 Section 35 of The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses by Banjo Patterson Read for Librabox.org by Tricia G. Johnson's Antidote Down along the Snakebite River where the Overlanders camp, where the serpents are in millions all of the most deadly stamp, where the station cook in terror nearly every time he bakes, mixes up among the dooboys half a dozen poison snakes, where the wily free selector walks in armor-plated pants and defies the stings of scorpions and the bites of bulldog ants, where the adder and the viper tear each other by the throat. There it was that William Johnson sought his Snakebite antidote. Johnson was a free selector and his brain went rather queer for the constant sight of serpents filled him with a deadly fear. So he tramped his free selection morning, afternoon, and night, seeking for some great specific that would cure the serpent's bite. Til King Billy of the Mookie, chieftain of the flower-bag-head, told him, Sposen Snakebite feller, feller mostly dropped down dead. Sposen Snakebite Old Goana, then you watch awhile you see Old Goana cure himself with eating little feller-tree. That's the cure, said William Johnson. Point me out this plant is a blind, but King Billy, feeling lazy, said he'd go another time. Thus it came to pass that Johnson, having got the tale by rote, followed every stray Goana seeking for the antidote. Loafing once beside the river while he thought his heart would break, there he saw a big Goana fighting with a tiger snake, and out they rolled and wriggled, bit each other hard and sore, till the valiant Old Goana swallowed his opponent whole. Breathless Johnson sat and watched him, saw him struggle up the bank, saw him nibbling at the branches of some bushes green and rank, saw him happy and contented lick his lips as off he crapped, while the bulging in his stomach showed where his opponent slept. Then a cheer of exaltation burst aloud from Johnson's throat, luck at last, said he, I've struck it, tis the famous antidote. Here it is, the Grand Elixir, greatest blessing ever known. Twenty thousand men in India die each year of snakes alone. Think of all the foreign nations, Negro, Chow and Blackamore, saved from sudden expiration by my wondrous snakebite cure. It will bring me fame and fortune in the happy days to be, men of every climate nation will be round to gaze on me. Scientific men in thousands, men of mark and men of note, rushing down the Mookie River after Johnson's antidote. It will cure delirium tremens when the patient's eyeballs stare at imaginary spiders, snakes which really are not there. When he thinks he sees them wriggle, when he thinks he sees them bloat, it will cure him just to think of Johnson's snakebite antidote. Then he rushed to the museum, found a scientific man. Trot me out a deadly serpent, just the deadliest you can. I intend to let him bite me, all the risk I will endure, just to prove the sterling value of my wondrous snakebite cure. Even though an adder bit me, back to life again I'd float. Snakes are out of date, I tell you, since I've found the antidote. Said the scientific person, if you really want to die, go ahead. But if you're doubtful, let your sheepdog have a try. Get a pair of dogs and try it. Let the snake give both a nip. Give your dog the snakebite mixture. Let the other fellow rip. If he dies and yours survives him, then it proves the thing is good. Will you fetch your dog and try it? Johnson rather thought he would. So he went and fetched his canine, hauled him forward by the throat. Stump old man, says he, will show them weave the genwine antidote. Both the dogs were duly loaded with the poison gland's contents. Johnson gave his dog the mixture, then sat down to wait events. Mark, he said, in twenty minutes Stump'll be a rushing round, while the other wretched creature lies a corpse upon the ground. But alas for William Johnson, ere they'd watched a half hour's spell, Stumpy was as dead as mutton, Tother Dog was live and well. And the scientific person hurried off with utmost speed, tested Johnson's drug, and found it was a deadly poison weed. Half a tumbler killed an emu, half a spoonful killed a goat. All the snakes on earth were harmless to that awful antidote. Down along the Mookie River on the Overlander's camp, where the serpents are in millions, all of the most deadly stamp, wanders daily William Johnson down among those poisonous hordes, shooting every stray gawana, calls them black and yellow frauds, and King Billy of the Mookie, caging for the cast-off coat, somehow seems to dodge the subject of the snake-bite antidote. End of Section 35. This recording is in the public domain. Ambition and Art Ambition I am the maid of the lustrous eyes of great fruition whom the sons of men that are overwise have called Ambition. And the world's success is the only goal I have within me, the meanest man with the smallest soul, may woo and win me. For the lust of power and the pride of place to all I proffer, wilt they'll take thy part in the crowded race for what I offer? The choice is thine and the world is wide, thy path is lonely. I may not lead, and I may not guide, I urge thee only. I am just a whip and a spur that smites to fierce endeavour. In the restless days and the sleepless nights, I urge thee ever. Thou shalt wake from sleep with a startled cry