Clancy of the Overflow

   I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better
    Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago,
   He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him,
    Just 'on spec', addressed as follows, 'Clancy, of The Overflow'.

   And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected,
    (And I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar)
   'Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it:
    'Clancy's gone to Queensland droving, and we don't know where he are.'

       .   .   .   .   .

   In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy
    Gone a-droving 'down the Cooper' where the Western drovers go;
   As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing,
    For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know.

   And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him
    In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,
   And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,
    And at night the wond'rous glory of the everlasting stars.

       .   .   .   .   .

   I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy
    Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,
   And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city
    Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all

   And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle
    Of the tramways and the 'buses making hurry down the street,
   And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting,
    Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet.

   And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me
    As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,
   With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy,
    For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.

   And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy,
    Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,
   While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal —
    But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of 'The Overflow'.

Conroy's Gap

   This was the way of it, don't you know —
    Ryan was 'wanted' for stealing sheep,
   And never a trooper, high or low,
    Could find him — catch a weasel asleep!
   Till Trooper Scott, from the Stockman's Ford —
    A bushman, too, as I've heard them tell —
   Chanced to find him drunk as a lord
    Round at the Shadow of Death Hotel.

   D'you know the place?  It's a wayside inn,
    A low grog-shanty — a bushman trap,
   Hiding away in its shame and sin
    Under the shelter of Conroy's Gap —
   Under the shade of that frowning range,
    The roughest crowd that ever drew breath —
   Thieves and rowdies, uncouth and strange,
    Were mustered round at the Shadow of Death.

   The trooper knew that his man would slide
    Like a dingo pup, if he saw the chance;
   And with half a start on the mountain side
    Ryan would lead him a merry dance.
   Drunk as he was when the trooper came,
    To him that did not matter a rap —
   Drunk or sober, he was the same,
    The boldest rider in Conroy's Gap.

   'I want you, Ryan,' the trooper said,
    'And listen to me, if you dare resist,
   So help me heaven, I'll shoot you dead!'
    He snapped the steel on his prisoner's wrist,
   And Ryan, hearing the handcuffs click,
    Recovered his wits as they turned to go,
   For fright will sober a man as quick
    As all the drugs that the doctors know.

   There was a girl in that rough bar
    Went by the name of Kate Carew,
   Quiet and shy as the bush girls are,
    But ready-witted and plucky, too.
   She loved this Ryan, or so they say,
    And passing by, while her eyes were dim
   With tears, she said in a careless way,
    'The Swagman's round in the stable, Jim.'

   Spoken too low for the trooper's ear,
    Why should she care if he heard or not?
   Plenty of swagmen far and near,
    And yet to Ryan it meant a lot.
   That was the name of the grandest horse
    In all the district from east to west
   In every show ring, on every course
    They always counted the Swagman best.

   He was a wonder, a raking bay —
    One of the grand old Snowdon strain —
   One of the sort that could race and stay
    With his mighty limbs and his length of rein.
   Born and bred on the mountain side,
    He could race through scrub like a kangaroo,
   The girl herself on his back might ride,
    And the Swagman would carry her safely through.

   He would travel gaily from daylight's flush
    Till after the stars hung out their lamps,
   There was never his like in the open bush,
    And never his match on the cattle-camps.
   For faster horses might well be found
    On racing tracks, or a plain's extent,
   But few, if any, on broken ground
    Could see the way that the Swagman went.

   When this girl's father, old Jim Carew,
    Was droving out on the Castlereagh
   With Conroy's cattle, a wire came through
    To say that his wife couldn't live the day.
   And he was a hundred miles from home,
    As flies the crow, with never a track,
   Through plains as pathless as ocean's foam,
    He mounted straight on the Swagman's back.

   He left the camp by the sundown light,
    And the settlers out on the Marthaguy
   Awoke and heard, in the dead of night,
    A single horseman hurrying by.
   He crossed the Bogan at Dandaloo,
    And many a mile of the silent plain
   That lonely rider behind him threw
    Before they settled to sleep again.

   He rode all night and he steered his course
    By the shining stars with a bushman's skill,
   And every time that he pressed his horse
    The Swagman answered him gamely still.
   He neared his home as the east was bright,
    The doctor met him outside the town:
   'Carew!  How far did you come last night?'
    'A hundred miles since the sun went down.'

