Rio Grande's Last Race, and Other Verses

      By the far Samoan shore,
      Where the league-long rollers pour
  All the wash of the Pacific on the coral-guarded bay,
      Riding lightly at their ease,
      In the calm of tropic seas,
  The three great nations' warships at their anchors proudly lay.

      Riding lightly, head to wind,
      With the coral reefs behind,
  Three Germans and three Yankee ships were mirrored in the blue;
      And on one ship unfurled
      Was the flag that rules the world —
  For on the old 'Calliope' the flag of England flew.

      When the gentle off-shore breeze,
      That had scarcely stirred the trees,
  Dropped down to utter stillness, and the glass began to fall,
      Away across the main
      Lowered the coming hurricane,
  And far away to seaward hung the cloud wrack like a pall.

      If the word had passed around,
      'Let us move to safer ground;
  Let us steam away to seaward' — then this tale were not to tell!
      But each Captain seemed to say
      'If the others stay, I stay!'
  And they lingered at their moorings till the shades of evening fell.

      Then the cloud wrack neared them fast,
      And there came a sudden blast,
  And the hurricane came leaping down a thousand miles of main!
      Like a lion on its prey,
      Leapt the storm fiend on the bay,
  And the vessels shook and shivered as their cables felt the strain.

      As the surging seas came by,
      That were running mountains high,
  The vessels started dragging, drifting slowly to the lee;
      And the darkness of the night
      Hid the coral reefs from sight,
  And the Captains dared not risk the chance to grope their way to sea.

      In the dark they dared not shift!
      They were forced to wait and drift;
  All hands stood by uncertain would the anchors hold or no.
      But the men on deck could see
      If a chance of hope might be —
  There was little chance of safety for the men who were below.

      Through that long, long night of dread,
      While the storm raged overhead,
  They were waiting by their engines, with the furnace fires aroar.
      So they waited, staunch and true,
      Though they knew, and well they knew,
  They must drown like rats imprisoned if the vessel touched the shore.

      When the grey dawn broke at last,
      And the long, long night was past,
  While the hurricane redoubled, lest its prey should steal away,
      On the rocks, all smashed and strewn,
      Were the German vessels thrown,
  While the Yankees, swamped and helpless, drifted shorewards down the bay.

      Then at last spoke Captain Kane,
      'All our anchors are in vain,
  And the Germans and the Yankees they have drifted to the lee!
      Cut the cables at the bow!
      We must trust the engines now!
  Give her steam, and let her have it, lads, we'll fight her out to sea!'

      And the answer came with cheers
      From the stalwart engineers,
  From the grim and grimy firemen at the furnaces below;
      And above the sullen roar
      Of the breakers on the shore
  Came the throbbing of the engines as they laboured to and fro.

      If the strain should find a flaw,
      Should a bolt or rivet draw,
  Then — God help them! for the vessel were a plaything in the tide!
      With a face of honest cheer,
      Quoth an English engineer,
  'I will answer for the engines that were built on old Thames side!

      'For the stays and stanchions taut,
      For the rivets truly wrought,
  For the valves that fit their faces as a glove should fit the hand.
      Give her every ounce of power,
      If we make a knot an hour
  Then it's way enough to steer her and we'll drive her from the land.'

      Like a foam flake tossed and thrown,
      She could barely hold her own,
  While the other ships all helplessly were drifting to the lee.
      Through the smother and the rout
      The 'Calliope' steamed out —
  And they cheered her from the Trenton that was foundering in the sea.

      Aye! drifting shoreward there,
      All helpless as they were,
  Their vessel hurled upon the reefs as weed ashore is hurled.
      Without a thought of fear
      The Yankees raised a cheer —
  A cheer that English-speaking folk should echo round the world.

  Do they know?  At the turn to the straight
   Where the favourites fail,
  And every atom of weight
   Is telling its tale;
  As some grim old stayer hard-pressed
   Runs true to his breed,
  And with head just in front of the rest
   Fights on in the lead;
  When the jockeys are out with the whips,
   With a furlong to go;
  And the backers grow white to the lips —
   Do you think THEY don't know?

  Do they know?  As they come back to weigh
   In a whirlwind of cheers,
  Though the spurs have left marks of the fray,
   Though the sweat on the ears
  Gathers cold, and they sob with distress
   As they roll up the track,
  They know just as well their success
   As the man on their back.
  As they walk through a dense human lane,
   That sways to and fro,
  And cheers them again and again,
   Do you think THEY don't know?

