Rio Grande's Last Race & Other Verses Part 3

But Rooster Hall, and his cronies two, drove home without a word.

The pa.s.sing stranger within his gates that camps with old Rooster Hall Must talk about something else than fowls, if he wishes to talk at all.

For the record lies in the local Court, and filed in its deepest vault, That Peter Hall, of the Take 'Em Down, was tried for a fierce a.s.sault On a stranger man, who, in all good faith, and prompted by what he heard, Had asked old Hall if a British Game could beat an Australian bird; And old McCrae, who was on the Bench, as soon as the case was tried, Remarked, 'Discharged with a clean discharge -- the a.s.sault was justified!'

Hay and h.e.l.l and Booligal

'You come and see me, boys,' he said; 'You'll find a welcome and a bed And whisky any time you call; Although our township hasn't got The name of quite a lively spot -- You see, I live in Booligal.

'And people have an awful down Upon the district and the town -- Which worse than h.e.l.l itself they call; In fact, the saying far and wide Along the Riverina side Is "Hay and h.e.l.l and Booligal".

'No doubt it suits 'em very well To say it's worse than Hay or h.e.l.l, But don't you heed their talk at all; Of course, there's heat -- no one denies -- And sand and dust and stacks of flies, And rabbits, too, at Booligal.

'But such a pleasant, quiet place, You never see a stranger's face -- They hardly ever care to call; The drovers mostly pa.s.s it by; They reckon that they'd rather die Than spend a night in Booligal.

'The big mosquitoes frighten some -- You'll lie awake to hear 'em hum -- And snakes about the township crawl; But shearers, when they get their cheque, They never come along and wreck The blessed town of Booligal.

'But down in Hay the shearers come And fill themselves with fighting-rum, And chase blue devils up the wall, And fight the snaggers every day, Until there is the deuce to pay -- There's none of that in Booligal.

'Of course, there isn't much to see -- The billiard-table used to be The great attraction for us all, Until some careless, drunken curs Got sleeping on it in their spurs, And ruined it, in Booligal.

'Just now there is a howling drought That pretty near has starved us out -- It never seems to rain at all; But, if there SHOULD come any rain, You couldn't cross the black-soil plain -- You'd have to stop in Booligal.'

'WE'D HAVE TO STOP!' With bated breath We prayed that both in life and death Our fate in other lines might fall: 'Oh, send us to our just reward In Hay or h.e.l.l, but, gracious Lord, Deliver us from Booligal!'

A Walgett Episode

The sun strikes down with a blinding glare, The skies are blue and the plains are wide, The saltbush plains that are burnt and bare By Walgett out on the Barwon side -- The Barwon river that wanders down In a leisurely manner by Walgett Town.

There came a stranger -- a 'c.o.c.katoo' -- The word means farmer, as all men know Who dwell in the land where the kangaroo Barks loud at dawn, and the white-eyed crow Uplifts his song on the stock-yard fence As he watches the lambkins pa.s.sing hence.

The sunburnt stranger was gaunt and brown, But it soon appeared that he meant to flout The iron law of the country town, Which is -- that the stranger has got to shout: 'If he will not shout we must take him down,'

Remarked the yokels of Walgett Town.

They baited a trap with a crafty bait, With a crafty bait, for they held discourse Concerning a new chum who of late Had bought such a thoroughly lazy horse; They would wager that no one could ride him down The length of the city of Walgett Town.

The stranger was born on a horse's hide; So he took the wagers, and made them good With his hard-earned cash -- but his hopes they died, For the horse was a clothes-horse, made of wood! -- 'Twas a well-known horse that had taken down Full many a stranger in Walgett Town.

The stranger smiled with a sickly smile -- 'Tis a sickly smile that the loser grins -- And he said he had travelled for quite a while In trying to sell some marsupial skins.

'And I thought that perhaps, as you've took me down, You would buy them from me, in Walgett Town!'

