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