 Section 1 of The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses by Banjoe Patterson Read for LibriVox.org by Christoph Dongers Preface and Prelude The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses by A.B. Patterson, The Banjoe, with Preface by Rolf Bouldlewood Preface It is not easy to write ballads descriptive of the bushland of Australia, as unlike consideration would appear. Reasonably good verse on the subject has been supplied into efficient quantity. But the maker of folk songs for our newborn nation requires a somewhat rare combination of gifts and experiences. Doured with the poet's heart, he must yet have passed his von der Gea amid the stern solitude of austral waste. Must have ridden the race in the back block township, guided by the reckless stock horse, down the mountain spur, and followed the night long moving, spectral seeming herd in the driving days. Amid such scarce congenial surroundings comes off that finer sense which renders visible bright gleams of humour, pathos and romance, which like undiscovered gold await the fortunate adventurer. That the author has touched this treasure trove, not less delicately than distinctly, no true Australian will deny. In my opinion, this collection comprises the best bush ballads written since the death of Lindsay Gordon, Rolf Bouldlewood. A number of these verses are now published for the first time. Most of the others were written for and appeared in The Bulletin, sitting in New South Wales, and are therefore already widely known to readers in Australasia. A. B. Patterson. Perleute. I have gathered these stories afar in the wind and the rain, in the land where the cattle camps are, on the edge of the plain, on the overland routes of the west where the watchers were long. I have fashioned in earnest and jest these fragments of song. They are just the rude stories one hears in sadness and mirth. The records of wandering years and scant is their worth. Though their merits indeed are but slight, I shall not repine. If they give you one moment's delight, old comrades of mine. End of Section 1. This recording is in the public domain. Section 2 of The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses by Benjo Patterson. Read for LibriVox.org by Christoph Dongers. The Man from Snowy River. There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around that the cult from old regret had got away and had joined the wild bush horses. He was worth a thousand pound, so all the cracks had gathered to the fray. All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far had mustered at the homestead overnight. For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are and the stock horse snuffs the battle with delight. There was Harrison who made his pile when pardon won the cup. The old man with his hair as white as snow. But few could ride beside him when his bud was fairly up. He would go wherever horse and man could go. And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand. No better horseman ever held the reins. Or never horse could throw him while the saddle girth would stand. He learned to ride while driving on the plains. And one was there a stripling on a small and weedy beast. He was something like a racehorse undersized. With a touch of team or pony, three parts thoroughbred at least. And such as are by mountain horsemen prized. He was hard and tough and worry, just the sort that won't say die. He had courage in his quick impatient tread. And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye and the proud and lofty carriage of his head. But still so slight and weedy one would doubt his power to stay and the old man said that horse will never do. For a long and tiring gallop lad you'd better stop away. Those hills are far too rough for such as you. He waited sad and wistful, only clancy stood his friend. I think we ought to let him come, he said. I'll warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted to the end for both his horse and he are mountain bread. He hails from Snowy River up by Cosciusco's side where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough, where a horse hoof struck the fire-light from the Flintstones every stride and the man that holds his own is good enough. And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home where the river runs those giant hills between. I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to Rome, but nowhere yet such a horsemen have I seen. So he went they found the horses by the Big Mimosa clump, they raced away towards the mountain's brow. And the old man gave his orders, boys go at them from the jump, no use to try fancy riding now. And Clancy you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right, ride boldly lad and never fear the spills. For never yet was rider that could keep them of insight if they gain the shelter of those hills. So Clancy rode to wheel them, he was racing on the wing where the best and boldest riders take their place. And he raced his stock horse past them and he made the rangers ring with the stock whip as he met them face to face. Then they halted for a moment while he swung the dreaded lash but they saw their world love mountain full in view. And they charged beneath the stock whip with a sharp and sudden dash and off into the mountain scrub they flew. Then fast the horsemen followed where the gorges deep and black resounded to the thunder of their tread and the stock whip woke the echoes and they fiercely