their lonely way,
  Are quite content that you should say
  It was not much, while we can feel
  That nothing in the ages old,
  In song or story written yet
  On Grecian urn or Roman arch,
  Though it should ring with clash of steel,
  Could braver histories unfold
  Than this bush story, yet untold —
  The story of their westward march.

       .    .    .    .    .

  But times are changed, and changes rung
  From old to new — the olden days,
  The old bush life and all its ways
  Are passing from us all unsung.
  The freedom, and the hopeful sense
  Of toil that brought due recompense,
  Of room for all, has passed away,
  And lies forgotten with the dead.
  Within our streets men cry for bread
  In cities built but yesterday.

  About us stretches wealth of land,
  A boundless wealth of virgin soil
  As yet unfruitful and untilled!
  Our willing workmen, strong and skilled
  Within our cities idle stand,
  And cry aloud for leave to toil.

  The stunted children come and go
  In squalid lanes and alleys black;
  We follow but the beaten track
  Of other nations, and we grow
  In wealth for some — for many, woe.

  And it may be that we who live
  In this new land apart, beyond
  The hard old world grown fierce and fond
  And bound by precedent and bond,
  May read the riddle right and give
  New hope to those who dimly see
  That all things may be yet for good,
  And teach the world at length to be
  One vast united brotherhood.

       .    .    .    .    .

  So may it be, and he who sings
  In accents hopeful, clear, and strong,
  The glories which that future brings
  Shall sing, indeed, a wond'rous song.

  Out in the wastes of the West countrie,
   Out where the white stars shine,
  Grim and silent as such men be,
  Rideth a man with a history —
   Anthony Considine.

  For the ways of men they are manifold
   As their differing views in life;
  For some are sold for the lust of gold
   And some for the lust of strife:
  But this man counted the world well lost
   For the love of his neighbour's wife.

  They fled together, as those must flee
   Whom all men hold in blame;
  Each to the other must all things be
  Who cross the gulf of iniquity
   And live in the land of shame.

  But a light-o'-love, if she sins with one,
   She sinneth with ninety-nine:
  The rule holds good since the world begun —
  Since ever the streams began to run
   And the stars began to shine.
  The rule holds true, and he found it true —
   Anthony Considine.

  A nobler spirit had turned in scorn
   From a love that was stained with mire;
  A weaker being might mourn and mourn
   For the loss of his Heart's Desire:
  But the anger of Anthony Considine
   Blazed up like a flaming fire.

  And she, with her new love, presently
   Came past with her eyes ashine;
  And God so willed it, and God knows why,
  She turned and laughed as they passed him by —
   Anthony Considine.

  Her laughter stung as a whip might sting;
   And mad with his wounded pride
  He turned and sprang with a panther's spring
   And struck at his rival's side:
  And only the woman, shuddering,
   Could tell how the dead man died!

  She dared not speak — and the mystery
   Is buried in auld lang syne,
  But out on the wastes of the West countrie,
  Grim and silent as such men be,
  Rideth a man with a history —
   Anthony Considine.

  Now the stock have started dying, for the Lord has sent a drought;
  But we're sick of prayers and Providence — we're going to do without;
  With the derricks up above us and the solid earth below,
  We are waiting at the lever for the word to let her go.
      Sinking down, deeper down,
      Oh, we'll sink it deeper down:
  As the drill is plugging downward at a thousand feet of level,
  If the Lord won't send us water, oh, we'll get it from the devil;
  Yes, we'll get it from the devil deeper down.

  Now, our engine's built in Glasgow by a very canny Scot,
  And he marked it twenty horse-power, but he don't know what is what:
  When Canadian Bill is firing with the sun-dried gidgee logs,
  She can equal thirty horses and a score or so of dogs.
      Sinking down, deeper down,
      Oh, we're going deeper down:
  If we fail to get the water then it's ruin to the squatter,
  For the drought is on the station and the weather's growing hotter,
  But we're bound to get the water deeper down.

  But the shaft has started caving and the sinking's very slow,
  And the yellow rods are bending in the water down below,
  And the tubes are always jamming and they can't be made to shift
  Till we nearly burst the engine with a forty horse-power lift.
      Sinking down, deeper down,
      Oh, we're going deeper down
  Though the shaft is always caving, and the tubes are always jamming,
  Yet we'll fight our way to water while the stubborn drill is ramming —
  While the stubborn drill is ramming deeper down.

