In the Days When the World Was Wide [15]
soon; And hobble-chains and camp-ware Keep jingling to the tune.
Beyond the hazy dado Against the lower skies And yon blue line of ranges The homestead station lies. And thitherward the drover Jogs through the lazy noon, While hobble-chains and camp-ware Are jingling to a tune.
An hour has filled the heavens With storm-clouds inky black; At times the lightning trickles Around the drover's track; But Harry pushes onward, His horses' strength he tries, In hope to reach the river Before the flood shall rise.
The thunder from above him Goes rolling o'er the plain; And down on thirsty pastures In torrents falls the rain. And every creek and gully Sends forth its little flood, Till the river runs a banker, All stained with yellow mud.
Now Harry speaks to Rover, The best dog on the plains, And to his hardy horses, And strokes their shaggy manes; `We've breasted bigger rivers When floods were at their height Nor shall this gutter stop us From getting home to-night!'
The thunder growls a warning, The ghastly lightnings gleam, As the drover turns his horses To swim the fatal stream. But, oh! the flood runs stronger Than e'er it ran before; The saddle-horse is failing, And only half-way o'er!
When flashes next the lightning, The flood's grey breast is blank, And a cattle dog and pack-horse Are struggling up the bank. But in the lonely homestead The girl will wait in vain -- He'll never pass the stations In charge of stock again.
The faithful dog a moment Sits panting on the bank, And then swims through the current To where his master sank. And round and round in circles He fights with failing strength, Till, borne down by the waters, The old dog sinks at length.
Across the flooded lowlands And slopes of sodden loam The pack-horse struggles onward, To take dumb tidings home. And mud-stained, wet, and weary, Through ranges dark goes he; While hobble-chains and tinware Are sounding eerily.
. . . . .
The floods are in the ocean, The stream is clear again, And now a verdant carpet Is stretched across the plain. But someone's eyes are saddened, And someone's heart still bleeds In sorrow for the drover Who sleeps among the reeds.
Taking His Chance
They stood by the door of the Inn on the Rise; May Carney looked up in the bushranger's eyes: `Oh! why did you come? -- it was mad of you, Jack; You know that the troopers are out on your track.' A laugh and a shake of his obstinate head -- `I wanted a dance, and I'll chance it,' he said.
Some twenty-odd bushmen had come to the `ball', But Jack from his youth had been known to them all, And bushmen are soft where a woman is fair, So the love of May Carney protected him there; And all the short evening -- it seems like romance -- She danced with a bushranger taking his chance.
`Twas midnight -- the dancers stood suddenly still, For hoofs had been heard on the side of the hill! Ben Duggan, the drover, along the hillside Came riding as only a bushman can ride. He sprang from his horse, to the shanty he sped -- `The troopers are down in the gully!' he said.
Quite close to the homestead the troopers were seen. `Clear out and ride hard for the ranges, Jack Dean! Be quick!' said May Carney -- her hand on her heart -- `We'll bluff them awhile, and 'twill give you a start.' He lingered a moment -- to kiss her, of course -- Then ran to the trees where he'd hobbled his horse.
She ran to the gate, and the troopers were there -- The jingle of hobbles came faint on the air -- Then loudly she screamed: it was only to drown The treacherous clatter of slip-rails let down. But troopers are sharp, and she saw at a glance That someone was taking a desperate chance.
They chased, and they shouted, `Surrender, Jack Dean!' They called him three times in the name of the Queen. Then came from the darkness the clicking of locks; The crack of the rifles was heard in the rocks! A shriek and a shout, and a rush of pale men -- And there lay the bushranger, chancing it then.
The sergeant dismounted and knelt on
Beyond the hazy dado Against the lower skies And yon blue line of ranges The homestead station lies. And thitherward the drover Jogs through the lazy noon, While hobble-chains and camp-ware Are jingling to a tune.
An hour has filled the heavens With storm-clouds inky black; At times the lightning trickles Around the drover's track; But Harry pushes onward, His horses' strength he tries, In hope to reach the river Before the flood shall rise.
The thunder from above him Goes rolling o'er the plain; And down on thirsty pastures In torrents falls the rain. And every creek and gully Sends forth its little flood, Till the river runs a banker, All stained with yellow mud.
Now Harry speaks to Rover, The best dog on the plains, And to his hardy horses, And strokes their shaggy manes; `We've breasted bigger rivers When floods were at their height Nor shall this gutter stop us From getting home to-night!'
The thunder growls a warning, The ghastly lightnings gleam, As the drover turns his horses To swim the fatal stream. But, oh! the flood runs stronger Than e'er it ran before; The saddle-horse is failing, And only half-way o'er!
When flashes next the lightning, The flood's grey breast is blank, And a cattle dog and pack-horse Are struggling up the bank. But in the lonely homestead The girl will wait in vain -- He'll never pass the stations In charge of stock again.
The faithful dog a moment Sits panting on the bank, And then swims through the current To where his master sank. And round and round in circles He fights with failing strength, Till, borne down by the waters, The old dog sinks at length.
Across the flooded lowlands And slopes of sodden loam The pack-horse struggles onward, To take dumb tidings home. And mud-stained, wet, and weary, Through ranges dark goes he; While hobble-chains and tinware Are sounding eerily.
. . . . .
The floods are in the ocean, The stream is clear again, And now a verdant carpet Is stretched across the plain. But someone's eyes are saddened, And someone's heart still bleeds In sorrow for the drover Who sleeps among the reeds.
Taking His Chance
They stood by the door of the Inn on the Rise; May Carney looked up in the bushranger's eyes: `Oh! why did you come? -- it was mad of you, Jack; You know that the troopers are out on your track.' A laugh and a shake of his obstinate head -- `I wanted a dance, and I'll chance it,' he said.
Some twenty-odd bushmen had come to the `ball', But Jack from his youth had been known to them all, And bushmen are soft where a woman is fair, So the love of May Carney protected him there; And all the short evening -- it seems like romance -- She danced with a bushranger taking his chance.
`Twas midnight -- the dancers stood suddenly still, For hoofs had been heard on the side of the hill! Ben Duggan, the drover, along the hillside Came riding as only a bushman can ride. He sprang from his horse, to the shanty he sped -- `The troopers are down in the gully!' he said.
Quite close to the homestead the troopers were seen. `Clear out and ride hard for the ranges, Jack Dean! Be quick!' said May Carney -- her hand on her heart -- `We'll bluff them awhile, and 'twill give you a start.' He lingered a moment -- to kiss her, of course -- Then ran to the trees where he'd hobbled his horse.
She ran to the gate, and the troopers were there -- The jingle of hobbles came faint on the air -- Then loudly she screamed: it was only to drown The treacherous clatter of slip-rails let down. But troopers are sharp, and she saw at a glance That someone was taking a desperate chance.
They chased, and they shouted, `Surrender, Jack Dean!' They called him three times in the name of the Queen. Then came from the darkness the clicking of locks; The crack of the rifles was heard in the rocks! A shriek and a shout, and a rush of pale men -- And there lay the bushranger, chancing it then.
The sergeant dismounted and knelt on