   And his wife got round, and an oath he passed,
    So long as he or one of his breed
   Could raise a coin, though it took their last
    The Swagman never should want a feed.
   And Kate Carew, when her father died,
    She kept the horse and she kept him well:
   The pride of the district far and wide,
    He lived in style at the bush hotel.

   Such was the Swagman; and Ryan knew
    Nothing about could pace the crack;
   Little he'd care for the man in blue
    If once he got on the Swagman's back.
   But how to do it?  A word let fall
    Gave him the hint as the girl passed by;
   Nothing but 'Swagman — stable-wall;
    'Go to the stable and mind your eye.'

   He caught her meaning, and quickly turned
    To the trooper:  'Reckon you'll gain a stripe
   By arresting me, and it's easily earned;
    Let's go to the stable and get my pipe,
   The Swagman has it.'  So off they went,
    And soon as ever they turned their backs
   The girl slipped down, on some errand bent
    Behind the stable, and seized an axe.

   The trooper stood at the stable door
    While Ryan went in quite cool and slow,
   And then (the trick had been played before)
    The girl outside gave the wall a blow.
   Three slabs fell out of the stable wall —
    'Twas done 'fore ever the trooper knew —
   And Ryan, as soon as he saw them fall,
    Mounted the Swagman and rushed him through.

   The trooper heard the hoof-beats ring
    In the stable yard, and he slammed the gate,
   But the Swagman rose with a mighty spring
    At the fence, and the trooper fired too late,
   As they raced away and his shots flew wide
    And Ryan no longer need care a rap,
   For never a horse that was lapped in hide
    Could catch the Swagman in Conroy's Gap.

   And that's the story.  You want to know
    If Ryan came back to his Kate Carew;
   Of course he should have, as stories go,
    But the worst of it is, this story's true:
   And in real life it's a certain rule,
    Whatever poets and authors say
   Of high-toned robbers and all their school,
    These horsethief fellows aren't built that way.

   Come back!  Don't hope it — the slinking hound,
    He sloped across to the Queensland side,
   And sold the Swagman for fifty pound,
    And stole the money, and more beside.
   And took to drink, and by some good chance
    Was killed — thrown out of a stolen trap.
   And that was the end of this small romance,
    The end of the story of Conroy's Gap.

Our New Horse

   The boys had come back from the races
    All silent and down on their luck;
   They'd backed 'em, straight out and for places,
    But never a winner they struck.
   They lost their good money on Slogan,
    And fell, most uncommonly flat,
   When Partner, the pride of the Bogan,
    Was beaten by Aristocrat.

   And one said, 'I move that instanter
    We sell out our horses and quit,
   The brutes ought to win in a canter,
    Such trials they do when they're fit.
   The last one they ran was a snorter —
    A gallop to gladden one's heart —
   Two-twelve for a mile and a quarter,
    And finished as straight as a dart.

   'And then when I think that they're ready
    To win me a nice little swag,
   They are licked like the veriest neddy —
    They're licked from the fall of the flag.
   The mare held her own to the stable,
    She died out to nothing at that,
   And Partner he never seemed able
    To pace it with Aristocrat.

   'And times have been bad, and the seasons
    Don't promise to be of the best;
   In short, boys, there's plenty of reasons
    For giving the racing a rest.
   The mare can be kept on the station —
    Her breeding is good as can be —
   But Partner, his next destination
    Is rather a trouble to me.

   'We can't sell him here, for they know him
    As well as the clerk of the course;
   He's raced and won races till, blow him,
    He's done as a handicap horse.
   A jady, uncertain performer,
    They weight him right out of the hunt,
   And clap it on warmer and warmer
    Whenever he gets near the front.

   'It's no use to paint him or dot him
    Or put any 'fake' on his brand,
   For bushmen are smart, and they'd spot him
    In any sale-yard in the land.
   The folk about here could all tell him,
    Could swear to each separate hair;
   Let us send him to Sydney and sell him,
    There's plenty of Jugginses there.

   'We'll call him a maiden, and treat 'em
    To trials will open their eyes,
   We'll run their best horses and beat 'em,
    And then won't they think him a prize.
   I pity the fellow that buys him,
    He'll find in a very short space,
   No matter how highly he tries him,
    The beggar won't RACE in a race.'

       .   .   .   .   .