answered back from the cliffs and crags that beatled overhead and upward ever upward the wild horses hailed their way where the mountain ash and Karawong grew wide and so the old man muttered fiercely we may bid them a good day no man can hold them down that other side. When they reached the mountain summit even Clancy took a pull it well might make the boldest hold their breath. The wild hop scrub grew thickly and the hidden ground was full of wombat holes and he slipped with death but the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head and he swung his stock whip round and gave a cheer and he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed while the others stood and watched in very fear. He sent the Flintstones flying but the pony kept his feet he cleared the fallen timber in his stride and the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat to see that mountain horseman ride. Through the stringy barks and saplings on the rough and broken ground down the hillside at a racing pace he went and he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound at the bottom of that terrible descent. He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill and the watches on the mountain standing mute saw him ply the stock whip fiercely he was right among them still as he raced across the clearing in pursuit and they lost him for a moment where the two mountain gullies met in the rangers but a final glimpse reveals on a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet with the man from Snowy River at their heels and he ran them single handed till their sides were white with foam he followed like a bloodhound on the track till they halted coward and beaten and he turned their heads for home and a lone and unassisted brought them back but his hearty mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot he was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur but his pluck was still undaunted and his courage fiery hot for never yet was mountain horse occur and down by Cosiosco where the pine clad ridges raise their torn and rugged battlements on high where the air is clear as crystal and the white stars fairly blaze at midnight on that cold and frosty sky to where around the overflow the reedbed sweepens way to the breezes and the rolling plains are white the man from Snowy River is a household word today and the stockman tell the story of his ride End of Section 2 This recording is in the public domain Section 3 of The Man from Snowy River and other verses by Banjo Patterson Readful LibriVox.org by Magdalena Cook Old Pardon, the Son of Reprieve You never heard tell of the story? Well now I can hardly believe Never heard of the honour and glory of Pardon, the Son of Reprieve But maybe you're only a Johnny and don't know a horse from a hoe Well, well, don't get angry my sonny but really a young one should know They bred him out back on the never his mother was Mamaluki breed to the front and then stay there was ever the root of the Mamaluki creed he seemed to inherit their wiry strong frames and their pluck to receive as hard as a flint and as fiery was Pardon the Son of Reprieve We ran him at many a meeting at Crossing and Gully in town and nothing could give him a beating at least when our money was down for weight wouldn't stop him nor distance nor odds though the others were fast he'd race with a dogged persistence and wear them all down at the last at the Turron the Yattondon filly led by lengths at the mile and a half and we all began to look silly while her crowd was starting to laugh but the old horse came faster and faster his pluck told its tail and his strength he gained on her caught her and passed her and won it hands down by a length and then we swooped down on Menindy to run for the president's cup oh that's a sweet township a shindy to them is bored lodging and supp eye open as they are and their system is never to suffer the defeat it's wind tire wrangle to best them you must lose them or else it's dead heat we strolled down the township and found them at drinking and gaming and play if sorrows they had while they drowned them and betting was soon underway their horses were goodens and fittens there was plenty of cash in the town they backed their own horses like Britons and lord how we rattled it down with gladness we thought of the morrow we counted our wages with glee a similarly homely tomorrow there was plenty of milk in our tea you see we were green and we never had even a thought of foul play but we well might have known that the clever division would put us away experienced doset they tell us at least so I frequently heard but dosing and stuffing those fellows were up to each move on the board they got to his stall it is sinful to think what such villains would do and they gave him a regular skinful of barley green barley to chew he munched it all night and we found him next morning as full as a hog this wouldn't nearly meet round him he looked like an overfed frog we saw we were done like a dinner the odds were a thousand to one against pardon turning up winner it was cruel to ask him to run we got to the course with our troubles a crestfallen couple were we and we heard the books calling the doubles a roar like the surf of the sea and over the tumult and louder rang any price pardon I lay says Jimmy the children of Judah are out on the warpath today three miles in three heats are my sonny the horses in those days were stout they had to run well