  But there's no artesian water, though we've passed three thousand feet,
  And the contract price is growing and the boss is nearly beat.
  But it must be down beneath us, and it's down we've got to go,
  Though she's bumping on the solid rock four thousand feet below.
      Sinking down, deeper down,
      Oh, we're going deeper down:
  And it's time they heard us knocking on the roof of Satan's dwellin';
  But we'll get artesian water if we cave the roof of hell in —
  Oh! we'll get artesian water deeper down.

  But it's hark! the whistle's blowing with a wild, exultant blast,
  And the boys are madly cheering, for they've struck the flow at last,
  And it's rushing up the tubing from four thousand feet below
  Till it spouts above the casing in a million-gallon flow.
      And it's down, deeper down —
      Oh, it comes from deeper down;
  It is flowing, ever flowing, in a free, unstinted measure
  From the silent hidden places where the old earth hides her treasure —
  Where the old earth hides her treasure deeper down.

  And it's clear away the timber, and it's let the water run:
  How it glimmers in the shadow, how it flashes in the sun!
  By the silent belts of timber, by the miles of blazing plain
  It is bringing hope and comfort to the thirsty land again.
      Flowing down, further down;
      It is flowing further down
  To the tortured thirsty cattle, bringing gladness in its going;
  Through the droughty days of summer it is flowing, ever flowing —
  It is flowing, ever flowing, further down.

  You see, the thing was this way — there was me,
  That rode Panoppoly, the Splendor mare,
  And Ikey Chambers on the Iron Dook,
  And Smith, the half-caste rider, on Regret,
  And that long bloke from Wagga — him what rode
  Veronikew, the Snowy River horse.
  Well, none of them had chances — not a chance
  Among the lot, unless the rest fell dead
  Or wasn't trying — for a blind man's dog
  Could see Enchantress was a certain cop,
  And all the books was layin' six to four.

  They brought her out to show our lot the road,
  Or so they said; but, then, Gord's truth! you know,
  You can't believe 'em, though they took an oath
  On forty Bibles that they'd tell the truth.
  But anyhow, an amateur was up
  On this Enchantress, and so Ike and me,
  We thought that we might frighten him a bit
  By asking if he minded riding rough —
  'Oh, not at all,' says he, 'oh, not at all!
  I learnt at Robbo Park, and if it comes
  To bumping I'm your Moses!  Strike me blue!'
  Says he, 'I'll bump you over either rail,
  The inside rail or outside — which you choose
  Is good enough for me' — which settled Ike;
  For he was shaky since he near got killed
  From being sent a buster on the rail,
  When some chap bumped his horse and fetched him down
  At Stony Bridge, so Ikey thought it best
  To leave this bloke alone, and I agreed.

  So all the books was layin' six to four
  Against the favourite, and the amateur
  Was walking this Enchantress up and down,
  And me and Smithy backed him; for we thought
  We might as well get something for ourselves,
  Because we knew our horses couldn't win.
  But Ikey wouldn't back him for a bob;
  Because he said he reckoned he was stiff,
  And all the books was layin' six to four.

  Well, anyhow, before the start, the news
  Got round that this here amateur was stiff,
  And our good stuff was blued, and all the books
  Was in it, and the prices lengthened out,
  And every book was bustin' of his throat,
  And layin' five to one the favourite.
  So there was we that couldn't win ourselves,
  And this here amateur that wouldn't try,
  And all the books was layin' five to one.

  So Smithy says to me, 'You take a hold
  Of that there moke of yours, and round the turn
  Come up behind Enchantress with the whip
  And let her have it; that long bloke and me
  Will wait ahead, and when she comes to us
  We'll pass her on and belt her down the straight,
  And Ikey'll flog her home, because his boss
  Is judge and steward and the Lord knows what,
  And so he won't be touched — and, as for us,
  We'll swear we only hit her by mistake!'
  And all the books was layin' five to one.

  Well, off we went, and comin' to the turn
  I saw the amateur was holding back
  And poking into every hole he could
  To get her blocked, and so I pulled behind
  And drew the whip and dropped it on the mare —
  I let her have it twice, and then she shot
  Ahead of me, and Smithy opened out
  And let her up beside him on the rails,
  And kept her there a-beltin' her like smoke
  Until she struggled past him pullin' hard
  And came to Ike; but Ikey drew his whip
  And hit her on the nose and sent her back
  And won the race himself — for, after all,
  It seems he had a fiver on the Dook
  And never told us — so our stuff was lost.
  And then they had us up for ridin' foul,
  And warned us off the tracks for twelve months each,
  To get our livin' any way we could;
  But Ikey wasn't touched, because his boss
  Was judge and steward and the Lord knows what.