  'I'll introdooce a friend!' he said,
   And if you've got a vacant pen
  You'd better take him in the shed
  And start him shearing straight ahead,
   He's one of these here quiet men.

  'He never strikes — that ain't his game;
   No matter what the others try
  HE goes on shearing just the same.
  I never rightly knew his name —
   We always call him "Gundagai"!'

  Our flashest shearer then had gone
   To train a racehorse for a race,
  And while his sporting fit was on
  He couldn't be relied upon,
   So 'Gundagai' shore in his place.

  Alas for man's veracity!
   For reputations false and true!
  This 'Gundagai' turned out to be,
  For strife and all-round villainy,
   The very worst I ever knew!

  He started racing Jack Devine,
   And grumbled when I made him stop.
  The pace he showed was extra fine,
  But all those pure-bred ewes of mine
   Were bleeding like a butcher's shop.

  He cursed the sheep, he cursed the shed,
   From roof to rafter, floor to shelf;
  As for my mongrel ewes, he said,
  I ought to get a razor blade
   And shave the blooming things myself.

  On Sundays he controlled a 'school',
   And played 'two-up' the livelong day;
  And many a young confiding fool
  He shore of his financial wool;
   And when he lost he would not pay.

  He organised a shearers' race,
   And 'touched' me to provide the prize.
  His packhorse showed surprising pace
  And won hands down — he was The Ace,
   A well-known racehorse in disguise.

  Next day the bruiser of the shed
   Displayed an opal-tinted eye,
  With large contusions on his head.
  He smiled a sickly smile, and said
   He'd 'had a cut at "Gundagai"!'

  But just as we were getting full
   Of 'Gundagai' and all his ways,
  A telegram for 'Henry Bull'
  Arrived.  Said he, 'That's me — all wool!
   Let's see what this here message says.'

  He opened it, his face grew white,
   He dropped the shears and turned away.
  It ran, 'Your wife took bad last night;
  Come home at once — no time to write,
   We fear she may not last the day.'

  He got his cheque — I didn't care
   To dock him for my mangled ewes;
  His store account — we 'called it square'.
  Poor wretch! he had enough to bear,
   Confronted by such dreadful news.

  The shearers raised a little purse
   To help a mate, as shearers will,
  'To pay the doctor and the nurse,
  And if there should be something worse —
   To pay the undertaker's bill.'

  They wrung his hand in sympathy,
   He rode away without a word,
  His head hung down in misery.
  A wandering hawker passing by
   Was told of what had just occurred.

  'Well! that's a curious thing,' he said,
   'I've known that feller all his life —
  He's had the loan of this here shed!
  I know his wife ain't nearly dead,
   Because he HASN'T GOT A WIFE!'

       .    .    .    .    .

  You should have heard the whipcord crack
   As angry shearers galloped by,
  In vain they tried to fetch him back.
  A little dust along the track
   Was all they saw of 'Gundagai'.

  Wargeilah town is very small,
   There's no cathedral nor a club,
  In fact the township, all in all,
   Is just one unpretentious pub;
  And there, from all the stations round,
  The local sportsmen can be found.

  The sportsmen of Wargeilah side
   Are very few but very fit:
  There's scarcely any sport been tried
   But what they held their own at it
  In fact, to search their records o'er,
  They held their own and something more.

  'Twas round about Wargeilah town
   An English new-chum did infest:
  He used to wander up and down
   In baggy English breeches drest —
  His mental aspect seemed to be
  Just stolid self-sufficiency.

  The local sportsmen vainly sought
   His tranquil calm to counteract,
  By urging that he should be brought
   Within the Noxious Creatures Act.
  'Nay, harm him not,' said one more wise,
  'He is a blessing in disguise!

  'You see, he wants to buy a horse,
   To ride, and hunt, and steeplechase,
  And carry ladies, too, of course,
   And pull a cart and win a race.
  Good gracious! he must be a flat
  To think he'll get a horse like that!

  'But since he has so little sense
   And such a lot of cash to burn,
  We'll sell him some experience
   By which alone a fool can learn.
  Suppose we let him have The Trap
  To win Wargeilah Handicap!'

  And here, I must explain to you
   That, round about Wargeilah run,
  There lived a very aged screw
   Whose days of brilliancy were done:
  A grand old warrior in his prime —
  But age will beat us all in time.

  A trooper's horse in seasons past
   He did his share to keep the peace,
  But took to falling, and at last
   Was cast for age from the Police.
  A publican at Conroy's Gap
  Then bought and christened him The Trap.

