The Amateur Rider

   HIM going to ride for us!  HIM —
     with the pants and the eyeglass and all.
   Amateur! don't he just look it — it's twenty to one on a fall.
   Boss must be gone off his head to be sending our steeplechase crack
   Out over fences like these with an object like that on his back.

   Ride!  Don't tell ME he can ride.
     With his pants just as loose as balloons,
   How can he sit on his horse? and his spurs like a pair of harpoons;
   Ought to be under the Dog Act, he ought, and be kept off the course.
   Fall! why, he'd fall off a cart, let alone off a steeplechase horse.

       .   .   .   .   .

   Yessir! the 'orse is all ready — I wish you'd have rode him before;
   Nothing like knowing your 'orse, sir, and this chap's a terror to bore;
   Battleaxe always could pull, and he rushes his fences like fun —
   Stands off his jump twenty feet, and then springs like a shot from a gun.

   Oh, he can jump 'em all right, sir, you make no mistake, 'e's a toff;
   Clouts 'em in earnest, too, sometimes,
     you mind that he don't clout you off —
   Don't seem to mind how he hits 'em, his shins is as hard as a nail,
   Sometimes you'll see the fence shake
     and the splinters fly up from the rail.

   All you can do is to hold him and just let him jump as he likes,
   Give him his head at the fences, and hang on like death if he strikes;
   Don't let him run himself out — you can lie third or fourth in the race —
   Until you clear the stone wall, and from that you can put on the pace.

   Fell at that wall once, he did, and it gave him a regular spread,
   Ever since that time he flies it — he'll stop if you pull at his head,
   Just let him race — you can trust him —
     he'll take first-class care he don't fall,
   And I think that's the lot — but remember,
     HE MUST HAVE HIS HEAD AT THE WALL.

       .   .   .   .   .

   Well, he's down safe as far as the start,
     and he seems to sit on pretty neat,
   Only his baggified breeches would ruinate anyone's seat —
   They're away — here they come — the first fence,
     and he's head over heels for a crown!
   Good for the new chum, he's over, and two of the others are down!

   Now for the treble, my hearty — By Jove, he can ride, after all;
   Whoop, that's your sort — let him fly them!
     He hasn't much fear of a fall.
   Who in the world would have thought it?  And aren't they just going a pace?
   Little Recruit in the lead there will make it a stoutly-run race.

   Lord!  But they're racing in earnest — and down goes Recruit on his head,
   Rolling clean over his boy — it's a miracle if he ain't dead.
   Battleaxe, Battleaxe, yet!  By the Lord, he's got most of 'em beat —
   Ho! did you see how he struck, and the swell never moved in his seat?

   Second time round, and, by Jingo! he's holding his lead of 'em well;
   Hark to him clouting the timber!  It don't seem to trouble the swell.
   Now for the wall — let him rush it.  A thirty-foot leap, I declare —
   Never a shift in his seat, and he's racing for home like a hare.

   What's that that's chasing him — Rataplan — regular demon to stay!
   Sit down and ride for your life now!
     Oh, good, that's the style — come away!
   Rataplan's certain to beat you, unless you can give him the slip;
   Sit down and rub in the whalebone now — give him the spurs and the whip!

   Battleaxe, Battleaxe, yet — and it's Battleaxe wins for a crown;
   Look at him rushing the fences, he wants to bring t'other chap down.
   Rataplan never will catch him if only he keeps on his pins;
   Now! the last fence! and he's over it!  Battleaxe, Battleaxe wins!

       .   .   .   .   .

   Well, sir, you rode him just perfect —
     I knew from the first you could ride.
   Some of the chaps said you couldn't, an' I says just like this a' one side:
   Mark me, I says, that's a tradesman — the saddle is where he was bred.
   Weight! you're all right, sir, and thank you;
     and them was the words that I said.

On Kiley's Run

   The roving breezes come and go
                  On Kiley's Run,
   The sleepy river murmurs low,
   And far away one dimly sees
   Beyond the stretch of forest trees —
   Beyond the foothills dusk and dun —
   The ranges sleeping in the sun
                  On Kiley's Run.

   'Tis many years since first I came
                  To Kiley's Run,
   More years than I would care to name
   Since I, a stripling, used to ride
   For miles and miles at Kiley's side,
   The while in stirring tones he told
   The stories of the days of old
                  On Kiley's Run.

