The Man From Snowy River | Page 9

never seemed able
To pace it
with Aristocrat.
`And times have been bad, and the seasons
Don't promise to be of the
best;
In short, boys, there's plenty of reasons

For giving the racing a
rest.
The mare can be kept on the station --
Her breeding is good as

can be --
But Partner, his next destination
Is rather a trouble to me.
`We can't sell him here, for they know him
As well as the clerk of the
course;
He's raced and won races till, blow him,
He's done as a
handicap horse.
A jady, uncertain performer,
They weight him right
out of the hunt,
And clap it on warmer and warmer
Whenever he
gets near the front.
`It's no use to paint him or dot him
Or put any `fake' on his brand,

For bushmen are smart, and they'd spot him
In any sale-yard in the
land.
The folk about here could all tell him,
Could swear to each
separate hair;
Let us send him to Sydney and sell him,
There's
plenty of Jugginses there.
`We'll call him a maiden, and treat 'em
To trials will open their eyes,

We'll run their best horses and beat 'em,
And then won't they think
him a prize.
I pity the fellow that buys him,
He'll find in a very
short space,
No matter how highly he tries him,
The beggar won't
RACE in a race.'
. . . . .
Next week, under `Seller and Buyer',
Appeared in the DAILY
GAZETTE:
`A racehorse for sale, and a flyer;
Has never been
started as yet;
A trial will show what his pace is;
The buyer can get
him in light,
And win all the handicap races.
Apply here before
Wednesday night.'
He sold for a hundred and thirty,
Because of a gallop he had
One
morning with Bluefish and Bertie,
And donkey-licked both of 'em
bad.
And when the old horse had departed,
The life on the station
grew tame;
The race-track was dull and deserted,
The boys had
gone back on the game.
. . . . .

The winter rolled by, and the station
Was green with the garland of
spring
A spirit of glad exultation
Awoke in each animate thing.

And all the old love, the old longing,
Broke out in the breasts of the
boys,
The visions of racing came thronging
With all its delirious
joys.
The rushing of floods in their courses,
The rattle of rain on the roofs

Recalled the fierce rush of the horses,
The thunder of galloping
hoofs.
And soon one broke out: `I can suffer
No longer the life of a
slug,
The man that don't race is a duffer,
Let's have one more run
for the mug.
`Why, EVERYTHING races, no matter
Whatever its method may be:

The waterfowl hold a regatta;
The 'possums run heats up a tree;

The emus are constantly sprinting
A handicap out on the plain;
It
seems like all nature was hinting,
'Tis time to be at it again.
`The cockatoo parrots are talking
Of races to far away lands;
The
native companions are walking
A go-as-you-please on the sands;

The little foals gallop for pastime;
The wallabies race down the gap;

Let's try it once more for the last time,
Bring out the old jacket and
cap.
`And now for a horse; we might try one
Of those that are bred on the
place,
But I think it better to buy one,
A horse that has proved he
can race.
Let us send down to Sydney to Skinner,
A thorough good
judge who can ride,
And ask him to buy us a spinner
To clean out
the whole countryside.'
They wrote him a letter as follows:
`We want you to buy us a horse;

He must have the speed to catch swallows,
And stamina with it of
course.
The price ain't a thing that'll grieve us,
It's getting a bad 'un
annoys

The undersigned blokes, and believe us,
We're yours to a
cinder, `the boys'.'

He answered: `I've bought you a hummer,
A horse that has never
been raced;
I saw him run over the Drummer,
He held him
outclassed and outpaced.
His breeding's not known, but they state he

Is born of a thoroughbred strain,
I paid them a hundred and eighty,

And started the horse in the train.'
They met him -- alas, that these verses
Aren't up to the subject's
demands --
Can't set forth their eloquent curses,
FOR PARTNER
WAS BACK ON THEIR HANDS.
They went in to meet him in
gladness,
They opened his box with delight --
A silent procession of
sadness
They crept to the station at night.
And life has grown dull on the station,
The boys are all silent and
slow;
Their work is a daily vexation,
And sport is unknown to them
now.
Whenever they think how they stranded,
They squeal just like
guinea-pigs squeal;
They bit their own hook, and were landed
With
fifty pounds loss on the deal.
An Idyll of Dandaloo
On Western plains, where shade is not,
'Neath summer skies of
cloudless blue,
Where all is dry and all is hot,
There stands the
town of Dandaloo --
A township where life's total sum
Is sleep,
diversified with rum.
It's grass-grown streets with dust are deep,
'Twere vain endeavour to
express
The dreamless silence of its sleep,
Its wide, expansive
drunkenness.
The yearly races mostly drew
A lively crowd to
Dandaloo.
There came a sportsman from the East,
The eastern