  When grass was good, and horses dear,
   He changed his owner now and then
  At prices ranging somewhere near
   The neighbourhood of two pound ten:
  And manfully he earned his keep
  By yarding cows and ration sheep.

  They brought him in from off the grass
   And fed and groomed the old horse up;
  His coat began to shine like glass —
   You'd think he'd win the Melbourne Cup.
  And when they'd got him fat and flash
  They asked the new-chum — fifty — cash!

  And when he said the price was high,
   Their indignation knew no bounds.
  They said, 'It's seldom you can buy
   A horse like that for fifty pounds!
  We'll refund twenty if The Trap
  Should fail to win the handicap!'

  The deed was done, the price was paid,
   The new-chum put the horse in train:
  The local sports were much afraid
   That he would sad experience gain,
  By racing with some shearer's hack,
  Who'd beat him half-way round the track.

  So, on this guileless English spark
   They did most fervently impress
  That he must keep the matter dark,
   And not let any person guess
  That he was purchasing The Trap
  To win Wargeilah Handicap.

  They spoke of 'spielers from The Bland',
   And 'champions from the Castlereagh',
  And gave the youth to understand
   That all of these would stop away,
  And spoil the race, if they should hear
  That they had got The Trap to fear.

  'Keep dark!  They'll muster thick as flies
   When once the news gets sent around
  We're giving such a splendid prize —
   A Snowdon horse worth fifty pound!
  They'll come right in from Dandaloo,
  And find — that it's a gift to you!'

       .    .    .    .    .

  The race came on — with no display,
   Nor any calling of the card,
  But round about the pub all day
   A crowd of shearers, drinking hard,
  And using language in a strain
  'Twere flattery to call profane.

  Our hero, dressed in silk attire —
   Blue jacket and a scarlet cap —
  With boots that shone like flames of fire,
   Now did his canter on The Trap,
  And walked him up and round about,
  Until the other steeds came out.

  He eyed them with a haughty look,
   But saw a sight that caught his breath!
  It was!  Ah John!  The Chinee cook!
   In boots and breeches!  Pale as death!
  Tied with a rope, like any sack,
  Upon a piebald pony's back!

  The next, a colt — all mud and burrs!
   Half-broken, with a black boy up,
  Who said, 'You gim'me pair o' spurs,
   I win the bloomin' Melbourne Cup!'
  These two were to oppose The Trap
  For the Wargeilah Handicap!

  They're off!  The colt whipped down his head,
   And humped his back and gave a squeal,
  And bucked into the drinking shed,
   Revolving like a Cath'rine wheel!
  Men ran like rats!  The atmosphere
  Was filled with oaths and pints of beer!

  But up the course the bold Ah John
   Beside The Trap raced neck and neck:
  The boys had tied him firmly on,
   Which ultimately proved his wreck,
  The saddle turned, and, like a clown,
  He rode some distance upside down.

  His legs around the horse were tied,
   His feet towards the heavens were spread,
  He swung and bumped at every stride
   And ploughed the ground up with his head!
  And when they rescued him, The Trap
  Had won Wargeilah Handicap!

  And no enquiries we could make
   Could tell by what false statements swayed
  Ah John was led to undertake
   A task so foreign to his trade!
  He only smiled and said, 'Hoo Ki!
  I stop topside, I win all 'li!'

  But never, in Wargeilah Town,
   Was heard so eloquent a cheer
  As when the President came down,
   And toasted, in Colonial Beer,
  'The finest rider on the course!
  The winner of the Snowdon Horse!'

  'You go and get your prize,' he said,
   'He's with a wild mob, somewhere round
  The mountains near The Watershed;
   He's honestly worth fifty pound,
  A noble horse, indeed, to win,
  But none of US can run him in!

  'We've chased him poor, we've chased him fat,
   We've run him till our horses dropped,
  But by such obstacles as that
   A man like you will not be stopped,
  You'll go and yard him any day,
  So here's your health!  Hooray!  Hooray!'

       .    .    .    .    .

  The day wound up with booze and blow
   And fights till all were well content,
  But of the new-chum, all I know
   Is shown by this advertisement —
  'For Sale, the well-known racehorse Trap,
  He won Wargeilah Handicap!'

  All of us play our very best game —
   Any other time.
  Golf or billiards, it's all the same —
   Any other time.
  Lose a match and you always say,
  'Just my luck!  I was 'off' to-day!
  I could have beaten him quite half-way —
   Any other time!'

  After a fiver you ought to go —
   Any other time.
  Every man that you ask says 'Oh,
   Any OTHER time.
  Lend you a fiver!  I'd lend you two,
  But I'm overdrawn and my bills are due,
  Wish you'd ask me — now, mind you do —
   Any other time!'

