The Man From Snowy River | Page 7

style don't agree;
Where the hoofs of the horses
are ringing
There's music sufficient for me.
And surely the thoroughbred horses
Will rise up again and begin

Fresh races on far-away courses,
And p'raps they might let me slip in.

It would look rather well the race-card on
'Mongst Cherubs and
Seraphs and things,
`Angel Harrison's black gelding Pardon,
Blue
halo, white body and wings.'
And if they have racing hereafter,
(And who is to say they will not?)

When the cheers and the shouting and laughter
Proclaim that the
battle grows hot;
As they come down the racecourse a-steering,

He'll rush to the front, I believe;
And you'll hear the great multitude
cheering
For Pardon, the son of Reprieve.
Clancy of the Overflow
I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better
Knowledge,
sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago, He was shearing
when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him, Just `on spec', addressed as

follows, `Clancy, of The Overflow'.
And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected,
(And I think
the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar) 'Twas his
shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it: `Clancy's gone
to Queensland droving, and we don't know where he are.'
. . . . .
In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy
Gone
a-droving `down the Cooper' where the Western drovers go; As the
stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing, For the
drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know.
And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet
him In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,
And he
sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended, And at night the
wond'rous glory of the everlasting stars.
. . . . .
I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy
Ray of sunlight
struggles feebly down between the houses tall, And the foetid air and
gritty of the dusty, dirty city
Through the open window floating,
spreads its foulness over all
And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle Of the
tramways and the 'buses making hurry down the street, And the
language uninviting of the gutter children fighting, Comes fitfully and
faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet.
And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me As
they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste, With their
eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy, For
townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.
And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy, Like to
take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go, While he faced

the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal -- But I doubt he'd
suit the office, Clancy, of `The Overflow'.
Conroy's Gap
This was the way of it, don't you know --
Ryan was `wanted' for
stealing sheep,
And never a trooper, high or low,
Could find him --
catch a weasel asleep!
Till Trooper Scott, from the Stockman's Ford
--
A bushman, too, as I've heard them tell --
Chanced to find him
drunk as a lord
Round at the Shadow of Death Hotel.
D'you know the place? It's a wayside inn,
A low grog-shanty -- a
bushman trap,
Hiding away in its shame and sin
Under the shelter
of Conroy's Gap --
Under the shade of that frowning range,
The
roughest crowd that ever drew breath --
Thieves and rowdies,
uncouth and strange,
Were mustered round at the Shadow of Death.
The trooper knew that his man would slide
Like a dingo pup, if he
saw the chance;
And with half a start on the mountain side
Ryan
would lead him a merry dance.
Drunk as he was when the trooper
came,
To him that did not matter a rap --
Drunk or sober, he was the
same,
The boldest rider in Conroy's Gap.
`I want you, Ryan,' the trooper said,
`And listen to me, if you dare
resist,
So help me heaven, I'll shoot you dead!'
He snapped the steel
on his prisoner's wrist,
And Ryan, hearing the handcuffs click,

Recovered his wits as they turned to go,
For fright will sober a man
as quick
As all the drugs that the doctors know.
There was a girl in that rough bar
Went by the name of Kate Carew,

Quiet and shy as the bush girls are,
But ready-witted and plucky,
too.
She loved this Ryan, or so they say,
And passing by, while her
eyes were dim
With tears, she said in a careless way,
`The
Swagman's round in the stable, Jim.'

Spoken too low for the trooper's ear,
Why should she care if he heard
or not?
Plenty of swagmen far and near,
And yet to Ryan it meant a
lot.
That was the name of the grandest horse
In all the district from
east to west
In every show ring, on every course
They always
counted the Swagman best.
He