in fright up leaping at a rival's step as it passes by whilst thou art sleeping. Honor and truth shall be overthrown. In fierce desire thou shalt use thy friend as a stepping-stone to mount thee higher. When the curtain falls on the sordid strife that seems so splendid thou shalt look with pain on the wasted life that thou hast ended. Thou hast sold thy life for a good and small. In fitful flashes there has been reward, but the end of all is dust and ashes. For the night has come, and it brings to nought, though projects cherished. And thine epitah shall in brass be wrought, he lived and perished. Art I wait for thee at the outer gate, my love, mine only, wherefore terriers thou so late while I am lonely? Thou shalt seek my side with a footstep swift, in thee implanted is the love of art and the greatest gift that God has granted. And the world's concerned with its rights and wrongs shall seem but small things. Poet or painter, a singer of songs, thine art is all things. For the wine of life is a woman's love to keep beside thee, but the love of art is a thing above a star to guide thee. As the years go by with thy love of art all undiminished, thou shalt end thy days with a quiet heart, though work is finished. So the painter fashions a picture strong that fadeeth never, and the singer singeth a wondrous song that lives forever. End of Section 36 This recording is in the public domain. Recording by Linda Ferguson. Section 37 of The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses by Banjoe Patterson readforlibrebox.org The Daylight is Dying The daylight is dying away in the west. The wild birds are flying in silence to rest. In leafage and frondage where shadows are deep they pass to its bondage, the kingdom of sleep. And watched in their sleeping by stars in the height, they rest in your keeping, O wonderful night. When night doth her glories of star shine unfold tis then that the stories of bushland are told. Unnumbered I hold them in memories bright, but who could unfold them or read them are right. Beyond all denials the stars in their glories, the breeze in the miles are part of these stories. The waving of grasses, the song of the river that sings as it passes, the ever and ever, the hobble chains rattle, the calling of birds, the lowing of cattle must blend with the words. Without these indeed you would find it erlong as though I should read you the words of the song that lonely would linger when lacking the room, the voice of the singer, the look of the tune. But as one half hearing an old time refrain with memory clearing recalls it again. These tales roughly wrought at the bush and its ways may call back a thought at the wandering days and blending with each in the memories that throng their happily shall reach you some echo of song. End of Section 37 This recording is in the public domain. Section 38 of The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses by Banjo Patterson Read for LibriVox.org by David Lauren In Defense of the Bush So you're back from the upcountry, Mr. Townsman, where you went and you're cursing all the business in a bitter discontent. Well, we grieve to disappoint you and it makes us sad to hear that it wasn't cool and shady and there wasn't plenty beer. And the Looney Bullock snorted when you first came into view. Well, you know it's not so often that he sees a swell like you. And the roads were hot and dusty and the plains were burnt and brown and no doubt you're better suited drinking lemon squash in town. Yet for chance if you should journey down the very track you went in a month or two at furthest you would wonder what it meant. Where the sun-baked earth was gasping like a creature in its pain you would find the grasses waving like a field of summer grain. And the miles of thirsty gutters blocked with sand and choked with mud you would find them muddy rivers with a turbid, sweeping flood. For the rain and drought and sunshine make no changes in the street in the sullen line of buildings and the ceaseless tramp of feet. But the bush hath moods and changes as the seasons rise and fall and the men who know the bushland they're loyal through it all. But you found the bush was dismal and a land of no delight. Did you chance to hear a chorus in the shearers huts at night? Did they rise up William Riley by the campfire's cheery blaze? Did they rise him as we rose him in the good old droving days? And the women of the homesteads and the men you chance to meet were their faces sour and saddened like the faces in the street and the shy selector children, were they better now or worse than the little city urchins who would greet you with a curse? It's not such a life much better than the squalid street and square where the fallen women flaunt it in the fierce electric glare where the seamstress plies her sewing till her eyes are sore and red in a filthy dirty attic toiling on for daily bread. Did you hear no sweeter voices in the music of the bush than the roar of trams and buses and the war whoop of the push? Did the magpies rouse your slumbers with their carols sweet and strange? Did you hear the silver chiming of the billbirds on the range? But perchance the wild bird's music by your senses was despised. For you say you'll stay in townships till the bush is civilised. Would you make it a tea garden and on Sundays have