  Fellows will ask you out to dine —
   Any other time.
  'Not to-night, for we're twenty-nine —
   Any other time.
  Not to-morrow, for cook's on strike,
  Not next day, I'll be out on the bike —
  Just drop in whenever you like —
   Any other time!'

  Seasick passengers like the sea —
   Any other time.
  'Something . . I ate . . disagreed . . with me!
   Any other time
  Ocean-trav'lling is . . simply bliss,
  Must be my . . liver . . has gone amiss . .
  Why, I would . . laugh . . at a sea . . like this —
   Any other time.'

       .    .    .    .    .

  Most of us mean to be better men —
   Any other time:
  Regular upright characters then —
   Any other time.
  Yet somehow as the years go by
  Still we gamble and drink and lie,
  When it comes to the last we'll want to die —
   Any other time!

  'You led the trump,' the old man said
   With fury in his eye,
  'And yet you hope my girl to wed!
  Young man! your hopes of love are fled,
   'Twere better she should die!

  'My sweet young daughter sitting there,
   So innocent and plump!
  You don't suppose that she would care
  To wed an outlawed man who'd dare
   To lead the thirteenth trump!

  'If you had drawn their leading spade
   It meant a certain win!
  But no!  By Pembroke's mighty shade
  The thirteenth trump you went and played
   And let their diamonds in!

  'My girl!  Return at my command
   His presents in a lump!
  Return his ring!  For understand
  No man is fit to hold your hand
   Who leads a thirteenth trump!

  'But hold!  Give every man his due
   And every dog his day.
  Speak up and say what made you do
  This dreadful thing — that is, if you
   Have anything to say!'

  He spoke.  'I meant at first,' said he,
   'To give their spades a bump:
  Or lead the hearts, but then you see
  I thought against us there might be,
   Perhaps, a fourteenth trump!'

       .    .    .    .    .

  They buried him at dawn of day
   Beside a ruined stump:
  And there he sleeps the hours away
  And waits for Gabriel to play
   The last — the fourteenth — trump.

      Oh! the circus swooped down
      On the Narrabri town,
  For the Narrabri populace moneyed are;
      And the showman he smiled
      At the folk he beguiled
  To come all the distance from Gunnedah.

      But a juvenile smart,
      Who objected to 'part',
  Went in 'on the nod', and to do it he
      Crawled in through a crack
      In the tent at the back,
  For the boy had no slight ingenuity.

      And says he with a grin,
      'That's the way to get in;
  But I reckon I'd better be quiet or
      They'll spiflicate me,'
      And he chuckled, for he
  Had the loan of the circus proprietor.

      But the showman astute
      On that wily galoot
  Soon dropped, and you'll say that he leathered him —
      Not he; with a grim
      Sort of humorous whim,
  He took him and tarred him and feathered him.

      Says he, 'You can go
      Round the world with a show,
  And knock every Injun and Arab wry;
      With your name and your trade,
      On the posters displayed,
  The feathered what-is-it from Narrabri.'

      Next day for his freak,
      By a Narrabri beak,
  He was jawed with a deal of verbosity;
      For his only appeal
      Was 'professional zeal' —
  He wanted another monstrosity.

      Said his worship, 'Begob!
      You are fined forty bob,
  And six shillin's costs to the clurk!' he says.
      And the Narrabri joy,
      Half bird and half boy,
  Has a 'down' on himself and on circuses.

  It's grand to be a squatter
   And sit upon a post,
  And watch your little ewes and lambs
   A-giving up the ghost.

  It's grand to be a 'cockie'
   With wife and kids to keep,
  And find an all-wise Providence
   Has mustered all your sheep.

  It's grand to be a Western man,
   With shovel in your hand,
  To dig your little homestead out
   From underneath the sand.

  It's grand to be a shearer,
   Along the Darling side,
  And pluck the wool from stinking sheep
   That some days since have died.

  It's grand to be a rabbit
   And breed till all is blue,
  And then to die in heaps because
   There's nothing left to chew.

  It's grand to be a Minister
   And travel like a swell,
  And tell the Central District folk
   To go to — Inverell.

  It's grand to be a Socialist
   And lead the bold array
  That marches to prosperity
   At seven bob a day.

  It's grand to be an unemployed
   And lie in the Domain,
  And wake up every second day
   And go to sleep again.

  It's grand to borrow English tin
   To pay for wharves and Rocks,
  And then to find it isn't in
   The little money-box.