  But Mister — if you'll lend us half-a-crown,
  I know three certain winners at the Park —
  Three certain cops as no one knows but me;
  And — thank you, Mister, come an' have a beer
  (I always like a beer about this time) . . .
  Well, so long, Mister, till we meet again.

  The mountain road goes up and down,
  From Gundagai to Tumut Town.

  And branching off there runs a track,
  Across the foothills grim and black,

  Across the plains and ranges grey
  To Sydney city far away.

       .    .    .    .    .

  It came by chance one day that I
  From Tumut rode to Gundagai.

  And reached about the evening tide
  The crossing where the roads divide;

  And, waiting at the crossing place,
  I saw a maiden fair of face,

  With eyes of deepest violet blue,
  And cheeks to match the rose in hue —

  The fairest maids Australia knows
  Are bred among the mountain snows.

  Then, fearing I might go astray,
  I asked if she could show the way.

  Her voice might well a man bewitch —
  Its tones so supple, deep, and rich.

  'The tracks are clear,' she made reply,
  'And this goes down to Sydney town,
  And that one goes to Gundagai.'

  Then slowly, looking coyly back,
  She went along the Sydney track.

  And I for one was well content
  To go the road the lady went;

  But round the turn a swain she met —
  The kiss she gave him haunts me yet!

       .    .    .    .    .

  I turned and travelled with a sigh
  The lonely road to Gundagai.

  The news came down on the Castlereagh, and went to the world at large,
  That twenty thousand travelling sheep, with Saltbush Bill in charge,
  Were drifting down from a dried-out run to ravage the Castlereagh;
  And the squatters swore when they heard the news,
    and wished they were well away:
  For the name and the fame of Saltbush Bill were over the country side
  For the wonderful way that he fed his sheep,
    and the dodges and tricks he tried.
  He would lose his way on a Main Stock Route,
    and stray to the squatters' grass;
  He would come to a run with the boss away, and swear he had leave to pass;
  And back of all and behind it all, as well the squatters knew,
  If he had to fight, he would fight all day, so long as his sheep got through:
  But this is the story of Stingy Smith, the owner of Hard Times Hill,
  And the way that he chanced on a fighting man to reckon with Saltbush Bill.

       .    .    .    .    .

  'Twas Stingy Smith on his stockyard sat, and prayed for an early Spring,
  When he stared at sight of a clean-shaved tramp, who walked with jaunty swing;
  For a clean-shaved tramp with a jaunty walk a-swinging along the track
  Is as rare a thing as a feathered frog on the desolate roads out back.
  So the tramp he made for the travellers' hut,
    and asked could he camp the night;
  But Stingy Smith had a bright idea, and he said to him, 'Can you fight?'
  'Why, what's the game?' said the clean-shaved tramp,
    as he looked at him up and down —
  'If you want a battle, get off that fence, and I'll kill you for half-a-crown!
  But, Boss, you'd better not fight with me, it wouldn't be fair nor right;
  I'm Stiffener Joe, from the Rocks Brigade, and I killed a man in a fight:
  I served two years for it, fair and square, and now I'm a trampin' back,
  To look for a peaceful quiet life away on the outside track ——'
  'Oh, it's not myself, but a drover chap,' said Stingy Smith with glee;
  'A bullying fellow, called Saltbush Bill — and you are the man for me.
  He's on the road with his hungry sheep, and he's certain to raise a row,
  For he's bullied the whole of the Castlereagh till he's got them under cow —
  Just pick a quarrel and raise a fight, and leather him good and hard,
  And I'll take good care that his wretched sheep don't wander a half a yard.
  It's a five-pound job if you belt him well — do anything short of kill,
  For there isn't a beak on the Castlereagh will fine you for Saltbush Bill.'

