The Man From Snowy River | Page 8

mile of the silent plain?That lonely rider behind him threw?Before they settled to sleep again.
He rode all night and he steered his course?By the shining stars with a bushman's skill,?And every time that he pressed his horse?The Swagman answered him gamely still.?He neared his home as the east was bright,?The doctor met him outside the town:?`Carew! How far did you come last night?'?`A hundred miles since the sun went down.'
And his wife got round, and an oath he passed,?So long as he or one of his breed?Could raise a coin, though it took their last?The Swagman never should want a feed.?And Kate Carew, when her father died,?She kept the horse and she kept him well:?The pride of the district far and wide,?He lived in style at the bush hotel.
Such was the Swagman; and Ryan knew?Nothing about could pace the crack;?Little he'd care for the man in blue?If once he got on the Swagman's back.?But how to do it? A word let fall?Gave him the hint as the girl passed by;?Nothing but `Swagman -- stable-wall;?`Go to the stable and mind your eye.'
He caught her meaning, and quickly turned?To the trooper: `Reckon you'll gain a stripe?By arresting me, and it's easily earned;?Let's go to the stable and get my pipe,?The Swagman has it.' So off they went,?And soon as ever they turned their backs?The girl slipped down, on some errand bent?Behind the stable, and seized an axe.
The trooper stood at the stable door?While Ryan went in quite cool and slow,?And then (the trick had been played before)?The girl outside gave the wall a blow.?Three slabs fell out of the stable wall --?'Twas done 'fore ever the trooper knew --?And Ryan, as soon as he saw them fall,?Mounted the Swagman and rushed him through.
The trooper heard the hoof-beats ring?In the stable yard, and he slammed the gate,?But the Swagman rose with a mighty spring?At the fence, and the trooper fired too late,?As they raced away and his shots flew wide?And Ryan no longer need care a rap,?For never a horse that was lapped in hide?Could catch the Swagman in Conroy's Gap.
And that's the story. You want to know?If Ryan came back to his Kate Carew;?Of course he should have, as stories go,?But the worst of it is, this story's true:?And in real life it's a certain rule,?Whatever poets and authors say?Of high-toned robbers and all their school,?These horsethief fellows aren't built that way.
Come back! Don't hope it -- the slinking hound,?He sloped across to the Queensland side,?And sold the Swagman for fifty pound,?And stole the money, and more beside.?And took to drink, and by some good chance?Was killed -- thrown out of a stolen trap.?And that was the end of this small romance,?The end of the story of Conroy's Gap.
Our New Horse
The boys had come back from the races?All silent and down on their luck;?They'd backed 'em, straight out and for places,?But never a winner they struck.?They lost their good money on Slogan,?And fell, most uncommonly flat,?When Partner, the pride of the Bogan,?Was beaten by Aristocrat.
And one said, `I move that instanter?We sell out our horses and quit,?The brutes ought to win in a canter,?Such trials they do when they're fit.?The last one they ran was a snorter --?A gallop to gladden one's heart --?Two-twelve for a mile and a quarter,?And finished as straight as a dart.
`And then when I think that they're ready?To win me a nice little swag,?They are licked like the veriest neddy --?They're licked from the fall of the flag.?The mare held her own to the stable,?She died out to nothing at that,?And Partner he 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.'
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