  It's grand to be a democrat
   And toady to the mob,
  For fear that if you told the truth
   They'd hunt you from your job.

  It's grand to be a lot of things
   In this fair Southern land,
  But if the Lord would send us rain,
   That would, indeed, be grand!

  They held a polo meeting at a little country town,
  And all the local sportsmen came to win themselves renown.
  There came two strangers with a horse, and I am much afraid
  They both belonged to what is called 'the take-you-down brigade'.

  They said their horse could jump like fun, and asked an amateur
  To ride him in the steeplechase, and told him they were sure,
  The last time round, he'd sail away with such a swallow's flight
  The rest would never see him go — he'd finish out of sight.

  So out he went; and, when folk saw the amateur was up,
  Some local genius called the race 'the dude-in-danger cup'.
  The horse was known as 'Who's Afraid', by Panic from 'The Fright'.
  But still his owners told the jock he'd finish out of sight.

  And so he did; for 'Who's Afraid', without the least pretence,
  Disposed of him by rushing through the very second fence;
  And when they ran the last time round the prophecy was right —
  For he was in the ambulance, and safely 'out of sight'.

  The fields of youth are filled with flowers,
  The wine of youth is strong:
  What need have we to count the hours?
  The summer days are long.

  But soon we find to our dismay
  That we are drifting down
  The barren slopes that fall away
  Towards the foothills grim and grey
  That lead to Old Man's Town.

  And marching with us on the track
  Full many friends we find:
  We see them looking sadly back
  For those that dropped behind.

  But God forbid a fate so dread —
  ALONE to travel down
  The dreary road we all must tread,
  With faltering steps and whitening head,
  The road to Old Man's Town!

  The sheep were shorn and the wool went down
   At the time of our local racing:
  And I'd earned a spell — I was burnt and brown —
  So I rolled my swag for a trip to town
   And a look at the steeplechasing.

  'Twas rough and ready — an uncleared course
   As rough as the blacks had found it;
  With barbed-wire fences, topped with gorse,
  And a water-jump that would drown a horse,
   And the steeple three times round it.

  There was never a fence the tracks to guard, —
   Some straggling posts defined 'em:
  And the day was hot, and the drinking hard,
  Till none of the stewards could see a yard
   Before nor yet behind 'em!

  But the bell was rung and the nags were out,
   Excepting an old outsider
  Whose trainer started an awful rout,
  For his boy had gone on a drinking bout
   And left him without a rider.

  'Is there not one man in the crowd,' he cried,
   'In the whole of the crowd so clever,
  Is there not one man that will take a ride
  On the old white horse from the Northern side
   That was bred on the Mooki River?'

  'Twas an old white horse that they called The Cow,
   And a cow would look well beside him;
  But I was pluckier then than now
  (And I wanted excitement anyhow),
   So at last I agreed to ride him.

  And the trainer said, 'Well, he's dreadful slow,
   And he hasn't a chance whatever;
  But I'm stony broke, so it's time to show
  A trick or two that the trainers know
   Who train by the Mooki River.

  'The first time round at the further side,
   With the trees and the scrub about you,
  Just pull behind them and run out wide
  And then dodge into the scrub and hide,
   And let them go round without you.

  'At the third time round, for the final spin
   With the pace, and the dust to blind 'em,
  They'll never notice if you chip in
  For the last half-mile — you'll be sure to win,
   And they'll think you raced behind 'em.

  'At the water-jump you may have to swim —
   He hasn't a hope to clear it —
  Unless he skims like the swallows skim
  At full speed over, but not for him!
   He'll never go next or near it.

  'But don't you worry — just plunge across,
   For he swims like a well-trained setter.
  Then hide away in the scrub and gorse
  The rest will be far ahead of course —
   The further ahead the better.

  'You must rush the jumps in the last half-round
   For fear that he might refuse 'em;
  He'll try to baulk with you, I'll be bound,
  Take whip and spurs on the mean old hound,
   And don't be afraid to use 'em.

  'At the final round, when the field are slow
   And you are quite fresh to meet 'em,
  Sit down, and hustle him all you know
  With the whip and spurs, and he'll have to go —
   Remember, you've GOT to beat 'em!'

       .    .    .    .    .

  The flag went down and we seemed to fly,
   And we made the timbers shiver
  Of the first big fence, as the stand flashed by,
  And I caught the ring of the trainer's cry:
   'Go on!  For the Mooki River!'

  I jammed him in with a well-packed crush,
   And recklessly — out for slaughter —
  Like a living wave over fence and brush
  We swept and swung with a flying rush,
   Till we came to the dreaded water.

