THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER AND OTHER VERSES

(Second edition)

by Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson

THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER AND OTHER VERSES

by A. B. Paterson (“The Banjo”)

with preface by Rolf Boldrewood

Preface

It is not so easy to write ballads descriptive of the bushland of Australia as on light consideration would appear. Reasonably good verse on the subject has been supplied in sufficient quantity. But the maker of folksongs for our newborn nation requires a somewhat rare combination of gifts and experiences. Dowered with the poet's heart, he must yet have passed his 'wander-jaehre' amid the stern solitude of the Austral waste — must have ridden the race in the back-block township, guided the reckless stock-horse adown the mountain spur, and followed the night-long moving, spectral-seeming herd 'in the droving days'. Amid such scarce congenial surroundings comes oft that finer sense which renders visible bright gleams of humour, pathos, and romance, which, like undiscovered gold, await the fortunate adventurer. That the author has touched this treasure-trove, not less delicately than distinctly, no true Australian will deny. In my opinion this collection comprises the best bush ballads written since the death of Lindsay Gordon.

Rolf Boldrewood

A number of these verses are now published for the first time, most of the others were written for and appeared in “The Bulletin” (Sydney, N.S.W.), and are therefore already widely known to readers in Australasia.

A. B. Paterson

Prelude

     I have gathered these stories afar,
      In the wind and the rain,
     In the land where the cattle camps are,
      On the edge of the plain.
     On the overland routes of the west,
      When the watches were long,
     I have fashioned in earnest and jest
      These fragments of song.

     They are just the rude stories one hears
      In sadness and mirth,
     The records of wandering years,
      And scant is their worth
     Though their merits indeed are but slight,
      I shall not repine,
     If they give you one moment's delight,
      Old comrades of mine.

Contents with First Lines:

     Prelude
        I have gathered these stories afar,

     The Man from Snowy River
        There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around

     Old Pardon, the Son of Reprieve
        You never heard tell of the story?

     Clancy of the Overflow
        I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better

     Conroy's Gap
        This was the way of it, don't you know —

     Our New Horse
        The boys had come back from the races

     An Idyll of Dandaloo
        On Western plains, where shade is not,

     The Geebung Polo Club
        It was somewhere up the country, in a land of rock and scrub,

     The Travelling Post Office
        The roving breezes come and go, the reed beds sweep and sway,

     Saltbush Bill
        Now this is the law of the Overland that all in the West obey,

     A Mountain Station
        I bought a run a while ago,

     Been There Before
        There came a stranger to Walgett town,

     The Man Who Was Away
        The widow sought the lawyer's room with children three in tow,

     The Man from Ironbark
        It was the man from Ironbark who struck the Sydney town,

     The Open Steeplechase
        I had ridden over hurdles up the country once or twice,

     The Amateur Rider
        HIM going to ride for us!  HIM —
          with the pants and the eyeglass and all.

     On Kiley's Run
        The roving breezes come and go

     Frying Pan's Theology
        Scene:  On Monaro.

     The Two Devines
        It was shearing-time at the Myall Lake,

     In the Droving Days
        'Only a pound,' said the auctioneer,

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

     Over the Range
        Little bush maiden, wondering-eyed,

     Only a Jockey
        Out in the grey cheerless chill of the morning light,

     How M'Ginnis Went Missing
        Let us cease our idle chatter,

     A Voice from the Town
        I thought, in the days of the droving,

     A Bunch of Roses
        Roses ruddy and roses white,

     Black Swans
        As I lie at rest on a patch of clover

     The All Right 'Un
        He came from 'further out',

     The Boss of the 'Admiral Lynch'
        Did you ever hear tell of Chili?  I was readin' the other day

     A Bushman's Song
        I'm travellin' down the Castlereagh, and I'm a station hand,

     How Gilbert Died
        There's never a stone at the sleeper's head,

     The Flying Gang
        I served my time, in the days gone by,

     Shearing at Castlereagh
        The bell is set a-ringing, and the engine gives a toot,

     The Wind's Message
        There came a whisper down the Bland between the dawn and dark,

     Johnson's Antidote
        Down along the Snakebite River, where the overlanders camp,

     Ambition and Art
        I am the maid of the lustrous eyes

     The Daylight is Dying
        The daylight is dying

     In Defence of the Bush
        So you're back from up the country, Mister Townsman, where you went,

     Last Week
        Oh, the new-chum went to the back block run,

     Those Names
        The shearers sat in the firelight, hearty and hale and strong,

     A Bush Christening
        On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few,

     How the Favourite Beat Us
        'Aye,' said the boozer, 'I tell you it's true, sir,

     The Great Calamity
        MacFierce'un came to Whiskeyhurst

     Come-by-Chance
        As I pondered very weary o'er a volume long and dreary —

     Under the Shadow of Kiley's Hill
        This is the place where they all were bred;

     Jim Carew
        Born of a thoroughbred English race,

     The Swagman's Rest
        We buried old Bob where the bloodwoods wave

THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER AND OTHER VERSES

The Man from Snowy River

   There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
    That the colt from old Regret had got away,
   And had joined the wild bush horses — he was worth a thousand pound,
    So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
   All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
    Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
   For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
    And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.

