Rio Grande's Last Race & Other Verses Part 1

Rio Grande's Last Race and Other Verses.

by Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson.

Rio Grande's Last Race

Now this was what Macpherson told While waiting in the stand; A reckless rider, over-bold, The only man with hands to hold The rus.h.i.+ng Rio Grande.

He said, 'This day I bid good-bye To bit and bridle rein, To ditches deep and fences high, For I have dreamed a dream, and I Shall never ride again.

'I dreamt last night I rode this race That I to-day must ride, And cant'ring down to take my place I saw full many an old friend's face Come stealing to my side.

'Dead men on horses long since dead, They cl.u.s.tered on the track; The champions of the days long fled, They moved around with noiseless tread -- Bay, chestnut, brown, and black.

'And one man on a big grey steed Rode up and waved his hand; Said he, "We help a friend in need, And we have come to give a lead To you and Rio Grande.

'"For you must give the field the slip, So never draw the rein, But keep him moving with the whip, And if he falter -- set your lip And rouse him up again.

'"But when you reach the big stone wall, Put down your bridle hand And let him sail -- he cannot fall -- But don't you interfere at all; You trust old Rio Grande."

'We started, and in front we showed, The big horse running free: Right fearlessly and game he strode, And by my side those dead men rode Whom no one else could see.

'As silently as flies a bird, They rode on either hand; At every fence I plainly heard The phantom leader give the word, "Make room for Rio Grande!"

'I spurred him on to get the lead, I chanced full many a fall; But swifter still each phantom steed Kept with me, and at racing speed We reached the big stone wall.

'And there the phantoms on each side Drew in and blocked his leap; "Make room! make room!" I loudly cried, But right in front they seemed to ride -- I cursed them in my sleep.

'He never flinched, he faced it game, He struck it with his chest, And every stone burst out in flame, And Rio Grande and I became As phantoms with the rest.

'And then I woke, and for a s.p.a.ce All nerveless did I seem; For I have ridden many a race, But never one at such a pace As in that fearful dream.

'And I am sure as man can be That out upon the track, Those phantoms that men cannot see Are waiting now to ride with me, And I shall not come back.

'For I must ride the dead men's race, And follow their command; 'Twere worse than death, the foul disgrace If I should fear to take my place To-day on Rio Grande.'

He mounted, and a jest he threw, With never sign of gloom; But all who heard the story knew That Jack Macpherson, brave and true, Was going to his doom.

They started, and the big black steed Came flas.h.i.+ng past the stand; All single-handed in the lead He strode along at racing speed, The mighty Rio Grande.

But on his ribs the whalebone stung, A madness it did seem!

And soon it rose on every tongue That Jack Macpherson rode among The creatures of his dream.

He looked to left and looked to right, As though men rode beside; And Rio Grande, with foam-flecks white, Raced at his jumps in headlong flight And cleared them in his stride.

But when they reached the big stone wall, Down went the bridle-hand, And loud we heard Macpherson call, 'Make room, or half the field will fall!

Make room for Rio Grande!'

'He's down! he's down!' And horse and man Lay quiet side by side!

No need the pallid face to scan, We knew with Rio Grande he ran The race the dead men ride.

By the Grey Gulf-water

Far to the Northward there lies a land, A wonderful land that the winds blow over, And none may fathom nor understand The charm it holds for the restless rover; A great grey chaos -- a land half made, Where endless s.p.a.ce is and no life stirreth; And the soul of a man will recoil afraid From the sphinx-like visage that Nature weareth.

But old Dame Nature, though scornful, craves Her dole of death and her share of slaughter; Many indeed are the nameless graves Where her victims sleep by the Grey Gulf-water.

Slowly and slowly those grey streams glide, Drifting along with a languid motion, Lapping the reed-beds on either side, Wending their way to the Northern Ocean.

Grey are the plains where the emus pa.s.s Silent and slow, with their staid demeanour; Over the dead men's graves the gra.s.s Maybe is waving a trifle greener.

Down in the world where men toil and spin Dame Nature smiles as man's hand has taught her; Only the dead men her smiles can win In the great lone land by the Grey Gulf-water.

For the strength of man is an insect's strength In the face of that mighty plain and river, And the life of a man is a moment's length To the life of the stream that will run for ever.

And so it cometh they take no part In small-world worries; each hardy rover Rideth abroad and is light of heart, With the plains around and the blue sky over.

And up in the heavens the brown lark sings The songs that the strange wild land has taught her; Full of thanksgiving her sweet song rings -- And I wish I were back by the Grey Gulf-water.

With the Cattle

The drought is down on field and flock, The river-bed is dry; And we must s.h.i.+ft the starving stock Before the cattle die.

We muster up with weary hearts At breaking of the day, And turn our heads to foreign parts, To take the stock away.

And it's hunt 'em up and dog 'em, And it's get the whip and flog 'em, For it's weary work is droving when they're dying every day; By stock-routes bare and eaten, On dusty roads and beaten, With half a chance to save their lives we take the stock away.

We cannot use the whip for shame On beasts that crawl along; We have to drop the weak and lame, And try to save the strong; The wrath of G.o.d is on the track, The drought fiend holds his sway, With blows and cries and stockwhip crack We take the stock away.

As they fall we leave them lying, With the crows to watch them dying, Grim s.e.xtons of the Overland that fasten on their prey; By the fiery dust-storm drifting, And the mocking mirage s.h.i.+fting, In heat and drought and hopeless pain we take the stock away.

In dull despair the days go by With never hope of change, But every stage we draw more nigh Towards the mountain range; And some may live to climb the pa.s.s, And reach the great plateau, And revel in the mountain gra.s.s, By streamlets fed with snow.

As the mountain wind is blowing It starts the cattle lowing, And calling to each other down the dusty long array; And there speaks a grizzled drover: 'Well, thank G.o.d, the worst is over, The creatures smell the mountain gra.s.s that's twenty miles away.'

They press towards the mountain gra.s.s, They look with eager eyes Along the rugged stony pa.s.s, That slopes towards the skies; Their feet may bleed from rocks and stones, But though the blood-drop starts, They struggle on with stifled groans, For hope is in their hearts.

And the cattle that are leading, Though their feet are worn and bleeding, Are breaking to a kind of run -- pull up, and let them go!

For the mountain wind is blowing, And the mountain gra.s.s is growing, They settle down by running streams ice-cold with melted snow.

The days are done of heat and drought Upon the stricken plain; The wind has s.h.i.+fted right about, And brought the welcome rain; The river runs with sullen roar, All flecked with yellow foam, And we must take the road once more, To bring the cattle home.

And it's 'Lads! we'll raise a chorus, There's a pleasant trip before us.'

And the horses bound beneath us as we start them down the track; And the drovers canter, singing, Through the sweet green gra.s.ses springing, Towards the far-off mountain-land, to bring the cattle back.