The Man from Snowy River Part 14

"Twas true, by St. Peter, that cursed 'muskeeter'

Had broke me so broke that I hadn't a brown, And you'll find the best course is when dealing with horses To win when you're able, and _KEEP YOUR HANDS DOWN_.

The Great Calamity

MacFierce'un came to Whiskeyhurst When summer days were hot, And bided there wi' Jock McThirst, A brawny brother Scot.

Gude Faith! They made the whisky fly, Like Highland chieftains true, And when they'd drunk the beaker dry They sang 'We are nae fou!'

'There is nae folk like oor ain folk, Sae gallant and sae true.'

They sang the only Scottish joke Which is, 'We are nae fou.'

Said bold McThirst, 'Let Saxons jaw Aboot their great concerns, But bonny Scotland beats them a', The land o' cakes and Burns, The land o' partridge, deer, and grouse, Fill up your gla.s.s, I beg, There's muckle whusky i' the house, Forbye what's in the keg.'

And here a hearty laugh he laughed, 'Just come wi' me, I beg.'

MacFierce'un saw with pleasure daft A fifty-gallon keg.

'Losh, man, that's grand,' MacFierce'un cried, 'Saw ever man the like, Now, wi' the daylight, I maun ride To meet a Southron tyke, But I'll be back ere summer's gone, So bide for me, I beg, We'll make a grand a.s.sault upon Yon deevil of a keg.'

MacFierce'un rode to Whiskeyhurst, When summer days were gone, And there he met with Jock McThirst Was greetin' all alone.

'McThirst what gars ye look sae blank?

Have all yer wits gane daft?

Has that accursed Southron bank Called up your overdraft?

Is all your gra.s.s burnt up wi' drouth?

Is wool and hides gone flat?'

McThirst replied, 'Gude friend, in truth, 'Tis muckle waur than that.'

'Has sair misfortune cursed your life That you should weep sae free?

Is harm upon your bonny wife, The children at your knee?

Is scaith upon your house and hame?'

McThirst upraised his head: 'My bairns hae done the deed of shame -- 'Twere better they were dead.

'To think my bonny infant son Should do the deed o' guilt -- _HE LET THE WHUSKEY SPIGOT RUN, AND A' THE WHUSKEY'S SPILT!_'

Upon them both these words did bring A solemn silence deep, Gude faith, it is a fearsome thing To see two strong men weep.

Come-by-Chance

As I pondered very weary o'er a volume long and dreary -- For the plot was void of interest -- 'twas the Postal Guide, in fact, There I learnt the true location, distance, size, and population Of each township, town, and village in the radius of the Act.

And I learnt that Puckawidgee stands beside the Murrumbidgee, And that Booleroi and b.u.mble get their letters twice a year, Also that the post inspector, when he visited Collector, Closed the office up instanter, and re-opened Dungalear.

But my languid mood forsook me, when I found a name that took me, Quite by chance I came across it -- 'Come-by-Chance' was what I read; No location was a.s.signed it, not a thing to help one find it, Just an N which stood for northward, and the rest was all unsaid.

I shall leave my home, and forthward wander stoutly to the northward Till I come by chance across it, and I'll straightway settle down, For there can't be any hurry, nor the slightest cause for worry Where the telegraph don't reach you nor the railways run to town.

And one's letters and exchanges come by chance across the ranges, Where a wiry young Australian leads a pack-horse once a week, And the good news grows by keeping, and you're spared the pain of weeping Over bad news when the mailman drops the letters in the creek.

But I fear, and more's the pity, that there's really no such city, For there's not a man can find it of the shrewdest folk I know, 'Come-by-chance', be sure it never means a land of fierce endeavour, It is just the careless country where the dreamers only go.

Though we work and toil and hustle in our life of haste and bustle, All that makes our life worth living comes unstriven for and free; Man may weary and importune, but the fickle G.o.ddess Fortune Deals him out his pain or pleasure, careless what his worth may be.

All the happy times entrancing, days of sport and nights of dancing, Moonlit rides and stolen kisses, pouting lips and loving glance: When you think of these be certain you have looked behind the curtain, You have had the luck to linger just a while in 'Come-by-chance'.

Under the Shadow of Kiley's Hill

This is the place where they all were bred; Some of the rafters are standing still; Now they are scattered and lost and dead, Every one from the old nest fled, Out of the shadow of Kiley's Hill.

Better it is that they ne'er came back -- Changes and chances are quickly rung; Now the old homestead is gone to rack, Green is the gra.s.s on the well-worn track Down by the gate where the roses clung.

Gone is the garden they kept with care; Left to decay at its own sweet will, Fruit trees and flower beds eaten bare, Cattle and sheep where the roses were, Under the shadow of Kiley's Hill.

Where are the children that throve and grew In the old homestead in days gone by?

One is away on the far Barcoo Watching his cattle the long year through, Watching them starve in the droughts and die.

One in the town where all cares are rife, Weary with troubles that cramp and kill, Fain would be done with the restless strife, Fain would go back to the old bush life, Back to the shadow of Kiley's Hill.

One is away on the roving quest, Seeking his share of the golden spoil, Out in the wastes of the trackless west, Wandering ever he gives the best Of his years and strength to the hopeless toil.

What of the parents? That unkept mound Shows where they slumber united still; Rough is their grave, but they sleep as sound Out on the range as on holy ground, Under the shadow of Kiley's Hill.

Jim Carew

Born of a thoroughbred English race, Well proportioned and closely knit, Neat of figure and handsome face, Always ready and always fit, Hard and wiry of limb and thew, That was the ne'er-do-well Jim Carew.