The Man From Snowy River by Banjo (best way to read books .txt) 📕

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

 

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 aringing, 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