The Man from Snowy River Part 11

So Dunn crept out on his hands and knees In the dim, half-dawning light, And he made his way to a patch of trees, And vanished among the night, And the trackers hunted his tracks all day, But they never could trace his flight.

But Gilbert walked from the open door In a confident style and rash; He heard at his side the rifles roar, And he heard the bullets crash.

But he laughed as he lifted his pistol-hand, And he fired at the rifle flash.

Then out of the shadows the troopers aimed At his voice and the pistol sound, With the rifle flashes the darkness flamed, He staggered and spun around, And they riddled his body with rifle b.a.l.l.s As it lay on the blood-soaked ground.

There's never a stone at the sleeper's head, There's never a fence beside, And the wandering stock on the grave may tread Unnoticed and undenied, But the smallest child on the Watershed Can tell you how Gilbert died.

The Flying Gang

I served my time, in the days gone by, In the railway's clash and clang, And I worked my way to the end, and I Was the head of the 'Flying Gang'.

'Twas a chosen band that was kept at hand In case of an urgent need, Was it south or north we were started forth, And away at our utmost speed.

If word reached town that a bridge was down, The imperious summons rang -- 'Come out with the pilot engine sharp, And away with the flying gang.'

Then a piercing scream and a rush of steam As the engine moved ahead, With a measured beat by the slum and street Of the busy town we fled, By the uplands bright and the homesteads white, With the rush of the western gale, And the pilot swayed with the pace we made As she rocked on the ringing rail.

And the country children clapped their hands As the engine's echoes rang, But their elders said: 'There is work ahead When they send for the flying gang.'

Then across the miles of the saltbush plain That gleamed with the morning dew, Where the gra.s.ses waved like the ripening grain The pilot engine flew, A fiery rush in the open bush Where the grade marks seemed to fly, And the order sped on the wires ahead, The pilot _MUST_ go by.

The Governor's special must stand aside, And the fast express go hang, Let your orders be that the line is free For the boys of the flying gang.

Shearing at Castlereagh

The bell is set a-ringing, and the engine gives a toot, There's five and thirty shearers here are shearing for the loot, So stir yourselves, you penners-up, and shove the sheep along, The musterers are fetching them a hundred thousand strong, And make your collie dogs speak up -- what would the buyers say In London if the wool was late this year from Castlereagh?

The man that 'rung' the Tubbo shed is not the ringer here, That stripling from the Cooma side can teach him how to shear.

They trim away the ragged locks, and rip the cutter goes, And leaves a track of snowy fleece from brisket to the nose; It's lovely how they peel it off with never stop nor stay, They're racing for the ringer's place this year at Castlereagh.

The man that keeps the cutters sharp is growling in his cage, He's always in a hurry and he's always in a rage -- 'You clumsy-fisted mutton-heads, you'd turn a fellow sick, You pa.s.s yourselves as shearers, you were born to swing a pick.

Another broken cutter here, that's two you've broke to-day, It's awful how such crawlers come to shear at Castlereagh.'

The youngsters picking up the fleece enjoy the merry din, They throw the cla.s.ser up the fleece, he throws it to the bin; The pressers standing by the rack are waiting for the wool, There's room for just a couple more, the press is nearly full; Now jump upon the lever, lads, and heave and heave away, Another bale of golden fleece is branded 'Castlereagh'.

The Wind's Message

There came a whisper down the Bland between the dawn and dark, Above the tossing of the pines, above the river's flow; It stirred the boughs of giant gums and stalwart ironbark; It drifted where the wild ducks played amid the swamps below; It brought a breath of mountain air from off the hills of pine, A scent of eucalyptus trees in honey-laden bloom; And drifting, drifting far away along the southern line It caught from leaf and gra.s.s and fern a subtle strange perfume.

It reached the toiling city folk, but few there were that heard -- The rattle of their busy life had choked the whisper down; And some but caught a fresh-blown breeze with scent of pine that stirred A thought of blue hills far away beyond the smoky town; And others heard the whisper pa.s.s, but could not understand The magic of the breeze's breath that set their hearts aglow, Nor how the roving wind could bring across the Overland A sound of voices silent now and songs of long ago.

But some that heard the whisper clear were filled with vague unrest; The breeze had brought its message home, they could not fixed abide; Their fancies wandered all the day towards the blue hills' breast, Towards the sunny slopes that lie along the riverside, The mighty rolling western plains are very fair to see, Where waving to the pa.s.sing breeze the silver myalls stand, But fairer are the giant hills, all rugged though they be, From which the two great rivers rise that run along the Bland.