  Ha, ha! I laugh at it now to think
   Of the way I contrived to work it.
  Shut in amongst them, before you'd wink,
  He found himself on the water's brink,
   With never a chance to shirk it!

  The thought of the horror he felt, beguiles
   The heart of this grizzled rover!
  He gave a snort you could hear for miles,
  And a spring would have cleared the Channel Isles
   And carried me safely over!

  Then we neared the scrub, and I pulled him back
   In the shade where the gum-leaves quiver:
  And I waited there in the shadows black
  While the rest of the horses, round the track,
   Went on like a rushing river!

  At the second round, as the field swept by,
   I saw that the pace was telling;
  But on they thundered, and by-and-bye
  As they passed the stand I could hear the cry
   Of the folk in the distance, yelling!

  Then the last time round!  And the hoofbeats rang!
   And I said, 'Well, it's now or never!'
  And out on the heels of the throng I sprang,
  And the spurs bit deep and the whipcord sang
   As I rode!  For the Mooki River!

  We raced for home in a cloud of dust
   And the curses rose in chorus.
  'Twas flog, and hustle, and jump you must!
  And The Cow ran well — but to my disgust
   There was one got home before us.

  'Twas a big black horse, that I had not seen
   In the part of the race I'd ridden;
  And his coat was cool and his rider clean,
  And I thought that perhaps I had not been
   The only one that had hidden.

       .    .    .    .    .

  And the trainer came with a visage blue
   With rage, when the race concluded:
  Said he, 'I thought you'd have pulled us through,
  But the man on the black horse planted too,
   AND NEARER TO HOME THAN YOU DID!'

  Alas to think that those times so gay
   Have vanished and passed for ever!
  You don't believe in the yarn you say?
  Why, man!  'Twas a matter of every day
   When we raced on the Mooki River!

  What!  You don't like him; well, maybe — we all have our fancies, of course:
  Brumby to look at you reckon?  Well, no:  he's a thoroughbred horse;
  Sired by a son of old Panic — look at his ears and his head —
  Lop-eared and Roman-nosed, ain't he? — well, that's how the Panics are bred.
  Gluttonous, ugly and lazy, rough as a tip-cart to ride,
  Yet if you offered a sovereign apiece for the hairs on his hide
  That wouldn't buy him, nor twice that; while I've a pound to the good,
  This here old stager stays by me and lives like a thoroughbred should:
  Hunt him away from his bedding, and sit yourself down by the wall,
  Till you hear how the old fellow saved me from Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall.

       .    .    .    .    .

  Gilbert and Hall and O'Maley, back in the bushranging days,
  Made themselves kings of the district — ruled it in old-fashioned ways —
  Robbing the coach and the escort, stealing our horses at night,
  Calling sometimes at the homesteads and giving the women a fright:
  Came to the station one morning — and why they did this no one knows —
  Took a brood mare from the paddock — wanting some fun, I suppose —
  Fastened a bucket beneath her, hung by a strap round her flank,
  Then turned her loose in the timber back of the seven-mile tank.

  Go!  She went mad!  She went tearing
    and screaming with fear through the trees,
  While the curst bucket beneath her was banging her flanks and her knees.
  Bucking and racing and screaming she ran to the back of the run,
  Killed herself there in a gully; by God, but they paid for their fun!
  Paid for it dear, for the black-boys found tracks, and the bucket, and all,
  And I swore that I'd live to get even with Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall.

  Day after day then I chased them — 'course they had friends on the sly,
  Friends who were willing to sell them to those who were willing to buy.
  Early one morning we found them in camp at the Cockatoo Farm
  One of us shot at O'Maley and wounded him under the arm:
  Ran them for miles in the ranges, till Hall, with his horse fairly beat,
  Took to the rocks and we lost him — the others made good their retreat.
  It was war to the knife then, I tell you, and once, on the door of my shed,
  They nailed up a notice that offered a hundred reward for my head!

  Then we heard they were gone from the district;
    they stuck up a coach in the West,
  And I rode by myself in the paddocks, taking a bit of a rest,
  Riding this colt as a youngster — awkward, half-broken and shy,
  He wheeled round one day on a sudden; I looked, but I couldn't see why,
  But I soon found out why, for before me, the hillside rose up like a wall,
  And there on the top with their rifles were Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall!