   I see the old bush homestead now
                  On Kiley's Run,
   Just nestled down beneath the brow
   Of one small ridge above the sweep
   Of river-flat, where willows weep
   And jasmine flowers and roses bloom,
   The air was laden with perfume
                  On Kiley's Run.

   We lived the good old station life
                  On Kiley's Run,
   With little thought of care or strife.
   Old Kiley seldom used to roam,
   He liked to make the Run his home,
   The swagman never turned away
   With empty hand at close of day
                  From Kiley's Run.

   We kept a racehorse now and then
                  On Kiley's Run,
   And neighb'ring stations brought their men
   To meetings where the sport was free,
   And dainty ladies came to see
   Their champions ride; with laugh and song
   The old house rang the whole night long
                  On Kiley's Run.

   The station hands were friends I wot
                  On Kiley's Run,
   A reckless, merry-hearted lot —
   All splendid riders, and they knew
   The 'boss' was kindness through and through.
   Old Kiley always stood their friend,
   And so they served him to the end
                  On Kiley's Run.

   But droughts and losses came apace
                  To Kiley's Run,
   Till ruin stared him in the face;
   He toiled and toiled while lived the light,
   He dreamed of overdrafts at night:
   At length, because he could not pay,
   His bankers took the stock away
                  From Kiley's Run.

   Old Kiley stood and saw them go
                  From Kiley's Run.
   The well-bred cattle marching slow;
   His stockmen, mates for many a day,
   They wrung his hand and went away.
   Too old to make another start,
   Old Kiley died — of broken heart,
                  On Kiley's Run.

       .   .   .   .   .

   The owner lives in England now
                  Of Kiley's Run.
   He knows a racehorse from a cow;
   But that is all he knows of stock:
   His chiefest care is how to dock
   Expenses, and he sends from town
   To cut the shearers' wages down
                  On Kiley's Run.

   There are no neighbours anywhere
                  Near Kiley's Run.
   The hospitable homes are bare,
   The gardens gone; for no pretence
   Must hinder cutting down expense:
   The homestead that we held so dear
   Contains a half-paid overseer
                  On Kiley's Run.

   All life and sport and hope have died
                  On Kiley's Run.
   No longer there the stockmen ride;
   For sour-faced boundary riders creep
   On mongrel horses after sheep,
   Through ranges where, at racing speed,
   Old Kiley used to 'wheel the lead'
                  On Kiley's Run.

   There runs a lane for thirty miles
                  Through Kiley's Run.
   On either side the herbage smiles,
   But wretched trav'lling sheep must pass
   Without a drink or blade of grass
   Thro' that long lane of death and shame:
   The weary drovers curse the name
                  Of Kiley's Run.

   The name itself is changed of late
                  Of Kiley's Run.
   They call it 'Chandos Park Estate'.
   The lonely swagman through the dark
   Must hump his swag past Chandos Park.
   The name is English, don't you see,
   The old name sweeter sounds to me
                  Of 'Kiley's Run'.

   I cannot guess what fate will bring
                  To Kiley's Run —
   For chances come and changes ring —
   I scarcely think 'twill always be
   Locked up to suit an absentee;
   And if he lets it out in farms
   His tenants soon will carry arms
                  On Kiley's Run.

Frying Pan's Theology

   Scene:  On Monaro.
    DRAMATIS PERSONAE:
   Shock-headed blackfellow,
    Boy (on a pony).
   Snowflakes are falling
    So gentle and slow,
   Youngster says, 'Frying Pan,
    What makes it snow?'
   Frying Pan confident
    Makes the reply —
   'Shake 'em big flour bag
    Up in the sky!'
   'What! when there's miles of it!
    Sur'ly that's brag.
   Who is there strong enough
    Shake such a bag?'
   'What parson tellin' you,
    Ole Mister Dodd,
   Tell you in Sunday-school?
    Big feller God!
   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 shirk,
   For the fleece was filled with the grass 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 shines
   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 clashing 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 shining 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 grass 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 pass,
   And the kangaroos through the Mitchell grass,
   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,
   God 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.

   But the mother pined and faded, and cried, and took no rest,
   And rode each day to the ranges on her hopeless, weary quest.
   Seeking her loved one ever, she faded and pined away,
   But with strength of her great affection she still sought every day.

   'I know that sooner or later I shall find my boy,' she said.
   But she came not home one evening, and they found her lying dead,
   And stamped on the poor pale features, as the spirit homeward pass'd,
   Was an angel smile of gladness — she had found the boy at last.