Oh! rocky range and rugged spur and river running clear, That swings around the sudden bends with swirl of snow-white foam, Though we, your sons, are far away, we sometimes seem to hear The message that the breezes bring to call the wanderers home.

The mountain peaks are white with snow that feeds a thousand rills, Along the river banks the maize grows tall on virgin land, And we shall live to see once more those sunny southern hills, And strike once more the bridle track that leads along the Bland.

Johnson's Antidote

Down along the Snakebite River, where the overlanders camp, Where the serpents are in millions, all of the most deadly stamp; Where the station-cook in terror, nearly every time he bakes, Mixes up among the doughboys half-a-dozen poison-snakes: Where the wily free-selector walks in armour-plated pants, And defies the stings of scorpions, and the bites of bull-dog ants: Where the adder and the viper tear each other by the throat, There it was that William Johnson sought his snake-bite antidote.

Johnson was a free-selector, and his brain went rather queer, For the constant sight of serpents filled him with a deadly fear; So he tramped his free-selection, morning, afternoon, and night, Seeking for some great specific that would cure the serpent's bite.

Till King Billy, of the Mooki, chieftain of the flour-bag head, Told him, 'Spos'n snake bite pfeller, pfeller mostly drop down dead; Spos'n snake bite old goanna, then you watch a while you see, Old goanna cure himself with eating little pfeller tree.'

'That's the cure,' said William Johnson, 'point me out this plant sublime,'

But King Billy, feeling lazy, said he'd go another time.

Thus it came to pa.s.s that Johnson, having got the tale by rote, Followed every stray goanna, seeking for the antidote.

Loafing once beside the river, while he thought his heart would break, There he saw a big goanna fighting with a tiger-snake, In and out they rolled and wriggled, bit each other, heart and soul, Till the valiant old goanna swallowed his opponent whole.

Breathless, Johnson sat and watched him, saw him struggle up the bank, Saw him nibbling at the branches of some bushes, green and rank; Saw him, happy and contented, lick his lips, as off he crept, While the bulging in his stomach showed where his opponent slept.

Then a cheer of exultation burst aloud from Johnson's throat; 'Luck at last,' said he, 'I've struck it! 'tis the famous antidote.'

'Here it is, the Grand Elixir, greatest blessing ever known, Twenty thousand men in India die each year of snakes alone.

Think of all the foreign nations, negro, chow, and blackamoor, Saved from sudden expiration, by my wondrous snakebite cure.

It will bring me fame and fortune! In the happy days to be, Men of every clime and nation will be round to gaze on me -- Scientific men in thousands, men of mark and men of note, Rus.h.i.+ng down the Mooki River, after Johnson's antidote.

It will cure Delirium Tremens, when the patient's eyeb.a.l.l.s stare At imaginary spiders, snakes which really are not there.

When he thinks he sees them wriggle, when he thinks he sees them bloat, It will cure him just to think of Johnson's Snakebite Antidote.'

Then he rushed to the museum, found a scientific man -- 'Trot me out a deadly serpent, just the deadliest you can; I intend to let him bite me, all the risk I will endure, Just to prove the sterling value of my wondrous snakebite cure.

Even though an adder bit me, back to life again I'd float; Snakes are out of date, I tell you, since I've found the antidote.'

Said the scientific person, 'If you really want to die, Go ahead -- but, if you're doubtful, let your sheep-dog have a try.

Get a pair of dogs and try it, let the snake give both a nip; Give your dog the snakebite mixture, let the other fellow rip; If he dies and yours survives him, then it proves the thing is good.

Will you fetch your dog and try it?' Johnson rather thought he would.

So he went and fetched his canine, hauled him forward by the throat.

'Stump, old man,' says he, 'we'll show them we've the genwine antidote.'

Both the dogs were duly loaded with the poison-gland's contents; Johnson gave his dog the mixture, then sat down to wait events.

'Mark,' he said, 'in twenty minutes Stump'll be a-rus.h.i.+ng round, While the other wretched creature lies a corpse upon the ground.'

But, alas for William Johnson! ere they'd watched a half-hour's spell Stumpy was as dead as mutton, t'other dog was live and well.

And the scientific person hurried off with utmost speed, Tested Johnson's drug and found it was a deadly poison-weed; Half a tumbler killed an emu, half a spoonful killed a goat, All the snakes on earth were harmless to that awful antidote.