to win money I don't see such horses about your six furlong vermin that scamper half-mole with their featherweight up they wouldn't earn much of their damper in a race like the president's cup the first heat was soon set a going the dancer went off to the front the don on his quarters were showing with pardon right out of the hunt he rolled and he weltered and wallowed you'd kick your hat faster I'll bet they finished all bunched and he followed all lathered and dripping with sweat but troubles came thicker upon us for while we were rubbing him dry the stewards came over to warn us we're here you're running a buy if pardon don't spill like tarnation and win the next heat if he can he'll earn a disqualification just think over that now my man our money all gone and our credit our horse couldn't gallop a yard and then people thought that we did it it really was terribly hard we were objects of mirth and derision to folk in the lawn and the stand and the yells of the clever division of any price pardon were grand we still had a chance for the money two heat still remained to be run if both fell to us why my sonny the clever divisions were done and pardon was better we reckoned his sickness was passing away so he went to the post for the second and principal heat of the day they're often away with a rattle like dogs from the leashes let slip and right at the back of the battle he followed them under the whip they gained ten good lengths on him quickly he dropped right away from the pack I tell you it made me feel sickly to see the blue jacket fall back our very last hope had departed we thought the old fellow was done when all of a sudden he started to go like a shot from a gun his chances seemed slight to him bold in our hearts but with teeth firmly set we thought now or never the old one may reckon with some of them yet then loud rose the war cry for pardon he swept like the wind down the dip and over the rice by the garden the jockey was done with the whip the field were at sixes and sevens the pace at the first had been fast and hope seemed to drop from the heavens for pardon was coming at last and how he did come it was splendid he gained on them yards every bound stretching out like a greyhound extended his girth laid right down on the ground a shimmer of silk in the cedars as into the running they wheeled and outflashed the whips on the leaders for pardon had collared the field then right through the ruck he came sailing I knew that the battle was won the son of haphazard was failing the yattenden filly was done he cut down Don and the dancer he raced clean away from the mare he's in front catch him now if you can sir and up went my hat in the air then loud from the lawn and the garden rose offers of ten to one on he'll bet on the field I back pardon no use all the money was gone he came for the third heat like hearted a jumping and dancing about the others were done where they started crest fallen and tired and worn out he won it and ran it much faster than ever the first I believe oh he was the daddy the master was pardon the son of reprieve he showed him the method to travel the boys that is still as a stone they never could see him for gravel he came in hard-held and alone but his old and his eyes are grown hollow like me with my thatch of the snow when he dies then I hope I may follow and go where the race horses go I don't want no harping nor singing such things with my style don't agree where the horse of the horses are ringing there's music sufficient for me and surely the thoroughbred horses will rise up again and begin fresh races on far away courses and perhaps they might let me slip in it would look rather well the race card on amongst sheriffs serifs and things Angel Harrison's black gelding pardon blue halo white body and wings and if they have racing hereafter and who is to say they will not when the cheers and the shouting and laughter proclaim that the battle grows hot as they come down the race course of staring he'll rush to the front I believe and you'll hear the great multitude cheering for pardon the son of reprieve end of section three this recording is in the public domain section four of the man from snowy river and other verses by banjo Patterson read for Libra rocks by Anise crancy of the overflow I had written him a letter which I had for want of better knowledge sent to where I met him down the Loughlin years ago he was shearing when I knew him so I sent the letter to him just on spec addressed as follows Clancy of the overflow and an answer came directed in a writing unexpected and I think the same was written with a thumbnail dipped in tar it was your shearing mate who wrote it and verbatim I will quote it Clancy's gone to Queensland driving and we don't know where he are in my world erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy gone a driving down the Cooper where the western drivers go as the stock has slowly stringing Clancy rides behind them singing for the drovers life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know and the bush has friends to meet him and their kindly voices greet him in the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars and he sees the vision splendid of the sun that planes extended and at night the wondrous glory of the everlasting stars I am sitting in my dingy little office where a stingy ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall and the fetid air and gritty of the dusty dirty city through the