  'I'll take the job,' said the fighting man; 'and hot as this cove appears,
  He'll stand no chance with a bloke like me,
    what's lived on the game for years;
  For he's maybe learnt in a boxing school, and sparred for a round or so,
  But I've fought all hands in a ten-foot ring each night in a travelling show;
  They earned a pound if they stayed three rounds,
    and they tried for it every night —
  In a ten-foot ring!  Oh, that's the game that teaches a bloke to fight,
  For they'd rush and clinch, it was Dublin Rules, and we drew no colour line;
  And they all tried hard for to earn the pound, but they got no pound of mine:
  If I saw no chance in the opening round I'd slog at their wind, and wait
  Till an opening came — and it ALWAYS came — and I settled 'em, sure as fate;
  Left on the ribs and right on the jaw —
    and, when the chance comes, MAKE SURE!
  And it's there a professional bloke like me gets home on an amateur:
  For it's my experience every day, and I make no doubt it's yours,
  That a third-class pro is an over-match for the best of the amateurs ——'
  'Oh, take your swag to the travellers' hut,'
    said Smith, 'for you waste your breath;
  You've a first-class chance, if you lose the fight,
    of talking your man to death.
  I'll tell the cook you're to have your grub, and see that you eat your fill,
  And come to the scratch all fit and well to leather this Saltbush Bill.'

       .    .    .    .    .

  'Twas Saltbush Bill, and his travelling sheep were wending their weary way
  On the Main Stock Route, through the Hard Times Run,
    on their six-mile stage a day;
  And he strayed a mile from the Main Stock Route, and started to feed along,
  And, when Stingy Smith came up, Bill said that the Route was surveyed wrong;
  And he tried to prove that the sheep had rushed
    and strayed from their camp at night,
  But the fighting man he kicked Bill's dog, and of course that meant a fight:
  So they sparred and fought, and they shifted ground
    and never a sound was heard
  But the thudding fists on their brawny ribs, and the seconds' muttered word,
  Till the fighting man shot home his left on the ribs with a mighty clout,
  And his right flashed up with a half-arm blow — and Saltbush Bill 'went out'.
  He fell face down, and towards the blow;
    and their hearts with fear were filled,
  For he lay as still as a fallen tree, and they thought that he must be killed.
  So Stingy Smith and the fighting man, they lifted him from the ground,
  And sent to home for a brandy-flask, and they slowly fetched him round;
  But his head was bad, and his jaw was hurt —
    in fact, he could scarcely speak —
  So they let him spell till he got his wits, and he camped on the run a week,
  While the travelling sheep went here and there, wherever they liked to stray,
  Till Saltbush Bill was fit once more for the track to the Castlereagh.

       .    .    .    .    .

  Then Stingy Smith he wrote a note, and gave to the fighting man:
  'Twas writ to the boss of the neighbouring run, and thus the missive ran:
  'The man with this is a fighting man, one Stiffener Joe by name;
  He came near murdering Saltbush Bill, and I found it a costly game:
  But it's worth your while to employ the chap,
    for there isn't the slightest doubt
  You'll have no trouble from Saltbush Bill while this man hangs about ——'
  But an answer came by the next week's mail, with news that might well appal:
  'The man you sent with a note is not a fighting man at all!
  He has shaved his beard, and has cut his hair, but I spotted him at a look;
  He is Tom Devine, who has worked for years for Saltbush Bill as cook.
  Bill coached him up in the fighting yarn, and taught him the tale by rote,
  And they shammed to fight, and they got your grass
    and divided your five-pound note.
  'Twas a clean take-in, and you'll find it wise —
    'twill save you a lot of pelf —
  When next you're hiring a fighting man, just fight him a round yourself.'

       .    .    .    .    .

  And the teamsters out on the Castlereagh, when they meet with a week of rain,
  And the waggon sinks to its axle-tree, deep down in the black soil plain,
  When the bullocks wade in a sea of mud, and strain at the load of wool,
  And the cattle-dogs at the bullocks' heels are biting to make them pull,
  When the off-side driver flays the team, and curses them while he flogs,
  And the air is thick with the language used,
    and the clamour of men and dogs —
  The teamsters say, as they pause to rest and moisten each hairy throat,
  They wish they could swear like Stingy Smith
    when he read that neighbour's note.

  I left the course, and by my side
   There walked a ruined tout —
  A hungry creature evil-eyed,
   Who poured this story out.

  'You see,' he said, 'there came a swell
   To Kensington to-day,
  And if I picked the winners well,
   A crown at least he'd pay.

  'I picked three winners straight, I did,
   I filled his purse with pelf,
  And then he gave me half-a-quid,
   To back one for myself.

  'A half-a-quid to me he cast,
   I wanted it indeed.
  So help me Bob, for two days past
   I haven't had a feed.

  'But still I thought my luck was in,
   I couldn't go astray,
  I put it all on Little Min,
   And lost it straightaway.

  'I haven't got a bite or bed,
   I'm absolutely stuck,
  So keep this lesson in your head:
   Don't over-trust your luck!'