   Next week, under 'Seller and Buyer',
    Appeared in the DAILY GAZETTE:
   'A racehorse for sale, and a flyer;
    Has never been started as yet;
   A trial will show what his pace is;
    The buyer can get him in light,
   And win all the handicap races.
    Apply here before Wednesday night.'

   He sold for a hundred and thirty,
    Because of a gallop he had
   One morning with Bluefish and Bertie,
    And donkey-licked both of 'em bad.
   And when the old horse had departed,
    The life on the station grew tame;
   The race-track was dull and deserted,
    The boys had gone back on the game.

       .   .   .   .   .

   The winter rolled by, and the station
    Was green with the garland of spring
   A spirit of glad exultation
    Awoke in each animate thing.
   And all the old love, the old longing,
    Broke out in the breasts of the boys,
   The visions of racing came thronging
    With all its delirious joys.

   The rushing of floods in their courses,
    The rattle of rain on the roofs
   Recalled the fierce rush of the horses,
    The thunder of galloping hoofs.
   And soon one broke out:  'I can suffer
    No longer the life of a slug,
   The man that don't race is a duffer,
    Let's have one more run for the mug.

   'Why, EVERYTHING races, no matter
    Whatever its method may be:
   The waterfowl hold a regatta;
    The 'possums run heats up a tree;
   The emus are constantly sprinting
    A handicap out on the plain;
   It seems like all nature was hinting,
    'Tis time to be at it again.

   'The cockatoo parrots are talking
    Of races to far away lands;
   The native companions are walking
    A go-as-you-please on the sands;
   The little foals gallop for pastime;
    The wallabies race down the gap;
   Let's try it once more for the last time,
    Bring out the old jacket and cap.

   'And now for a horse; we might try one
    Of those that are bred on the place,
   But I think it better to buy one,
    A horse that has proved he can race.
   Let us send down to Sydney to Skinner,
    A thorough good judge who can ride,
   And ask him to buy us a spinner
    To clean out the whole countryside.'

   They wrote him a letter as follows:
    'We want you to buy us a horse;
   He must have the speed to catch swallows,
    And stamina with it of course.
   The price ain't a thing that'll grieve us,
    It's getting a bad 'un annoys
   The undersigned blokes, and believe us,
    We're yours to a cinder, 'the boys'.'

   He answered:  'I've bought you a hummer,
    A horse that has never been raced;
   I saw him run over the Drummer,
    He held him outclassed and outpaced.
   His breeding's not known, but they state he
    Is born of a thoroughbred strain,
   I paid them a hundred and eighty,
    And started the horse in the train.'

   They met him — alas, that these verses
    Aren't up to the subject's demands —
   Can't set forth their eloquent curses,
    FOR PARTNER WAS BACK ON THEIR HANDS.
   They went in to meet him in gladness,
    They opened his box with delight —
   A silent procession of sadness
    They crept to the station at night.

   And life has grown dull on the station,
    The boys are all silent and slow;
   Their work is a daily vexation,
    And sport is unknown to them now.
   Whenever they think how they stranded,
    They squeal just like guinea-pigs squeal;
   They bit their own hook, and were landed
    With fifty pounds loss on the deal.

An Idyll of Dandaloo

   On Western plains, where shade is not,
    'Neath summer skies of cloudless blue,
   Where all is dry and all is hot,
    There stands the town of Dandaloo —
   A township where life's total sum
   Is sleep, diversified with rum.

   It's grass-grown streets with dust are deep,
    'Twere vain endeavour to express
   The dreamless silence of its sleep,
    Its wide, expansive drunkenness.
   The yearly races mostly drew
   A lively crowd to Dandaloo.

   There came a sportsman from the East,
    The eastern land where sportsmen blow,
   And brought with him a speedy beast —
    A speedy beast as horses go.
   He came afar in hope to 'do'
   The little town of Dandaloo.

   Now this was weak of him, I wot —
    Exceeding weak, it seemed to me —
   For we in Dandaloo were not
    The Jugginses we seemed to be;
   In fact, we rather thought we knew
   Our book by heart in Dandaloo.

   We held a meeting at the bar,
    And met the question fair and square —
   'We've stumped the country near and far
    To raise the cash for races here;
   We've got a hundred pounds or two —
   Not half so bad for Dandaloo.

   'And now, it seems, we have to be
    Cleaned out by this here Sydney bloke,
   With his imported horse; and he
    Will scoop the pool and leave us broke
   Shall we sit still, and make no fuss
   While this chap climbs all over us?'

