Father Riley's Horse

  '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!

The Scotch Engineer

  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!

Song of the Future

  '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.

Anthony Considine

  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.

Song of the Artesian Water

  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.