open window floating spreads its foulness overall and in place of lowing cattle I can hear the fiendish rattle of the tramways and the buses making hurry down the street and the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet and the hurrying people taunt me and their pallid faces haunt me as they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste with their eager eyes and greedy and their stunted forms and weedy but townsfolk have no time to grow they have no time to waste and I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy like to take a turn at driving where the seasons come and go while he faced the round eternal of the cash book and the journal but I doubt he'd suit the office Clancy of the overflow End of Section 4 This recording is in the public domain Section 5 of The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses by Banjo Patterson Read for LibriVox.org by Timothy Ferguson Conroy's Gap This was the way of it, don't you know? Ryan was wanted for stealing sheep and never a trooper, high or low, could find him catch a weasel asleep Till Trooper Scott, from the Stockman's Ford a bushman too, as I've heard them tell chance to find him drunk as a lord round at the Shadow of Death Hotel Do you know the place? It's a wayside inn, a low grog shanty a bushman trap hiding away in its shame and sin under the shelter of Conroy's Gap under the shade of that frowning range the roughest crowd that ever drew breath thieves and brownies uncouth and strange were mustered round at the Shadow of Death The trooper knew that his man would slide like a dingo pup if he saw the chance and with half a start on the mountainside Ryan would lead him a merry dance drunk as he was when the trooper came to him that did not matter a rap drunk or sober he was the same the boldest rider in Conroy's Gap I want you, Ryan, the trooper said and listen to me, if you dare resist so help me heaven I'll shoot you dead he snapped the steel on the prisoner's wrist and Ryan hearing the handcuffs click recovered his wits as they turned to go for fright will sober a man as quick as all the drugs that the doctors know there was a girl in that rough bar went by the name of Kate Carew quiet and shy as the bush girls are but ready-witted and plucky too she loved this Ryan or so they say and passing by while her eyes were dim with tears she said in a careless way the Swagman's round in the stable, Jim spoken too low for the troopers here why should she care if he heard or not plenty of Swagman far and near and yet to Ryan it meant a lot that was the name of the grandest horse in all the district from east to west in every show ring on every course they always counted the Swagman best he was a wonder a raking bay one of the old Snowden strain one of the sort that could race and stay with his mighty limbs and his length of rain born and bred on the mountainside he could race through the scrub like a kangaroo the girl herself on his back might ride and the Swagman would carry her safely through he would travel gaily from daylight's flush till after the stars hung out their lamps there was never his like in the open bush and never his match on the cattle camps for faster horses might well be found on racing tracks or a plane's extent but few, if any, unbroken ground could see the way the Swagman went when this girl's father, old Jim Karoo was driving out on the castle ray with Conroy's cattle a wire came through to say that his wife couldn't live the day and he was a hundred miles from home as flies the crow would never attract through planes as pathless as oceans foam he mounted straight on the Swagman's back he left the camp by the sundown light and the settlers out on the Martha Guy awoke and heard in the dead of night a single horseman hurrying by he crossed the Bogan at Dandolo and many a mile of silent plain that lonely rider behind him through before they settled to sleep again he rode all night and he steered his course by the shining stars with a bushman's skill and every time he pressed his horse the Swagman answered him gamely still he neared his home as the east was bright the doctor met him outside the town Karoo how far did you come last night? a hundred miles since the sun went down and his wife got round and an oath he passed so long as he or one of his breed could raise a coin though it took their last the Swagman never should want to feed and Kate Karoo when her father died she kept the horse and she kept him well the pride of the district far and wide he lived in style at the Bush Hotel such was the Swagman and Ryan knew nothing could pace the crack literally care for the man in blue if once he got on the Swagman's back but how to do it? a wordlet fall gave him the hint as the girl passed by nothing but Swagman stable war go to the stable and mind your eye he caught her meaning and quickly turned to the trooper reckon you'll gain a stripe for arresting me and it's easily earned let's go to the stable and get my pipe the Swagman has it so off they went and as soon as ever they turned their backs the girl slipped down on some errand behind the stable and seized an axe the trooper stood at the stable door while Ryan went in quite cool and slow and then the trick had been played before the girl outside gave the wall a blow three slabs fell out of the stable wall it was done forever the trooper knew and Ryan as soon as he saw them fall mounted the Swagman and rushed him through the trooper heard the hoof