  The folks went homeward, near and far,
   The tout, Oh! where was he?
  Ask where the empty boilers are,
   Beside the Circular Quay.

  As the nations sat together, grimly waiting —
   The fierce old nations battle-scarred —
  Grown grey in their lusting and their hating,
   Ever armed and ever ready keeping guard,
  Through the tumult of their warlike preparation
   And the half-stilled clamour of the drums
  Came a voice crying, 'Lo! a new-made nation,
   To her place in the sisterhood she comes!'

  And she came — she was beautiful as morning,
   With the bloom of the roses in her mouth,
  Like a young queen lavishly adorning
   Her charms with the splendours of the South.
  And the fierce old nations, looking on her,
   Said, 'Nay, surely she were quickly overthrown,
  Hath she strength for the burden laid upon her,
   Hath she power to protect and guard her own?

  Then she spoke, and her voice was clear and ringing
   In the ears of the nations old and gray,
  Saying, 'Hark, and ye shall hear my children singing
   Their war-song in countries far away.
  They are strangers to the tumult of the battle,
   They are few but their hearts are very strong,
  'Twas but yesterday they called unto the cattle,
   But they now sing Australia's marching song.'

           Song of the Australians in Action

       For the honour of Australia, our mother,
        Side by side with our kin from over sea,
       We have fought and we have tested one another,
        And enrolled among the brotherhood are we.

       There was never post of danger but we sought it
        In the fighting, through the fire, and through the flood.
       There was never prize so costly but we bought it,
        Though we paid for its purchase with our blood.

       Was there any road too rough for us to travel?
        Was there any path too far for us to tread?
       You can track us by the blood drops on the gravel
        On the roads that we milestoned with our dead!

       And for you, oh our young and anxious mother,
        O'er your great gains keeping watch and ward,
       Neither fearing nor despising any other,
        We will hold your possessions with the sword.

            .    .    .    .    .

  Then they passed to the place of world-long sleeping,
   The grey-clad figures with their dead,
  To the sound of their women softly weeping
   And the Dead March moaning at their head:
  And the Nations, as the grim procession ended,
   Whispered, 'Child!  But ye have seen the price we pay,
  From War may we ever be defended,
   Kneel ye down, new-made Sister — Let us Pray!'

  The London lights are far abeam
   Behind a bank of cloud,
  Along the shore the gaslights gleam,
   The gale is piping loud;
  And down the Channel, groping blind,
   We drive her through the haze
  Towards the land we left behind —
  The good old land of 'never mind',
   And old Australian ways.

  The narrow ways of English folk
   Are not for such as we;
  They bear the long-accustomed yoke
   Of staid conservancy:
  But all our roads are new and strange,
   And through our blood there runs
  The vagabonding love of change
  That drove us westward of the range
   And westward of the suns.

  The city folk go to and fro
   Behind a prison's bars,
  They never feel the breezes blow
   And never see the stars;
  They never hear in blossomed trees
   The music low and sweet
  Of wild birds making melodies,
  Nor catch the little laughing breeze
   That whispers in the wheat.

  Our fathers came of roving stock
   That could not fixed abide:
  And we have followed field and flock
   Since e'er we learnt to ride;
  By miner's camp and shearing shed,
   In land of heat and drought,
  We followed where our fortunes led,
  With fortune always on ahead
   And always further out.

  The wind is in the barley-grass,
   The wattles are in bloom;
  The breezes greet us as they pass
   With honey-sweet perfume;
  The parakeets go screaming by
   With flash of golden wing,
  And from the swamp the wild-ducks cry
  Their long-drawn note of revelry,
   Rejoicing at the Spring.

  So throw the weary pen aside
   And let the papers rest,
  For we must saddle up and ride
   Towards the blue hill's breast;
  And we must travel far and fast
   Across their rugged maze,
  To find the Spring of Youth at last,
  And call back from the buried past
   The old Australian ways.

  When Clancy took the drover's track
   In years of long ago,
  He drifted to the outer back
   Beyond the Overflow;
  By rolling plain and rocky shelf,
   With stockwhip in his hand,
  He reached at last, oh lucky elf,
  The Town of Come-and-help-yourself
   In Rough-and-ready Land.

  And if it be that you would know
   The tracks he used to ride,
  Then you must saddle up and go
   Beyond the Queensland side —
  Beyond the reach of rule or law,
   To ride the long day through,
  In Nature's homestead — filled with awe
  You then might see what Clancy saw
   And know what Clancy knew.