Rio Grande's Last Race & Other Verses Part 12

In the Stable

What! You don't like him; well, maybe -- we all have our fancies, of course: Brumby to look at you reckon? Well, no: he's a thoroughbred horse; Sired by a son of old Panic -- look at his ears and his head -- Lop-eared and Roman-nosed, ain't he? -- well, that's how the Panics are bred.

Gluttonous, ugly and lazy, rough as a tip-cart to ride, Yet if you offered a sovereign apiece for the hairs on his hide That wouldn't buy him, nor twice that; while I've a pound to the good, This here old stager stays by me and lives like a thoroughbred should: Hunt him away from his bedding, and sit yourself down by the wall, Till you hear how the old fellow saved me from Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall.

Gilbert and Hall and O'Maley, back in the bushranging days, Made themselves kings of the district -- ruled it in old-fas.h.i.+oned ways -- Robbing the coach and the escort, stealing our horses at night, Calling sometimes at the homesteads and giving the women a fright: Came to the station one morning -- and why they did this no one knows -- Took a brood mare from the paddock -- wanting some fun, I suppose -- Fastened a bucket beneath her, hung by a strap round her flank, Then turned her loose in the timber back of the seven-mile tank.

Go! She went mad! She went tearing and screaming with fear through the trees, While the curst bucket beneath her was banging her flanks and her knees.

Bucking and racing and screaming she ran to the back of the run, Killed herself there in a gully; by G.o.d, but they paid for their fun!

Paid for it dear, for the black-boys found tracks, and the bucket, and all, And I swore that I'd live to get even with Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall.

Day after day then I chased them -- 'course they had friends on the sly, Friends who were willing to sell them to those who were willing to buy.

Early one morning we found them in camp at the c.o.c.katoo Farm One of us shot at O'Maley and wounded him under the arm: Ran them for miles in the ranges, till Hall, with his horse fairly beat, Took to the rocks and we lost him -- the others made good their retreat.

It was war to the knife then, I tell you, and once, on the door of my shed, They nailed up a notice that offered a hundred reward for my head!

Then we heard they were gone from the district; they stuck up a coach in the West, And I rode by myself in the paddocks, taking a bit of a rest, Riding this colt as a youngster -- awkward, half-broken and shy, He wheeled round one day on a sudden; I looked, but I couldn't see why, But I soon found out why, for before me, the hillside rose up like a wall, And there on the top with their rifles were Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall!

'Twas a good three-mile run to the homestead -- bad going, with plenty of trees -- So I gathered the youngster together, and gripped at his ribs with my knees.

'Twas a mighty poor chance to escape them! It puts a man's nerve to the test On a half-broken colt to be hunted by the best mounted men in the West.

But the half-broken colt was a racehorse! He lay down to work with a will, Flashed through the scrub like a clean-skin -- by Heavens we FLEW down the hill!

Over a twenty-foot gully he swept with the spring of a deer And they fired as we jumped, but they missed me -- a bullet sang close to my ear -- And the jump gained us ground, for they s.h.i.+rked it: but I saw as we raced through the gap That the rails at the homestead were fastened -- I was caught like a rat in a trap.

Fenced with barbed wire was the paddock -- barbed wire that would cut like a knife -- How was a youngster to clear it that never had jumped in his life?

Bang went a rifle behind me -- the colt gave a spring, he was. .h.i.t; Straight at the sliprails I rode him -- I felt him take hold of the bit; Never a foot to the right or the left did he swerve in his stride, Awkward and frightened, but honest, the sort it's a pleasure to ride!

Straight at the rails, where they'd fastened barbed wire on the top of the post, Rose like a stag and went over, with hardly a scratch at the most; Into the homestead I darted, and s.n.a.t.c.hed down my gun from the wall, And I tell you I made them step lively, Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall!

Yes! There's the mark of the bullet -- he's got it inside of him yet Mixed up somehow with his victuals, but bless you he don't seem to fret!

Gluttonous, ugly, and lazy -- eats any thing he can bite; Now, let us shut up the stable, and bid the old fellow good-night: Ah! We can't breed 'em, the sort that were bred when we old 'uns were young.

Yes, I was saying, these bushrangers, none of 'em lived to be hung, Gilbert was shot by the troopers, Hall was betrayed by his friend, Campbell disposed of O'Maley, bringing the lot to an end.

But you can talk about riding -- I've ridden a lot in the past -- Wait till there's rifles behind you, you'll know what it means to go fast!