beats ring in the stable yard and he slammed the gate but the Swagman rose with a mighty spring at the fence and the trooper fired too late as they raced away and his shots flew wide and Ryan no longer need care a wrap for never a horse that was lapped in hide could catch the Swagman in Conroy's gap and that's the story you want to know if Ryan came back to his Kate Karoo of course he should have as stories go but the worst of it is this story's true and in real life it's a certain rule whatever poets and authors say of high toned robbers and all their school these horse thief fellows aren't built that way come back don't hope it the slinking hound he sloped across to the Queensland side sold the Swagman for fifty pound and stole the money and more beside and took to drink and by some good chance was killed thrown out of a stolen trap and that was the end of this small romance the end of the story of Conroy's gap end of section five this recording is in the public domain recording by Timothy Ferguson Gold Coast Australia section six of the man from Snowy River verses by Banjo Patterson read for LibriVox.org by Magdalena Cook our new horse the boys had come back from the races all silent and down on their luck they backed him straight out and for places but never a winner they struck they lost their good money on slogan and fell most uncommonly flat when partner the pride of the Bogan was beaten by aristocrat and one said I moved that instant we sell out our horses and quit the brooks ought to win in a canter such trials they do when they're fit the last one they ran was a snorter a gullop to gladden one's heart two twelve for a mile and a quarter and finished as straight as a dart and then when I think that they're ready to win me a nice little swag they are licked like the various netty they're licked from the fall of the flag the mare held her own to the stable she died out to nothing at that and partner he never seemed able to pace it with aristocrat and times have been bad and the seasons don't promise to be of the best in short boys there's plenty of reasons for giving the racing a rest the mare can be kept on the station her breeding is good as can be but partner his next destination is rather a trouble to me we can't sell him here for they know him as well as the clerk of the course he's raced and won races till blow him he's done as a handicap horse a jady uncertain performer they weigh him right out of the hunt and clap it on warmer and warmer whenever he gets near the front it's no use to paint him or dot him or put any fake on his brand for bushmen are smart and they'd spot him in any sail yard in the land the folk about here could all tell him could swear to each separate here let us send him to sydney and sell him there's plenty of jugins as there we'll call him a maiden and treat him to trials we'll open their eyes we'll run their best horses and beat them and then when they think him a price I pity the fellow that buys him he'll find in a very short space no matter how highly he tries him the beggar won't race in a race next week and the seller and buyer appeared in the daily cassette a racehorse for sale and a flyer has never been started as yet a trial will show what his pace is the buyer can get him in light and win all the handicap races apply here before Wednesday night he sold for a hundred and thirty because of a gallop he had one morning with bluefish and Bertie and donkey licked both of them bad and when the old horse had departed the life on the station grew tame the racetrack was dull and asserted the boys had gone back on the game the wind to roll by and the station was green with a garland of spring a spirit of glad exultation awoke in each animate thing and all the old love the old longing broke out in the breast of the boys the visions of racing came thronging with all its delirious joys the rushing of floods in their courses the rattle of rain on the roofs recall the fierce rush of the horses the thunder of galloping hoots and soon one broke out I can suffer no longer the life of a slug the man that don't race is a duffer let's have one more run for the mug why everything races no matter whatever its method may be the waterfowl holder regatta the possums run heats up a tree the emus are constantly sprinting a handicap out on the plain it seems like all nature was hinting it is time to be added again the cockatoo parrots are talking of races too far away lands the native companions are walking as go as you please on the sands the little false gallop for pastime the wallabies race down the gap let's try it once more for the last time bring out the old jacket and cap and now for a horse we might try one of those that are bred on the place but I think it better to buy one a horse that has proved he can race let us send down to Sydney to Skinner a thorough good judge who can ride and ask him to buy us a spinner to clean out the whole countryside they wrote him a letter as follows we want you to buy us a horse he must have speed to catch swallows and stamina with it of course the price ain't a thing that'll grieve us it's getting a baddener noise the under sign blokes and believe us we're yours to ascender the boys he answered I've bought you a hummer a horse that has never been raced I saw him run over the drummer he held him outclassed and outpaced his breeding's not known but they state he is born of a thoroughbred strain I paid them a hundred and eighty and started the