a band where the blokes might take their donnas, with a public close at hand? You'd better stick to Sydney and make merry with the push, for the bush will never suit you and you'll never suit the bush. End of section 38. This recording is in the public domain. Recorded by David Lawrence in Brampton, Ontario, March 2009. Section 39 of The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses by Banjo Patterson. Renfrew Libra Rocks by Aeneas. Last week. Oh, the new chum went to the back block run, but he should have gone there last week. He tramped ten miles with a loaded gun, but of turkey or duck he saw never a one. For he should have been there last week, they said. There were flocks of them there last week. He wended his way to a waterfall, and he should have gone there last week. He carried a camera, legs and all, but the day was hot and the stream was small. For he should have gone there last week, they said. They drowned a man there last week. He went for a drive, and he made a start, which should have been made last week. For the old horse died of a broken heart. So he footed at home, and he dragged the cart. But the horse was all right last week, they said. He trotted a match last week. So he asked the bushies who came from far to visit the town last week. If they'd dined with him, and they said hurrah! But there wasn't a drop in the whiskey jar. He should have been here last week, he said. I drank it all up last week. End of Section 39. This recording is in the public domain. Section 40 of The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses by Banjo Patterson Read for LibriVox.org by Timothy Ferguson. Those names. The shears sat in the firelight, hearty and hail and strong, after the hard day shearing, passing the joke along. The ring of the chore a hundred as they never were shorn before, and the novice who, toiling bravely, had Tommy hawked half a score. The tarboy, the cook, and the slushy, the sweeper that swept the board, the picker up and the penner with the rest of the shearing hoard. There were men from the inland stations where the skies like a furnace glow, and men from the Snowy River, the land of the frozen snow, there were swarthy Queensland drovers who reckoned all land by miles, and farmer's sons from the Murray, where many a vineyard smiles. They started to telling stories when they weary of cards and games, and to give these stories a flavour they threw in some local names, and a man from the Bleak Monaro, away on the table-end, he fixed his eyes on the ceiling, and he started to play his hand. He told them of Agin Toothbong, where the pine-clad mountains freeze, and the weight of the snow in summer breaks the branches off the trees, and as he warmed to the business he let them have it strong, Nimitybell, Canago, Wio, Longongalong. He lingered over them fondly, because they recalled to mind a thought of the old bush homestead and the girl that he left behind. Then the shearers all sat silent till a man in the corner rose, said he, said he, I've travelled to plenty, but I've never heard names like those. Out in the western districts, out on the council ray, most of the names are easy, short for a man to say. You've heard of Mungry Bambone and the Gundabluy Pine, Kubotha, Jury Lambone, and Tehramungamine? Guambone, Yunoni Horeenya, We War, and Bunty Joe? But the rest of the shearers stopped him, for the sake of your jaw goes slow. If you reckon those names are short ones, out where such names prevail, just try and remember some long ones before you begin the tale. And the man from the western district, though never a word he said, just winked with his dexter eyelid, and then he retired to bed. End of Section 40 This recording is in the public domain. Section 41 Of the Man from Snowy River and Other Verses by Banjo Patterson Read for Librabox.org A Bush Crisseling On the out of Ba'ku, where the churches are few, and men of religion are scanty, on a road never crossed, set by folks that are lost, one Michael McGee had a shanty. Now this Mike was the dad of a ten-year-old lad, plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned. He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest, for the youngster had never been christened. And his wife used to cry if the darling should die, St. Peter would not recognise him, but by luck he survived till the preacher arrived, who agreed straight away to baptise him. Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue, with his ear to the keyhole, was listening, and he muttered in fright while his features turned white, what the devil and all is his christening. He was none of your adults, he had seen them brain-cults, and it seemed to his small understanding, if the man in the frock made him one of the flock, it must mean something very like branding. So away with a rush he set off for the bush, while the tears in his eyelids they glistened. Tis outrageous says he, to brain youngsters like me, I'll be dashed if I'll stop to be christened. Like a young native dog he ran into a lull, and his father, with language uncivil, never heeding the praise cried aloud in his haste, come out and be christened, you devil. But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug, and his parents in vain might reprove him, till his reverence spoke, he was fond of a joke. I've a notion, says he, that