  'Twas a good three-mile run to the homestead —
    bad going, with plenty of trees —
  So I gathered the youngster together, and gripped at his ribs with my knees.
  'Twas a mighty poor chance to escape them!  It puts a man's nerve to the test
  On a half-broken colt to be hunted by the best mounted men in the West.
  But the half-broken colt was a racehorse!  He lay down to work with a will,
  Flashed through the scrub like a clean-skin —
    by Heavens we FLEW down the hill!
  Over a twenty-foot gully he swept with the spring of a deer
  And they fired as we jumped, but they missed me —
    a bullet sang close to my ear —
  And the jump gained us ground, for they shirked it:
    but I saw as we raced through the gap
  That the rails at the homestead were fastened —
    I was caught like a rat in a trap.
  Fenced with barbed wire was the paddock —
    barbed wire that would cut like a knife —
  How was a youngster to clear it that never had jumped in his life?

  Bang went a rifle behind me — the colt gave a spring, he was hit;
  Straight at the sliprails I rode him — I felt him take hold of the bit;
  Never a foot to the right or the left did he swerve in his stride,
  Awkward and frightened, but honest, the sort it's a pleasure to ride!
  Straight at the rails, where they'd fastened
    barbed wire on the top of the post,
  Rose like a stag and went over, with hardly a scratch at the most;
  Into the homestead I darted, and snatched down my gun from the wall,
  And I tell you I made them step lively, Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall!

  Yes!  There's the mark of the bullet — he's got it inside of him yet
  Mixed up somehow with his victuals, but bless you he don't seem to fret!
  Gluttonous, ugly, and lazy — eats any thing he can bite;
  Now, let us shut up the stable, and bid the old fellow good-night:
  Ah!  We can't breed 'em, the sort that were bred when we old 'uns were young.
  Yes, I was saying, these bushrangers, none of 'em lived to be hung,
  Gilbert was shot by the troopers, Hall was betrayed by his friend,
  Campbell disposed of O'Maley, bringing the lot to an end.
  But you can talk about riding — I've ridden a lot in the past —
  Wait till there's rifles behind you, you'll know what it means to go fast!
  I've steeplechased, raced, and 'run horses',
    but I think the most dashing of all
  Was the ride when the old fellow saved me from Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall!

  The long day passes with its load of sorrow:
   In slumber deep
  I lay me down to rest until to-morrow —
   Thank God for sleep.

  Thank God for all respite from weary toiling,
   From cares that creep
  Across our lives like evil shadows, spoiling
   God's kindly sleep.

  We plough and sow, and, as the hours grow later,
   We strive to reap,
  And build our barns, and hope to build them greater
   Before we sleep.

  We toil and strain and strive with one another
   In hopes to heap
  Some greater share of profit than our brother
   Before we sleep.

  What will it profit that with tears or laughter
   Our watch we keep?
  Beyond it all there lies the Great Hereafter!
   Thank God for sleep!

  For, at the last, beseeching Christ to save us,
   We turn with deep
  Heart-felt thanksgiving unto God, who gave us
   The Gift of Sleep.

  'Twas Driver Smith of Battery A was anxious to see a fight;
  He thought of the Transvaal all the day, he thought of it all the night —
  'Well, if the battery's left behind, I'll go to the war,' says he,
  'I'll go a-driving an ambulance in the ranks of the A.M.C.

  'I'm fairly sick of these here parades, it's want of a change that kills
  A-charging the Randwick Rifle Range and aiming at Surry Hills.
  And I think if I go with the ambulance I'm certain to find a show,
  For they have to send the Medical men wherever the troops can go.

  'Wherever the rifle bullets flash and the Maxims raise a din,
  It's there you'll find the Medical men a-raking the wounded in —
  A-raking 'em in like human flies — and a driver smart like me
  Will find some scope for his extra skill in the ranks of the A.M.C.'

  So Driver Smith he went to the war a-cracking his driver's whip,
  From ambulance to collecting base they showed him his regular trip.
  And he said to the boys that were marching past, as he gave his whip a crack,
  'You'll walk yourselves to the fight,' says he —
    'Lord spare me, I'll drive you back.'

  Now, the fight went on in the Transvaal hills for the half of a day or more,
  And Driver Smith he worked his trip — all aboard for the seat of war!
  He took his load from the stretcher men and hurried 'em homeward fast
  Till he heard a sound that he knew full well — a battery rolling past.

  He heard the clink of the leading chains and the roll of the guns behind —
  He heard the crack of the drivers' whips,
    and he says to 'em, 'Strike me blind,
  I'll miss me trip with this ambulance, although I don't care to shirk,
  But I'll take the car off the line to-day and follow the guns at work.'