horse in the train they met him alas at these verses and up to the subject's demands can't set forth the eloquent courses for partner was back on their hands they went in to meet him in gladness they opened his box with delight a silent procession of sadness they crept to the station at night and life has grown dull on the station the boys are all silent and slow their work is the daily vexation and sport is unknown to them now whenever they think how they stranded they squeal just like guinea pig squeal they bit their own hawk and were landed with fifty pounds loss on the deal End of section six this recording is in the public domain Section seven of The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses by Banjo-Patterson read for LibriVox.org by Timothy Ferguson an idol of Dandelion on western plains where the shade is not near the summer skies of cloudless blue where all is dry and all is hot there stands the town of Dandelion a township where life's total sum is sleep diversified with rum its grass grown streets with dust are deep to a vain endeavour to express the dreamless silence of its sleep its wide expansive drunkenness the yearly races mostly drew a lively crowd to Dandelion there came a sportsman from the east the eastern land where sportsmen blow and bought with him a speedy beast a speedy beast as horses go he came afar in hope to do the little town of Dandelion now this was weak of him I what exceeding weak it seemed to me for we in Dandelion were not the jugons as we seemed to be in fact we rather thought we knew our book by heart in Dandelion we held a meeting at the bar and met the question fair and square we've stumped the country near and far to raise the cash for races here we've got a hundred pounds or two not half so bad for Dandelion and now it seems we have to be cleaned out by this year's Sydney bloke with his imported horse and he will scoop the pool and leave us broke shall we sit still and make no fuss while this chap climbs all over us the races came to Dandelion and all the corn stalks from the west of every kind of mok and screw came forth in all their glory dressed the strangest horse as hard as nails looked fit to run for New South Wales he won the race by half a length quite half a length it seemed to me but Dandelion for all its strength now dead heat most fervently and after hesitation meet the judges verdict was dead heat and many men there could tell what gave the verdict extra force the stewards and the judges well they had all backed the second horse things like this they sometimes do in larger towns like Dandelion they ran it off Ranger one hands down by nearly a hundred yards he smiled to think his trouble is done but Dandelion held all the cards they went to scale and Cruel fate his jockey turned out underweight perhaps they tampered with the scale I cannot tell I only know it weighed him out alright I failed to paint that Sydney sportsman's woe he said the stewards were a crew of low-life thieves in Dandelion he lifted up his voice I rate and swore until the air was blue so then we rose to vindicate the dignity of Dandelion look here said we you must not poke such oaths at us poor country folk we rode him softly on a rail we shited him in careless glee some large tomatoes rank and stale and eggs of great antiquity their wild unholy fragrance flew about the town of Dandelion he left the town at break of day he led his racehorse through the streets and now he tells the tale they say to every racing man he meets and all Sydney sportsmen all a shoe the atmosphere of Dandelion end of section 7 this recording is in the public domain section 8 of The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses by Banjo Patterson by Timothy Ferguson The Jibung Polo Club it was somewhere up the country in a land of rock and scrub that they formed an institution called the Jibung Polo Club they were long and wiry natives from the rugged mountainside and the horse was never saddled that the Jibungs couldn't ride but their style of playing polo was a regular and rash they had mighty little science but a mighty lot of dash and they played on mountain ponies that were muscular and strong though their coats were quite unpolished and their mains and tails were long and they used to train those ponies willing cattle in the scrub they were demons were the members of the Jibung Polo Club it was somewhere down the country in a city smoke and steam that a polo club existed called the urban collar team as a social institution it was a marvellous success for the members were distinguished by exclusiveness and dress they had nutty little ponies that were nice and smooth and sleek for their cultivated owners only rode them once a week so they started up the country in pursuit of sport and fame for they meant to show the Jibungs how they ought to play the game just to give their boots a rub they started operations on the Jibung Polo Club now my readers can imagine how the contest ebbed and flowed when the Jibung boys got going it was time to clear the road and the game was so terrific that air half the time was gone a spectator's leg was broken just from merely looking on for they wanted one another till the plane was strewn with dead while the score was kept so even they neither got ahead and the cuff and collar captain when he tumbled off to die was the last surviving player so the game was called a tie then the captain of the Jibungs raised him slowly from the ground though his