I'll move him. Poker stick up the log, give the spell-peener prog, poke him, A.C., don't hurt him or maim him. Tis not long that he'll stand, I've the water at hand, as he rushes out this end, I'll name him. Here he comes, and for shame, you've forgotten my name. Is it Patsy or Michael or Dennis? He the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout, take your chance anyhow with McGinnis. As the howling young cub ran away to the scrub, where he knew that pursuit would be risky, the priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his head that was labeled McGinnis whiskey. And McGinnis McGee has been made a JP, and the one thing he hates more than sin is, to be asked by the folk who have heard of the joke, he came to be christened McGinnis. End of section 41 This recording is in the public domain. Section 42 of The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses by Banjo Patterson Readful LibriVox.org by Magdalena Cook How the Favourite Beat Us Hey, Sister Boozer, I tell you it's true, sir. I once was a punter with plenty of pelf, but gone is my glory. I'll tell you the story, how I stiffened my horse and got stiffened myself. Twas a mare called Cracker, I came down to back her, but found she was favourite all of a rush. The folk just did pour on to lay six to four on, and several bookies were killed in the crush. It seems Ultamata was stiff, though a starter. They reckoned him fit for the corfield to keep. The bloke and the donor were scratched by their owner. He only was offered three-fourths of the sweep. We knew Salamander was slow as a gander. The mare could have beat him the length of the straight. An old money-mission was out of condition, and most of the others were running off-weight. No doubt someone blew it for everyone knew it. The bets were all gone, and I muttered in spite. If I can't get a copper by Jingo Ulstopper, let the public fall in, it'll serve the brute's right. I said to the jockey, now listen, my cocky, because you're cantering down by the stand. I'll wait where the toff is, and give you the offers. You're only to win if I lift up my hand. I then tried to back her. What price is the cracker? Our books are all full, sir, each book he did swear. My mind then I made up, my fortune I played up. I bet every shilling against my own mare. I strolled to the gateway. The mare in the straightway was shifting and dancing and pouring the ground. The boy saw me enter and wheeled for his canter and the mosquito came bussing around. They breed him at a Hexham. It's risky to vex him. They suck a man dry at a sitting, no doubt. But just as the mare passed, he fluttered my hair past. I lifted my hand and I flatted him out. I was stunned when they started. The mare simply darted away to the front when the flag was let fall. For none there could match her, and none tried to catch her. She finished a furlong in front of them all. You bet that I went for the boy whom I sent for. The moment he weighed and came out of the stand. Who paid you to win it? Come, own up this minute. Lord Lovia said he, why you lifted your hand. To astrue by St. Peter that cursed musketeer 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. End of section 42. This recording is in the public domain. Section 43 of The Man From Snowy River and Other Verses by Banjo Patterson Read for LibriVox.org by Tricia G. The Great Calamity MacPherson came to Whiskeyhurst when summer days were hot and bided there with Jacques McThirst, a Brani brother Scott. Good faith they made the Whiskey fly like Highland Chieftains true, and when they drunk the beaker dry they sang, we are Nefu. There is Nefouk like Ureain Fouk, said Gallant and say true. They sang the only Scottish joke which is, we are Nefu. Said Bould McThirst, let Saxon's jaw aboot their great concerns. But Bonnie Scotland beats Amma, the land of cakes and burns, the land of partridge, deer and grouse. Fill up your glass, I beg. There's muckle Whiskey in the house and say what's in the keg. And here a hearty laugh he laughed, just come with me, I beg. MacPherson saw with pleasure daft a fifty-gallon keg. Losh man, that's grand, MacPherson cried, saw ever man the like, now with the daylight I'm on ride to meet a southern tyke. But I'll be back airsummer's gone, so bide for me, I beg. We'll make a grand assault upon Yandevil of a keg. MacPherson rode to Whiskeyhurst when summer days were gone and there he met with Jock McThirst, was greetin' all alone. MacThirst, what guards ye look say blank? Have all your wits gained daft? Has that accursed southern bank called up your overdraft? Is all your grass burned up with drought? Is woollen tides gone flat? MacThirst replied, good friend in truth, tis muckle war than that. Has Ser Miss Fortune cursed your life that you should weep say free? Is harm upon your Bonnie wife, the children at your knee? Escape upon your house in haim? MacThirst upraised his head. My bairns had done the deed of shame, for better they were dead. To think my Bonnie infant son should do the deed of guilt, he let the waskeys spick it run and all the waskeys spilt. Upon them both these words did bring a solemn silence deep. Good faith it is a fearsome thing to see two strong men weep. End of Section 43 This recording is in the public domain. Section 44 Of the Man from Snowy River and Other Verses by