He said that his home was at Wingadee, At Wingadee where he had for sale Some fifty skins and would guarantee They were full-sized skins, with the ears and tail Complete, and he sold them for money down To a venturesome buyer in Walgett Town.

Then he smiled a smile as he pouched the pelf, 'I'm glad that I'm quit of them, win or lose: You can fetch them in when it suits yourself, And you'll find the skins -- on the kangaroos!'

Then he left -- and the silence settled down Like a tangible thing upon Walgett Town.

Father Riley's Horse

'Twas the horse thief, Andy Regan, that was hunted like a dog By the troopers of the Upper Murray side, They had searched in every gully -- they had looked in every log, But never sight or track of him they spied, Till the priest at Kiley's Crossing heard a knocking very late And a whisper 'Father Riley -- come across!'

So his Rev'rence in pyjamas trotted softly to the gate And admitted Andy Regan -- and a horse!

'Now, it's listen, Father Riley, to the words I've got to say, For its close upon my death I am to-night.

With the troopers hard behind me I've been hiding all the day In the gullies keeping close and out of sight.

But they're watching all the ranges till there's not a bird could fly, And I'm fairly worn to pieces with the strife, So I'm taking no more trouble, but I'm going home to die, 'Tis the only way I see to save my life.

'Yes, I'm making home to mother's, and I'll die o' Tuesday next An' be buried on the Thursday -- and, of course, I'm prepared to meet my penance, but with one thing I'm perplexed And it's -- Father, it's this jewel of a horse!

He was never bought nor paid for, and there's not a man can swear To his owner or his breeder, but I know, That his sire was by Pedantic from the Old Pretender mare And his dam was close related to The Roe.

'And there's nothing in the district that can race him for a step, He could canter while they're going at their top: He's the king of all the leppers that was ever seen to lep, A five-foot fence -- he'd clear it in a hop!

So I'll leave him with you, Father, till the dead shall rise again, 'Tis yourself that knows a good 'un; and, of course, You can say he's got by Moonlight out of Paddy Murphy's plain If you're ever asked the breeding of the horse!

'But it's getting on to daylight and it's time to say good-bye, For the stars above the East are growing pale.

And I'm making home to mother -- and it's hard for me to die!

But it's harder still, is keeping out of gaol!

You can ride the old horse over to my grave across the dip Where the wattle bloom is waving overhead.

Sure he'll jump them fences easy -- you must never raise the whip Or he'll rush 'em! -- now, good-bye!' and he had fled!

So they buried Andy Regan, and they buried him to rights, In the graveyard at the back of Kiley's Hill; There were five-and-twenty mourners who had five-and-twenty fights Till the very boldest fighters had their fill.

There were fifty horses racing from the graveyard to the pub, And their riders flogged each other all the while.

And the lashins of the liquor! And the lavins of the grub!

Oh, poor Andy went to rest in proper style.

Then the races came to Kiley's -- with a steeplechase and all, For the folk were mostly Irish round about, And it takes an Irish rider to be fearless of a fall, They were training morning in and morning out.

But they never started training till the sun was on the course For a superst.i.tious story kept 'em back, That the ghost of Andy Regan on a slashing chestnut horse, Had been training by the starlight on the track.

And they read the nominations for the races with surprise And amus.e.m.e.nt at the Father's little joke, For a novice had been entered for the steeplechasing prize, And they found that it was Father Riley's moke!

He was neat enough to gallop, he was strong enough to stay!

But his owner's views of training were immense, For the Reverend Father Riley used to ride him every day, And he never saw a hurdle nor a fence.

And the priest would join the laughter; 'Oh,' said he, 'I put him in, For there's five and twenty sovereigns to be won.

And the poor would find it useful, if the chestnut chanced to win, And he'll maybe win when all is said and done!'

He had called him Faugh-a-ballagh, which is French for clear the course, And his colours were a vivid shade of green: All the Dooleys and O'Donnells were on Father Riley's horse, While the Orangemen were backing Mandarin!