The Man From Snowy River | Page 5

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 then stay there -- was ever
The root of the
Mameluke creed.
He seemed to inherit their wiry
Strong frames --
and their pluck to receive --
As hard as a flint and as fiery
Was
Pardon, the son of Reprieve.
We ran him at many a meeting
At crossing and gully and town,

And nothing could give him a beating --
At least when our money
was down.
For weight wouldn't stop him, nor distance,
Nor odds,
though the others were fast,
He'd race with a dogged persistence,

And wear them all down at the last.

At the Turon the Yattendon filly
Led by lengths at the
mile-and-a-half,
And we all began to look silly,
While HER crowd
were starting to laugh;
But the old horse came faster and faster,
His
pluck told its tale, and his strength,
He gained on her, caught her, and
passed her,
And won it, hands-down, by a length.
And then we swooped down on Menindie
To run for the President's
Cup --
Oh! that's a sweet township -- a shindy
To them is board,
lodging, and sup.
Eye-openers they are, and their system
Is never to
suffer defeat;
It's `win, tie, or wrangle' -- to best 'em
You must lose
'em, or else it's `dead heat'.
We strolled down the township and found 'em
At drinking and
gaming and play;
If sorrows they had, why they drowned 'em,
And
betting was soon under way.
Their horses were good 'uns and fit 'uns,

There was plenty of cash in the town;
They backed their own
horses like Britons,
And, Lord! how WE rattled it down!
With gladness we thought of the morrow,
We counted our wagers
with glee,
A simile homely to borrow --
`There was plenty of milk
in our tea.'
You see we were green; and we never
Had even