The Man from Snowy River Part 7

Big feller G.o.d!

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 s.h.i.+rk, For the fleece was filled with the gra.s.s 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 s.h.i.+nes 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 away at speed through the whispering pines Down the bridle track rode the two Devines.

It was fifty miles to their father's hut, And the dawn was bright when they rode away; At the fall of night when the shed was shut And the men had rest from the toilsome day, To the shed once more through the dark'ning pines On their weary steeds came the two Devines.

'Well, you're back right sudden,' the super. said; 'Is the old man dead and the funeral done?'

'Well, no, sir, he ain't not exactly dead, But as good as dead,' said the eldest son -- 'And we couldn't bear such a chance to lose, So we came straight back to tackle the ewes.'

They are shearing ewes at the Myall Lake, And the shed is merry the livelong day With the clas.h.i.+ng sound that the shear-blades make When the fastest shearers are making play, And a couple of 'hundred and ninety-nines'

Are the tallies made by the two Devines.

In the Droving Days

'Only a pound,' said the auctioneer, 'Only a pound; and I'm standing here Selling this animal, gain or loss.

Only a pound for the drover's horse; One of the sort that was never afraid, One of the boys of the Old Brigade; Thoroughly honest and game, I'll swear, Only a little the worse for wear; Plenty as bad to be seen in town, Give me a bid and I'll knock him down; Sold as he stands, and without recourse, Give me a bid for the drover's horse.'

Loitering there in an aimless way Somehow I noticed the poor old grey, Weary and battered and screwed, of course, Yet when I noticed the old grey horse, The rough bush saddle, and single rein Of the bridle laid on his tangled mane, Straightway the crowd and the auctioneer Seemed on a sudden to disappear, Melted away in a kind of haze, For my heart went back to the droving days.

Back to the road, and I crossed again Over the miles of the saltbush plain -- The s.h.i.+ning plain that is said to be The dried-up bed of an inland sea, Where the air so dry and so clear and bright Refracts the sun with a wondrous light, And out in the dim horizon makes The deep blue gleam of the phantom lakes.

At dawn of day we would feel the breeze That stirred the boughs of the sleeping trees, And brought a breath of the fragrance rare That comes and goes in that scented air; For the trees and gra.s.s and the shrubs contain A dry sweet scent on the saltbush plain.

For those that love it and understand, The saltbush plain is a wonderland.

A wondrous country, where Nature's ways Were revealed to me in the droving days.

We saw the fleet wild horses pa.s.s, And the kangaroos through the Mitch.e.l.l gra.s.s, The emu ran with her frightened brood All unmolested and unpursued.

But there rose a shout and a wild hubbub When the dingo raced for his native scrub, And he paid right dear for his stolen meals With the drover's dogs at his wretched heels.

For we ran him down at a rattling pace, While the packhorse joined in the stirring chase.

And a wild halloo at the kill we'd raise -- We were light of heart in the droving days.

'Twas a drover's horse, and my hand again Made a move to close on a fancied rein.

For I felt the swing and the easy stride Of the grand old horse that I used to ride In drought or plenty, in good or ill, That same old steed was my comrade still; The old grey horse with his honest ways Was a mate to me in the droving days.

When we kept our watch in the cold and damp, If the cattle broke from the sleeping camp, Over the flats and across the plain, With my head bent down on his waving mane, Through the boughs above and the stumps below On the darkest night I could let him go At a racing speed; he would choose his course, And my life was safe with the old grey horse.

But man and horse had a favourite job, When an outlaw broke from a station mob, With a right good will was the stockwhip plied, As the old horse raced at the straggler's side, And the greenhide whip such a weal would raise, We could use the whip in the droving days.

'Only a pound!' and was this the end -- Only a pound for the drover's friend.

The drover's friend that had seen his day, And now was worthless, and cast away With a broken knee and a broken heart To be flogged and starved in a hawker's cart.

Well, I made a bid for a sense of shame And the memories dear of the good old game.

'Thank you? Guinea! and cheap at that!

Against you there in the curly hat!

Only a guinea, and one more chance, Down he goes if there's no advance, Third, and the last time, one! two! three!'

And the old grey horse was knocked down to me.

And now he's wandering, fat and sleek, On the lucerne flats by the Homestead Creek; I dare not ride him for fear he'd fall, But he does a journey to beat them all, For though he scarcely a trot can raise, He can take me back to the droving days.

Lost

'He ought to be home,' said the old man, 'without there's something amiss.

He only went to the Two-mile -- he ought to be back by this.

He _WOULD_ ride the Reckless filly, he _WOULD_ have his wilful way; And, here, he's not back at sundown -- and what will his mother say?

'He was always his mother's idol, since ever his father died; And there isn't a horse on the station that he isn't game to ride.

But that Reckless mare is vicious, and if once she gets away He hasn't got strength to hold her -- and what will his mother say?'

The old man walked to the sliprail, and peered up the dark'ning track, And looked and longed for the rider that would never more come back; And the mother came and clutched him, with sudden, spasmodic fright: 'What has become of my Willie? -- why isn't he home to-night?'

Away in the gloomy ranges, at the foot of an ironbark, The bonnie, winsome laddie was lying stiff and stark; For the Reckless mare had smashed him against a leaning limb, And his comely face was battered, and his merry eyes were dim.

And the thoroughbred chestnut filly, the saddle beneath her flanks, Was away like fire through the ranges to join the wild mob's ranks; And a broken-hearted woman and an old man worn and grey Were searching all night in the ranges till the sunrise brought the day.

And the mother kept feebly calling, with a hope that would not die, 'Willie! where are you, Willie?' But how can the dead reply; And hope died out with the daylight, and the darkness brought despair, G.o.d pity the stricken mother, and answer the widow's prayer!

Though far and wide they sought him, they found not where he fell; For the ranges held him precious, and guarded their treasure well.

The wattle blooms above him, and the blue bells blow close by, And the brown bees buzz the secret, and the wild birds sing reply.