I've steeplechased, raced, and 'run horses', but I think the most das.h.i.+ng of all Was the ride when the old fellow saved me from Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall!

"He Giveth His Beloved Sleep"

The long day pa.s.ses with its load of sorrow: In slumber deep I lay me down to rest until to-morrow -- Thank G.o.d for sleep.

Thank G.o.d for all respite from weary toiling, From cares that creep Across our lives like evil shadows, spoiling G.o.d's kindly sleep.

We plough and sow, and, as the hours grow later, We strive to reap, And build our barns, and hope to build them greater Before we sleep.

We toil and strain and strive with one another In hopes to heap Some greater share of profit than our brother Before we sleep.

What will it profit that with tears or laughter Our watch we keep?

Beyond it all there lies the Great Hereafter!

Thank G.o.d for sleep!

For, at the last, beseeching Christ to save us, We turn with deep Heart-felt thanksgiving unto G.o.d, who gave us The Gift of Sleep.

Driver Smith

'Twas Driver Smith of Battery A was anxious to see a fight; He thought of the Transvaal all the day, he thought of it all the night -- 'Well, if the battery's left behind, I'll go to the war,' says he, 'I'll go a-driving an ambulance in the ranks of the A.M.C.

'I'm fairly sick of these here parades, it's want of a change that kills A-charging the Randwick Rifle Range and aiming at Surry Hills.

And I think if I go with the ambulance I'm certain to find a show, For they have to send the Medical men wherever the troops can go.

'Wherever the rifle bullets flash and the Maxims raise a din, It's there you'll find the Medical men a-raking the wounded in -- A-raking 'em in like human flies -- and a driver smart like me Will find some scope for his extra skill in the ranks of the A.M.C.'

So Driver Smith he went to the war a-cracking his driver's whip, From ambulance to collecting base they showed him his regular trip.

And he said to the boys that were marching past, as he gave his whip a crack, 'You'll walk yourselves to the fight,' says he -- 'Lord spare me, I'll drive you back.'

Now, the fight went on in the Transvaal hills for the half of a day or more, And Driver Smith he worked his trip -- all aboard for the seat of war!

He took his load from the stretcher men and hurried 'em homeward fast Till he heard a sound that he knew full well -- a battery rolling past.

He heard the clink of the leading chains and the roll of the guns behind -- He heard the crack of the drivers' whips, and he says to 'em, 'Strike me blind, I'll miss me trip with this ambulance, although I don't care to s.h.i.+rk, But I'll take the car off the line to-day and follow the guns at work.'

Then up the Battery Colonel came a-cursing 'em black in the face.

'Sit down and s.h.i.+ft 'em, you drivers there, and gallop 'em into place.'

So off the Battery rolled and swung, a-going a merry dance, And holding his own with the leading gun goes Smith with his ambulance.

They opened fire on the mountain side, a-peppering by and large, When over the hill above their flank the Boers came down at the charge; They rushed the guns with a daring rush, a-volleying left and right, And Driver Smith with his ambulance moved up to the edge of the fight.

The gunners stuck to their guns like men, and fought like the wild cats fight, For a Battery man don't leave his gun with ever a hope in sight; But the bullets sang and the Mausers cracked and the Battery men gave way, Till Driver Smith with his ambulance drove into the thick of the fray.

He saw the head of the Transvaal troop a-thundering to and fro, A hard old face with a monkey beard -- a face that he seemed to know; 'Now, who's that leader,' said Driver Smith, 'I've seen him before to-day.

Why, bless my heart, but it's Kruger's self,'

and he jumped for him straight away.

He collared old Kruger round the waist and hustled him into the van.

It wasn't according to stretcher drill for raising a wounded man; But he forced him in and said, 'All aboard, we're off for a little ride, And you'll have the car to yourself,' says he, 'I reckon we're full inside.'

He wheeled his team on the mountain side and set 'em a merry pace, A-galloping over the rocks and stones, and a lot of the Boers gave chase; But Driver Smith had a fairish start, and he said to the Boers, 'Good-day, You have Buckley's chance for to catch a man that was trained in Battery A.'

He drove his team to the hospital and said to the P.M.O., 'Beg pardon, sir, but I missed a trip, mistaking the way to go; And Kruger came to the ambulance and asked could we spare a bed, So I fetched him here, and we'll take him home to show for a bob a head.'