   There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
    The old man with his hair as white as snow;
   But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up —
    He would go wherever horse and man could go.
   And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
    No better horseman ever held the reins;
   For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand,
    He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.

   And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,
    He was something like a racehorse undersized,
   With a touch of Timor pony — three parts thoroughbred at least —
    And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
   He was hard and tough and wiry — just the sort that won't say die —
    There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
   And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
    And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.

   But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
    And the old man said, 'That horse will never do
   For a long and tiring gallop — lad, you'd better stop away,
    Those hills are far too rough for such as you.'
   So he waited sad and wistful — only Clancy stood his friend —
    'I think we ought to let him come,' he said;
   'I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,
    For both his horse and he are mountain bred.

   'He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side,
    Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
   Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
    The man that holds his own is good enough.
   And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,
    Where the river runs those giant hills between;
   I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,
    But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen.'

   So he went — they found the horses by the big mimosa clump —
    They raced away towards the mountain's brow,
   And the old man gave his orders, 'Boys, go at them from the jump,
    No use to try for fancy riding now.
   And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
    Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
   For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
    If once they gain the shelter of those hills.'

   So Clancy rode to wheel them — he was racing on the wing
    Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
   And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring
    With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
   Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
    But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
   And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
    And off into the mountain scrub they flew.

   Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black
    Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
   And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
    From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
   And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,
    Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
   And the old man muttered fiercely, 'We may bid the mob good day,
    NO man can hold them down the other side.'

   When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull,
    It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
   The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
    Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
   But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
    And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
   And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
    While the others stood and watched in very fear.

   He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
    He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
   And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat —
    It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
   Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
    Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
   And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
    At the bottom of that terrible descent.

   He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill,
    And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
   Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,
    As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
   Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
    In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals
   On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,
    With the man from Snowy River at their heels.

   And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.
    He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
   Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,
    And alone and unassisted brought them back.
   But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
    He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
   But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
    For never yet was mountain horse a cur.

   And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
    Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
   Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
    At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
   And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway
    To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
   The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day,
    And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.

Old Pardon, the Son of Reprieve

   You never heard tell of the story?
    Well, now, I can hardly believe!
   Never heard of the honour and glory
    Of Pardon, the son of Reprieve?
   But maybe you're only a Johnnie
    And don't know a horse from a hoe?
   Well, well, don't get angry, my sonny,
    But, really, a young un should know.

   They bred him out back on the 'Never',
    His mother was Mameluke breed.
   To the front — and then stay there — was ever
    The root of the Mameluke creed.
   He seemed to inherit their wiry
    Strong frames — and their pluck to receive —
   As hard as a flint and as fiery
    Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve.

   We ran him at many a meeting
    At crossing and gully and town,
   And nothing could give him a beating —
    At least when our money was down.
   For weight wouldn't stop him, nor distance,
    Nor odds, though the others were fast,
   He'd race with a dogged persistence,
    And wear them all down at the last.

   At the Turon the Yattendon filly
    Led by lengths at the mile-and-a-half,
   And we all began to look silly,
    While HER crowd were starting to laugh;
   But the old horse came faster and faster,
    His pluck told its tale, and his strength,
   He gained on her, caught her, and passed her,
    And won it, hands-down, by a length.

   And then we swooped down on Menindie
    To run for the President's Cup —
   Oh! that's a sweet township — a shindy
    To them is board, lodging, and sup.
   Eye-openers they are, and their system
    Is never to suffer defeat;
   It's 'win, tie, or wrangle' — to best 'em
    You must lose 'em, or else it's 'dead heat'.

   We strolled down the township and found 'em
    At drinking and gaming and play;
   If sorrows they had, why they drowned 'em,
    And betting was soon under way.
   Their horses were good 'uns and fit 'uns,
    There was plenty of cash in the town;
   They backed their own horses like Britons,
    And, Lord! how WE rattled it down!

   With gladness we thought of the morrow,
    We counted our wagers with glee,
   A simile homely to borrow —
    'There was plenty of milk in our tea.'
   You see we were green; and we never
    Had even a thought of foul play,
   Though we well might have known that the clever
    Division would 'put us away'.

   Experience 'docet', they tell us,
    At least so I've frequently heard,
   But, 'dosing' or 'stuffing', those fellows
    Were up to each move on the board:
   They got to his stall — it is sinful
    To think what such villains would do —
   And they gave him a regular skinful
    Of barley — green barley — to chew.