       .   .   .   .   .

   The races came to Dandaloo,
    And all the cornstalks from the West,
   On ev'ry kind of moke and screw,
    Came forth in all their glory drest.
   The stranger's horse, as hard as nails,
   Look'd fit to run for New South Wales.

   He won the race by half a length —
    QUITE half a length, it seemed to me —
   But Dandaloo, with all its strength,
    Roared out 'Dead heat!' most fervently;
   And, after hesitation meet,
   The judge's verdict was 'Dead heat!'

   And many men there were could tell
    What gave the verdict extra force:
   The stewards, and the judge as well —
    They all had backed the second horse.
   For things like this they sometimes do
   In larger towns than Dandaloo.

   They ran it off; the stranger won,
    Hands down, by near a hundred yards
   He smiled to think his troubles done;
    But Dandaloo held all the cards.
   They went to scale and — cruel fate! —
   His jockey turned out under-weight.

   Perhaps they'd tampered with the scale!
    I cannot tell.  I only know
   It weighed him OUT all right.  I fail
    To paint that Sydney sportsman's woe.
   He said the stewards were a crew
   Of low-lived thieves in Dandaloo.

   He lifted up his voice, irate,
    And swore till all the air was blue;
   So then we rose to vindicate
    The dignity of Dandaloo.
   'Look here,' said we, 'you must not poke
   Such oaths at us poor country folk.'

   We rode him softly on a rail,
    We shied at him, in careless glee,
   Some large tomatoes, rank and stale,
    And eggs of great antiquity —
   Their wild, unholy fragrance flew
   About the town of Dandaloo.

   He left the town at break of day,
    He led his race-horse through the streets,
   And now he tells the tale, they say,
    To every racing man he meets.
   And Sydney sportsmen all eschew
   The atmosphere of Dandaloo.

The Geebung Polo Club

   It was somewhere up the country, in a land of rock and scrub,
   That they formed an institution called the Geebung Polo Club.
   They were long and wiry natives from the rugged mountain side,
   And the horse was never saddled that the Geebungs couldn't ride;
   But their style of playing polo was irregular and rash —
   They had mighty little science, but a mighty lot of dash:
   And they played on mountain ponies that were muscular and strong,
   Though their coats were quite unpolished,
     and their manes and tails were long.
   And they used to train those ponies wheeling cattle in the scrub:
   They were demons, were the members of the Geebung Polo Club.

   It was somewhere down the country, in a city's smoke and steam,
   That a polo club existed, called 'The Cuff and Collar Team'.
   As a social institution 'twas a marvellous success,
   For the members were distinguished by exclusiveness and dress.
   They had natty little ponies that were nice, and smooth, and sleek,
   For their cultivated owners only rode 'em once a week.
   So they started up the country in pursuit of sport and fame,
   For they meant to show the Geebungs how they ought to play the game;
   And they took their valets with them — just to give their boots a rub
   Ere they started operations on the Geebung Polo Club.

   Now my readers can imagine how the contest ebbed and flowed,
   When the Geebung boys got going it was time to clear the road;
   And the game was so terrific that ere half the time was gone
   A spectator's leg was broken — just from merely looking on.
   For they waddied one another till the plain was strewn with dead,
   While the score was kept so even that they neither got ahead.
   And the Cuff and Collar Captain, when he tumbled off to die,
   Was the last surviving player — so the game was called a tie.

   Then the Captain of the Geebungs raised him slowly from the ground,
   Though his wounds were mostly mortal, yet he fiercely gazed around;
   There was no one to oppose him — all the rest were in a trance,
   So he scrambled on his pony for his last expiring chance,
   For he meant to make an effort to get victory to his side;
   So he struck at goal — and missed it — then he tumbled off and died.

       .   .   .   .   .

   By the old Campaspe River, where the breezes shake the grass,
   There's a row of little gravestones that the stockmen never pass,
   For they bear a crude inscription saying, 'Stranger, drop a tear,
   For the Cuff and Collar players and the Geebung boys lie here.'
   And on misty moonlit evenings, while the dingoes howl around,
   You can see their shadows flitting down that phantom polo ground;
   You can hear the loud collisions as the flying players meet,
   And the rattle of the mallets, and the rush of ponies' feet,
   Till the terrified spectator rides like blazes to the pub —
   He's been haunted by the spectres of the Geebung Polo Club.