Banjo Patterson read for Librebox.org by Magdalena Cook. Come by chance. As I pondered very weary over a volume long and dreary, for the plot was void of interest, towards the postal guide in fact. There I learnt the true location, distance, size and population of each township, town and village in the radius off the act. And I learnt that Pucker Widgie stands beside the Murrumbidgie and that Burla Roy and Bumble get their letters twice a year. Also that the post-inspector when he visited Collector closed the office up Instanta and reopened Dungalia. But my languid mood forsook me when I found a name that took me. Quiet by chance I came across it. Come by chance was what I read. No location was assigned it, not a thing to help one find it. Just an N which stood for Northwood and the rest was all unsaid. I shall leave my home and forthward wander stoutly to the Northwood, till I come by chance across it and I'll straightway settle down, for there can't be any hurry nor the slightest course 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 rangers where a wiry young Australian leads a pack-horse once a week. And the good news grows by keeping and you spared the pain of weeping over bad news when the mailman drops the letters in the creek. But I fear and morse 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 feasts and ever. It is just the careless country where the dreamers only go. Though we work in 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 impotune but the fickle God is fortune deals him out his pain or pleasure careless what his worth may be. All the happy times and tracing days of sport and nights of dancing moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moonlit rides, moon of Killie'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 Killie's Hill. Better it is that they near come back. Changes and chances are quickly rung. Now the old homestead has gone to rack. Green is the grass 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 Killie's Hill. Where are the children that throve and grew in the old homestead in days gone by? One is away on the far buck coo, 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. Fane would be done with the restless strife. Fane would go back to the old bush-life. Back to the shadow of Killie's Hill. One is away on the roving quest, seeking his share of the golden spoil, out in the wastes of the trackless west. Wondering 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 a sound out on the range as on holy ground. Under the shadow of Killie's Hill. End of section 45. This recording is in the public domain. Section 46 of The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses by Banjo Patterson, read for LibriVox.org by Isabella. Jim Caru. Born of a thoroughbred English race, well proportioned and closely knit, neater figure and handsome face, always ready and always fit, hard and wiry of limb and through. That was the ne'er-do-well Jim Caru. One of the sons of the good old land, many a year since his life was known. Never a game, but he took command. Never a sport, but he held his own. Gained at his college a triple blue. Good as they make them was Jim Caru. Came to grief. Was it card or horse? Nobody asked and nobody cared. Ship him away to the bush, of course. Ne'er-do-well fellows are easily spared. Only if women a tolerable few, soared at parting with Jim Caru. Gentleman Jim on the cattle cap, sitting his horse with an easy grace, but the reckless living has left its stamp in the deep drawn lines of that handsome face, and a harder look in those eyes of blue. Prompt at a quarrel is Jim Caru. Billy the Lasha was out for gore, twelve-stone navvy with chest of hair, when he opened out with a hungry roar. On a ten-stone man it was hardly fair, but his wife was wise if his face she knew by the time you were done with him, Jim Caru. Gentleman Jim in the stockman's hut, works with them, toils with them side by side. As to his past, well, his lips are shut. Gentleman once, say his mates with pride, and the wildest cornstalk can ne'er out-do in feats of recklessness, Jim Caru. What should he live for? A dull despair, drink his master and drags him down, water of lift that drowns all care. Gentleman Jim has a lot to drown, and reigns as king with a drunken crew, sinking to misery, Jim Caru. Such is the end of the ne'er-do-well, Jimmy the Boozer, all down a teal, but he straightens up when he's asked to tell his name and race, and a flash of steel still lightens up in those eyes of blue. I am, or no, I was, Jim Caru. End of section 46. This is a recording as in the public domain recorded by Isabella. Section 47 from the Mandarin Stow River and Other Verses by Banjo Patterson, read for LibriVox.org by Isabella. The Swagman's Rest We buried old Bob with the blood-woods wave at the foot of the eagle hawk. We fashioned a cross on the old man's grave for fear that his ghost might walk. We carved his name on a blood-wood tree with the date of his sad disease, and in the place of dive from effects of spree, we wrote, may he rest in peace. For Bob was known on the overland a regular old bush wag, trampling along in the dust and sand, humping his well-worn swag. He would camp for days in the riverbed and loiter and fish for whales. I'm into the Swagman's yard, he said, and I never shall find the rails.