   He munched it all night, and we found him
    Next morning as full as a hog —
   The girths wouldn't nearly meet round him;
    He looked like an overfed frog.
   We saw we were done like a dinner —
    The odds were a thousand to one
   Against Pardon turning up winner,
    'Twas cruel to ask him to run.

   We got to the course with our troubles,
    A crestfallen couple were we;
   And we heard the 'books' calling the doubles —
    A roar like the surf of the sea;
   And over the tumult and louder
    Rang 'Any price Pardon, I lay!'
   Says Jimmy, 'The children of Judah
    Are out on the warpath to-day.'

   Three miles in three heats: — Ah, my sonny,
    The horses in those days were stout,
   They had to run well to win money;
    I don't see such horses about.
   Your six-furlong vermin that scamper
    Half-a-mile with their feather-weight up;
   They wouldn't earn much of their damper
    In a race like the President's Cup.

   The first heat was soon set a-going;
    The Dancer went off to the front;
   The Don on his quarters was showing,
    With Pardon right out of the hunt.
   He rolled and he weltered and wallowed —
    You'd kick your hat faster, I'll bet;
   They finished all bunched, and he followed
    All lathered and dripping with sweat.

   But troubles came thicker upon us,
    For while we were rubbing him dry
   The stewards came over to warn us:
    'We hear you are running a bye!
   If Pardon don't spiel like tarnation
    And win the next heat — if he can —
   He'll earn a disqualification;
    Just think over THAT, now, my man!'

   Our money all gone and our credit,
    Our horse couldn't gallop a yard;
   And then people thought that WE did it!
    It really was terribly hard.
   We were objects of mirth and derision
    To folk in the lawn and the stand,
   And the yells of the clever division
    Of 'Any price Pardon!' were grand.

   We still had a chance for the money,
    Two heats still remained to be run;
   If both fell to us — why, my sonny,
    The clever division were done.
   And Pardon was better, we reckoned,
    His sickness was passing away,
   So he went to the post for the second
    And principal heat of the day.

   They're off and away with a rattle,
    Like dogs from the leashes let slip,
   And right at the back of the battle
    He followed them under the whip.
   They gained ten good lengths on him quickly
    He dropped right away from the pack;
   I tell you it made me feel sickly
    To see the blue jacket fall back.

   Our very last hope had departed —
    We thought the old fellow was done,
   When all of a sudden he started
    To go like a shot from a gun.
   His chances seemed slight to embolden
    Our hearts; but, with teeth firmly set,
   We thought, 'Now or never!  The old 'un
    May reckon with some of 'em yet.'

   Then loud rose the war-cry for Pardon;
    He swept like the wind down the dip,
   And over the rise by the garden,
    The jockey was done with the whip
   The field were at sixes and sevens —
    The pace at the first had been fast —
   And hope seemed to drop from the heavens,
    For Pardon was coming at last.

   And how he did come!  It was splendid;
    He gained on them yards every bound,
   Stretching out like a greyhound extended,
    His girth laid right down on the ground.
   A shimmer of silk in the cedars
    As into the running they wheeled,
   And out flashed the whips on the leaders,
    For Pardon had collared the field.

   Then right through the ruck he came sailing —
    I knew that the battle was won —
   The son of Haphazard was failing,
    The Yattendon filly was done;
   He cut down the Don and the Dancer,
    He raced clean away from the mare —
   He's in front!  Catch him now if you can, sir!
    And up went my hat in the air!

   Then loud from the lawn and the garden
    Rose offers of 'Ten to one ON!'
   'Who'll bet on the field?  I back Pardon!'
    No use; all the money was gone.
   He came for the third heat light-hearted,
    A-jumping and dancing about;
   The others were done ere they started
    Crestfallen, and tired, and worn out.

   He won it, and ran it much faster
    Than even the first, I believe
   Oh, he was the daddy, the master,
    Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve.
   He showed 'em the method to travel —
    The boy sat as still as a stone —
   They never could see him for gravel;
    He came in hard-held, and alone.

       .   .   .   .   .

   But he's old — and his eyes are grown hollow;
     Like me, with my thatch of the snow;
   When he dies, then I hope I may follow,
    And go where the racehorses go.
   I don't want no harping nor singing —
    Such things with my style don't agree;
   Where the hoofs of the horses are ringing
    There's music sufficient for me.

   And surely the thoroughbred horses
    Will rise up again and begin
   Fresh races on far-away courses,
    And p'raps they might let me slip in.
   It would look rather well the race-card on
    'Mongst Cherubs and Seraphs and things,
   'Angel Harrison's black gelding Pardon,
    Blue halo, white body and wings.'

   And if they have racing hereafter,
    (And who is to say they will not?)
   When the cheers and the shouting and laughter
    Proclaim that the battle grows hot;
   As they come down the racecourse a-steering,
    He'll rush to the front, I believe;
   And you'll hear the great multitude cheering
    For Pardon, the son of Reprieve.