Rio Grandes Last Race, Etc. | Page 4

him moving with the whip,
And if he falter -- set your lip
And
rouse him up again.
`"But when you reach the big stone wall,
Put down your bridle hand

And let him sail -- he cannot fall --
But don't you interfere at all;

You trust old Rio Grande."
`We started, and in front we showed,
The big horse running free:

Right fearlessly and game he strode,
And by my side those dead men
rode
Whom no one else could see.
`As silently as flies a bird,
They rode on either hand;
At every fence
I plainly heard
The phantom leader give the word,
"Make room for
Rio Grande!"
`I spurred him on to get the lead,
I chanced full many a fall;
But
swifter still each phantom steed
Kept with me, and at racing speed

We reached the big stone wall.
`And there the phantoms on each side
Drew in and blocked his leap;

"Make room! make room!" I loudly cried,
But right in front they
seemed to ride --
I cursed them in my sleep.
`He never flinched, he faced it game,
He struck it with his chest,

And every stone burst out in flame,
And Rio Grande and I became

As phantoms with the rest.

`And then I woke, and for a space
All nerveless did I seem;
For I
have ridden many a race,
But never one at such a pace
As in that
fearful dream.
`And I am sure as man can be
That out upon the track,
Those
phantoms that men cannot see
Are waiting now to ride with me,

And I shall not come back.
`For I must ride the dead men's race,
And follow their command;

'Twere worse than death, the foul disgrace
If I should fear to take my
place
To-day on Rio Grande.'
He mounted, and a jest he threw,
With never sign of gloom;
But all
who heard the story knew
That Jack Macpherson, brave and true,

Was going to his doom.
They started, and the big black steed
Came flashing past the stand;

All single-handed in the lead
He strode along at racing speed,
The
mighty Rio Grande.
But on his ribs the whalebone stung,
A madness it did seem!
And
soon it rose on every tongue
That Jack Macpherson rode among

The creatures of his dream.
He looked to left and looked to right,
As though men rode beside;

And Rio Grande, with foam-flecks white,
Raced at his jumps in
headlong flight
And cleared them in his stride.
But when they reached the big stone wall,
Down went the bridle-hand,

And loud we heard Macpherson call,
`Make room, or half the field
will fall!
Make room for Rio Grande!'
. . . . .
`He's down! he's down!' And horse and man
Lay quiet side by side!

No need the pallid face to scan,
We knew with Rio Grande he ran


The race the dead men ride.
By the Grey Gulf-water
Far to the Northward there lies a land,
A wonderful land that the
winds blow over,
And none may fathom nor understand
The charm
it holds for the restless rover;
A great grey chaos -- a land half made,

Where endless space is and no life stirreth;
And the soul of a man
will recoil afraid
From the sphinx-like visage that Nature weareth.

But old Dame Nature, though scornful, craves
Her dole of death and
her share of slaughter;
Many indeed are the nameless graves
Where
her victims sleep by the Grey Gulf-water.
Slowly and slowly those grey streams glide,
Drifting along with a
languid motion,
Lapping the reed-beds on either side,
Wending
their way to the Northern Ocean.
Grey are the plains where the emus
pass
Silent and slow, with their staid demeanour;
Over the dead
men's graves the grass
Maybe is waving a trifle greener.
Down in
the world where men toil and spin
Dame Nature smiles as man's hand
has taught her;
Only the dead men her smiles can win
In the great
lone land by the Grey Gulf-water.
For the strength of man is an insect's strength
In the face of that
mighty plain and river,
And the life of a man is a moment's length

To the life of the stream that will run for ever.
And so it cometh they
take no part
In small-world worries; each hardy rover
Rideth abroad
and is light of heart,
With the plains around and the blue sky over.

And up in the heavens the brown lark sings
The songs that the strange
wild land has taught her;
Full of thanksgiving her sweet song rings --

And I wish I were back by the Grey Gulf-water.
With the Cattle
The drought is down on field and flock,
The river-bed is dry;
And
we must shift the starving stock
Before the cattle die.
We muster up

with weary hearts
At breaking of the day,
And turn our heads to
foreign parts,
To take the stock away.
And it's hunt 'em up and dog 'em,
And it's get the whip and flog 'em,

For it's weary work is droving when they're dying every day;
By stock-routes bare and eaten,
On dusty roads and beaten,
With
half a chance to save their lives we take the stock away.
We cannot use the whip for shame
On beasts that crawl along;
We
have to drop the weak and lame,
And try to save the strong;
The
wrath of