Rio Grandes Last Race, Etc. | Page 4

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 God is on the track,?The drought fiend holds his sway,?With blows and cries and stockwhip crack?We take the stock away.
As they fall we leave them lying,?With the crows to watch them dying,?Grim sextons of the Overland that fasten on their prey;
By the fiery dust-storm drifting,?And the mocking mirage shifting,?In heat and drought and hopeless pain we take the stock away.
In dull despair the days go by?With never hope of change,?But every stage we draw more nigh?Towards the mountain range;?And some may live to climb the pass,?And reach the great plateau,?And revel in the mountain grass,?By streamlets fed with snow.
As the mountain wind is blowing?It starts the cattle lowing,?And calling to each other down the dusty long array;
And there speaks a grizzled drover:?`Well, thank God,