The Man from Snowy River E-Book

A. B. Paterson

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 114

Beschreibung

I have gathered these stories afar, In the wind and the rain, In the land where the cattle camps are, On the edge of the plain. On the overland routes of the west, When the watches were long, I have fashioned in earnest and jest These fragments of song. They are just the rude stories one hears In sadness and mirth, The records of wandering years, And scant is their worth Though their merits indeed are but slight, I shall not repine, If they give you one moment's delight, Old comrades of mine.

Leseprobe

A. B. Paterson

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Published by BoD - Books on Demand, NorderstedtISBN: 9783748131823

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Table of contents

Preface

Prelude

The Man from Snowy River

Old Pardon, the Son of Reprieve

Clancy of the Overflow

Conroy's Gap

Our New Horse

An Idyll of Dandaloo

The Geebung Polo Club

The Travelling Post Office

Saltbush Bill

A Mountain Station

Been There Before

The Man Who Was Away

The Man from Ironbark

The Open Steeplechase

The Amateur Rider

On Kiley's Run

Frying Pan's Theology

The Two Devines

In the Droving Days

Lost

Over the Range

Only a Jockey

How M'Ginnis Went Missing

A Voice from the Town

A Bunch of Roses

Black Swans

The All Right 'Un

The Boss of the 'Admiral Lynch'

A Bushman's Song

How Gilbert Died

The Flying Gang

Shearing at Castlereagh

The Wind's Message

Johnson's Antidote

Ambition and Art

The Daylight is Dying

In Defence of the Bush

Last Week

Those Names

A Bush Christening

How the Favourite Beat Us

The Great Calamity

Come-by-Chance

Under the Shadow of Kiley's Hill

Jim Carew

The Swagman's Rest

Preface

It is not so easy to write ballads descriptive of the bushland of Australia as on light consideration would appear. Reasonably good verse on the subject has been supplied in sufficient quantity. But the maker of folksongs for our newborn nation requires a somewhat rare combination of gifts and experiences. Dowered with the poet's heart, he must yet have passed his 'wander-jaehre' amid the stern solitude of the Austral waste — must have ridden the race in the back-block township, guided the reckless stock-horse adown the mountain spur, and followed the night-long moving, spectral-seeming herd 'in the droving days'. Amid such scarce congenial surroundings comes oft that finer sense which renders visible bright gleams of humour, pathos, and romance, which, like undiscovered gold, await the fortunate adventurer. That the author has touched this treasure-trove, not less delicately than distinctly, no true Australian will deny. In my opinion this collection comprises the best bush ballads written since the death of Lindsay Gordon.Rolf BoldrewoodA number of these verses are now published for the first time, most of the others were written for and appeared in “The Bulletin” (Sydney, N.S.W.), and are therefore already widely known to readers in Australasia.A. B. Paterson

Prelude

I have gathered these stories afar, In the wind and the rain, In the land where the cattle camps are, On the edge of the plain. On the overland routes of the west, When the watches were long, I have fashioned in earnest and jest These fragments of song. They are just the rude stories one hears In sadness and mirth, The records of wandering years, And scant is their worth Though their merits indeed are but slight, I shall not repine, If they give you one moment's delight, Old comrades of mine.

The Man from Snowy River

There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around That the colt from old Regret had got away, And had joined the wild bush horses — he was worth a thousand pound, So all the cracks had gathered to the fray. All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far Had mustered at the homestead overnight, For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are, And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight. There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup, The old man with his hair as white as snow; But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up — He would go wherever horse and man could go. And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand, No better horseman ever held the reins; For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand, He learnt to ride while droving on the plains. And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast, He was something like a racehorse undersized, With a touch of Timor pony — three parts thoroughbred at least — And such as are by mountain horsemen prized. He was hard and tough and wiry — just the sort that won't say die — There was courage in his quick impatient tread; And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye, And the proud and lofty carriage of his head. But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay, And the old man said, 'That horse will never do For a long and tiring gallop — lad, you'd better stop away, Those hills are far too rough for such as you.' So he waited sad and wistful — only Clancy stood his friend — 'I think we ought to let him come,' he said; 'I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end, For both his horse and he are mountain bred. 'He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side, Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough, Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride, The man that holds his own is good enough. And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home, Where the river runs those giant hills between; I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam, But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen.' So he went — they found the horses by the big mimosa clump — They raced away towards the mountain's brow, And the old man gave his orders, 'Boys, go at them from the jump, No use to try for fancy riding now. And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right. Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills, For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight, If once they gain the shelter of those hills.' So Clancy rode to wheel them — he was racing on the wing Where the best and boldest riders take their place, And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face. Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash, But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view, And they charged beneath the stockwhip with 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 a thought of foul play, Though we well might have known that the clever Division would 'put us away'. Experience 'docet', they tell us, At least so I've frequently heard, But, 'dosing' or 'stuffing', those fellows Were up to each move on the board: They got to his stall — it is sinful To think what such villains would do — And they gave him a regular skinful Of barley — green barley — to chew. He munched it all night, and we found him Next morning as full as a hog — The girths wouldn't nearly meet round him; He looked like an overfed frog. We saw we were done like a dinner — The odds were a thousand to one Against Pardon turning up winner, 'Twas cruel to ask him to run. We got to the course with our troubles, A crestfallen couple were we; And we heard the 'books' calling the doubles — A roar like the surf of the sea; And over the tumult and louder Rang 'Any price Pardon, I lay!' Says Jimmy, 'The children of Judah Are out on the warpath to-day.' Three miles in three heats: — Ah, my sonny, The horses in those days were stout, They had to run well to win money; I don't see such horses about. Your six-furlong vermin that scamper Half-a-mile with their feather-weight up; They wouldn't earn much of their damper In a race like the President's Cup. The first heat was soon set a-going; The Dancer went off to the front; The Don on his quarters was showing, With Pardon right out of the hunt. He rolled and he weltered and wallowed — You'd kick your hat faster, I'll bet; They finished all bunched, and he followed All lathered and dripping with sweat. But troubles came thicker upon us, For while we were rubbing him dry The stewards came over to warn us: 'We hear you are running a bye! If Pardon don't spiel like tarnation And win the next heat — if he can — He'll earn a disqualification; Just think over THAT, now, my man!' Our money all gone and our credit, Our horse couldn't gallop a yard; And then people thought that WE did it! It really was terribly hard. We were objects of mirth and derision