  Then up the Battery Colonel came a-cursing 'em black in the face.
  'Sit down and shift 'em, you drivers there, and gallop 'em into place.'
  So off the Battery rolled and swung, a-going a merry dance,
  And holding his own with the leading gun goes Smith with his ambulance.

  They opened fire on the mountain side, a-peppering by and large,
  When over the hill above their flank the Boers came down at the charge;
  They rushed the guns with a daring rush, a-volleying left and right,
  And Driver Smith with his ambulance moved up to the edge of the fight.

  The gunners stuck to their guns like men, and fought like the wild cats fight,
  For a Battery man don't leave his gun with ever a hope in sight;
  But the bullets sang and the Mausers cracked and the Battery men gave way,
  Till Driver Smith with his ambulance drove into the thick of the fray.

  He saw the head of the Transvaal troop a-thundering to and fro,
  A hard old face with a monkey beard — a face that he seemed to know;
  'Now, who's that leader,' said Driver Smith, 'I've seen him before to-day.
  Why, bless my heart, but it's Kruger's self,'
    and he jumped for him straight away.

  He collared old Kruger round the waist and hustled him into the van.
  It wasn't according to stretcher drill for raising a wounded man;
  But he forced him in and said, 'All aboard, we're off for a little ride,
  And you'll have the car to yourself,' says he, 'I reckon we're full inside.'

  He wheeled his team on the mountain side and set 'em a merry pace,
  A-galloping over the rocks and stones, and a lot of the Boers gave chase;
  But Driver Smith had a fairish start, and he said to the Boers, 'Good-day,
  You have Buckley's chance for to catch a man that was trained in Battery A.'

  He drove his team to the hospital and said to the P.M.O.,
  'Beg pardon, sir, but I missed a trip, mistaking the way to go;
  And Kruger came to the ambulance and asked could we spare a bed,
  So I fetched him here, and we'll take him home to show for a bob a head.'

  So the word went round to the English troops to say they need fight no more,
  For Driver Smith with his ambulance had ended the blooming war:
  And in London now at the music halls he's starring it every night,
  And drawing a hundred pounds a week to tell how he won the fight.

  When you're lying in your hammock, sleeping soft and sleeping sound,
   Without a care or trouble on your mind,
  And there's nothing to disturb you but the engines going round,
   And you're dreaming of the girl you left behind;
  In the middle of your joys you'll be wakened by a noise,
   And a clatter on the deck above your crown,
  And you'll hear the corporal shout as he turns the picket out,
   'There's another blessed horse fell down.'

  You can see 'em in the morning, when you're cleaning out the stall,
   A-leaning on the railings nearly dead,
  And you reckon by the evening they'll be pretty sure to fall,
   And you curse them as you tumble into bed.
  Oh, you'll hear it pretty soon, 'Pass the word for Denny Moon,
   There's a horse here throwing handsprings like a clown;
  And it's 'Shove the others back or he'll cripple half the pack,
   There's another blessed horse fell down.'

  And when the war is over and the fighting all is done,
   And you're all at home with medals on your chest,
  And you've learnt to sleep so soundly that the firing of a gun
   At your bedside wouldn't rob you of your rest;
  As you lie in slumber deep, if your wife walks in her sleep,
   And tumbles down the stairs and breaks her crown,
  Oh, it won't awaken you, for you'll say, 'It's nothing new,
   It's another blessed horse fell down.'

  Oh, the weary, weary journey on the trek, day after day,
   With sun above and silent veldt below;
  And our hearts keep turning homeward to the youngsters far away,
   And the homestead where the climbing roses grow.
  Shall we see the flats grow golden with the ripening of the grain?
   Shall we hear the parrots calling on the bough?
  Ah! the weary months of marching ere we hear them call again,
   For we're going on a long job now.

  In the drowsy days on escort, riding slowly half asleep,
   With the endless line of waggons stretching back,
  While the khaki soldiers travel like a mob of travelling sheep,
   Plodding silent on the never-ending track,
  While the constant snap and sniping of the foe you never see
   Makes you wonder will your turn come — when and how?
  As the Mauser ball hums past you like a vicious kind of bee —
   Oh! we're going on a long job now.

  When the dash and the excitement and the novelty are dead,
   And you've seen a load of wounded once or twice,
  Or you've watched your old mate dying — with the vultures overhead,
   Well, you wonder if the war is worth the price.
  And down along Monaro now they're starting out to shear,
   I can picture the excitement and the row;
  But they'll miss me on the Lachlan when they call the roll this year,
   For we're going on a long job now.