The Man from Snowy River Part 3

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 outcla.s.sed 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 towns.h.i.+p where life's total sum Is sleep, diversified with rum.

It's gra.s.s-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 land where sportsmen blow, And brought with him a speedy beast -- A speedy beast as horses go.

He came afar in hope to 'do'

The little town of Dandaloo.

Now this was weak of him, I wot -- Exceeding weak, it seemed to me -- For we in Dandaloo were not The Jugginses we seemed to be; In fact, we rather thought we knew Our book by heart in Dandaloo.

We held a meeting at the bar, And met the question fair and square -- 'We've stumped the country near and far To raise the cash for races here; We've got a hundred pounds or two -- Not half so bad for Dandaloo.

'And now, it seems, we have to be Cleaned out by this here Sydney bloke, With his imported horse; and he Will scoop the pool and leave us broke Shall we sit still, and make no fuss While this chap climbs all over us?'

The races came to Dandaloo, And all the cornstalks from the West, On ev'ry kind of moke and screw, Came forth in all their glory drest.

The stranger's horse, as hard as nails, Look'd fit to run for New South Wales.

He won the race by half a length -- _QUITE_ half a length, it seemed to me -- But Dandaloo, with all its strength, Roared out 'Dead heat!' most fervently; And, after hesitation meet, The judge's verdict was 'Dead heat!'

And many men there were could tell What gave the verdict extra force: The stewards, and the judge as well -- They all had backed the second horse.

For things like this they sometimes do In larger towns than Dandaloo.

They ran it off; the stranger won, Hands down, by near a hundred yards He smiled to think his troubles done; But Dandaloo held all the cards.

They went to scale and -- cruel fate! -- His jockey turned out under-weight.

Perhaps they'd tampered with the scale!

I cannot tell. I only know It weighed him _OUT_ all right. I fail To paint that Sydney sportsman's woe.

He said the stewards were a crew Of low-lived thieves in Dandaloo.

He lifted up his voice, irate, And swore till all the air was blue; So then we rose to vindicate The dignity of Dandaloo.

'Look here,' said we, 'you must not poke Such oaths at us poor country folk.'

We rode him softly on a rail, We s.h.i.+ed at him, in careless glee, Some large tomatoes, rank and stale, And eggs of great antiquity -- Their wild, unholy fragrance flew About the town of Dandaloo.

He left the town at break of day, He led his race-horse through the streets, And now he tells the tale, they say, To every racing man he meets.

And Sydney sportsmen all eschew The atmosphere of Dandaloo.

The Geebung Polo Club

It was somewhere up the country, in a land of rock and scrub, That they formed an inst.i.tution called the Geebung Polo Club.

They were long and wiry natives from the rugged mountain side, And the horse was never saddled that the Geebungs couldn't ride; But their style of playing polo was irregular and rash -- They had mighty little science, but a mighty lot of dash: And they played on mountain ponies that were muscular and strong, Though their coats were quite unpolished, and their manes and tails were long.

And they used to train those ponies wheeling cattle in the scrub: They were demons, were the members of the Geebung Polo Club.

It was somewhere down the country, in a city's smoke and steam, That a polo club existed, called 'The Cuff and Collar Team'.

As a social inst.i.tution 'twas a marvellous success, For the members were distinguished by exclusiveness and dress.

They had natty little ponies that were nice, and smooth, and sleek, For their cultivated owners only rode 'em once a week.

So they started up the country in pursuit of sport and fame, For they meant to show the Geebungs how they ought to play the game; And they took their valets with them -- just to give their boots a rub Ere they started operations on the Geebung Polo Club.

Now my readers can imagine how the contest ebbed and flowed, When the Geebung boys got going it was time to clear the road; And the game was so terrific that ere half the time was gone A spectator's leg was broken -- just from merely looking on.

For they waddied one another till the plain was strewn with dead, While the score was kept so even that they neither got ahead.

And the Cuff and Collar Captain, when he tumbled off to die, Was the last surviving player -- so the game was called a tie.

Then the Captain of the Geebungs raised him slowly from the ground, Though his wounds were mostly mortal, yet he fiercely gazed around; There was no one to oppose him -- all the rest were in a trance, So he scrambled on his pony for his last expiring chance, For he meant to make an effort to get victory to his side; So he struck at goal -- and missed it -- then he tumbled off and died.

By the old Campaspe River, where the breezes shake the gra.s.s, There's a row of little gravestones that the stockmen never pa.s.s, For they bear a crude inscription saying, 'Stranger, drop a tear, For the Cuff and Collar players and the Geebung boys lie here.'

And on misty moonlit evenings, while the dingoes howl around, You can see their shadows flitting down that phantom polo ground; You can hear the loud collisions as the flying players meet, And the rattle of the mallets, and the rush of ponies' feet, Till the terrified spectator rides like blazes to the pub -- He's been haunted by the spectres of the Geebung Polo Club.

The Travelling Post Office

The roving breezes come and go, the reed beds sweep and sway, The sleepy river murmurs low, and loiters on its way, It is the land of lots o' time along the Castlereagh.

The old man's son had left the farm, he found it dull and slow, He drifted to the great North-west where all the rovers go.