wounds were mostly mortal yet he fiercely gazed around there was no one to oppose him all the rest were in a trance so he scrambled on his pony for his last expiring chance for he meant to make an effort to get victory to his side so he struck at goal and missed it then he tumbled off and died by the old Kampaspi river where the breezers shake the grass there's a row of little gravestones that the stockmen never pass for they bear a crude inscription saying stranger, drop a tear for the cuff and collar players and the Jibung boys lie here and on misty moonlit evenings while the dingos howl around you can see their shadows flitting down that phantom polo ground you can hear the loud collisions as the flying players meet and the rattle of the mallets and the rush of ponies feet till the terrified spectator said he's been haunted by the spectres of the Jibung Polo Club End of Section 8 This recording is in the public domain Section 9 of the Man from Snow River and other verses by Banjo Patterson Read for LibriVox.org by Magdalena Cook The Travelling Post Office The roving breezers come and go the reedbed sweep and sway the sleeper of the pub the nightingale of the pub the nightingale of the pub the reedbed sweep and sway the sleeper river murmurs low and loiters on its way it is the land of lots of time along the castle ray the old man's son had left the farm he found it dull and slow he drifted to the great north west where all the rovers go he's gone so long the old man sent he's dropped right out of mind but if you'd write a line to him I'd take it very kind he's sharing here and fencing there he's off and stray he's driving now with Conroy sheep along the castle ray the sheep are travelling for the grass and travelling very slow they may be at Manduran now or past the overflow or tramping down the black sore flats across by Wadi Wong but all those little country towns would send the letter wrong the mailman, if he's extra tired would pass them in his sleep it's safest to address the note to for five and twenty thousand head can scarcely go astray you write to care of Conroy sheep along the castle ray by rock and ridge and riverside the western mail has gone across the great blue mountain range to take that letter on a moment on the topmost grade while open fire doors glare she pauses like a living thing to breathe the mountain air then launches down the other side across the plains away a note to Conroy sheep along the castle ray and now by coach in mailman's bag it goes from town to town and Conroy's gap and Conroy's creek have marked it further down beneath the sky of deepest blue where never cloud abides a speck upon the waist of plain the lonely mailman rides where fierce hot winds have set the pine and mild boughs are sweep he hails the shearers passing by for news of Conroy sheep by big leg goons where wildfowl play and crested pigeons flock by campfires where the drovers ride around their restless stock and pass the teams to toiling down to fetch the wool away my letter chases Conroy sheep along the castle ray end of section 9 this recording is in the public domain salt bush bill now this is the lore of the overland that all in the west obey a man must cover with travelling sheep a six mile stage a day but this is the lore which the drovers make right easily understood they travel their stage where the grass is bad but they camp where the grass is good they camp and they ravage the squatters grass till never a blade remains then they drift away as the white clouds drift on the edge of the salt bush plains from camp to camp and from run to run they battle it hand to hand for a blade of grass in the right to pass on the track of the overland for this is the lore of the great stock roots which is written in white and black that a man that goes with a travelling mob must keep to a half mile track and the drovers keep to a half mile track on the runs where the grass is dead but they spread their sheep on a well grass run till they go with a two mile spread so the squatters hurry the drovers on from dawn till the fall of night and the squatters dogs and the drovers dogs get mixed in a deadly fight yet the squatters men though they hunt the mob are willing the peace to keep for the drovers learn how to use their hands when they go with the travelling sheep but this is the tale of a jackaroo that came from a foreign strand and the fight that he fought with salt bush bill the king of the overland now salt bush bill was a drover tough as ever the country knew he'd fought his way on the great stock roots from the sea to the big bar coup he could tell when he came to a friendly run that gave him a chance to spread and he knew where the hungry owners were that hurried his sheep ahead he was drifting down in the 80 drought with a mob that could scarcely creep when the kangaroos by the thousand staff it's rough on the travelling sheep and he camped one night at the crossing place on the edge of the will go run we must manage a feed for them here he said, or half of the mob are done so he spread them out when they left the camp wherever they liked to go till they grew aware of a jackaroo with a station hand in tow and they set to work on the straggling sheep with many a stock whip crack they forced them in where the grass was dead in the space of the half mile track so William prayed that the hand of fate might suddenly strike in blue but he'd get some grass for his starving sheep in the teeth of that jackaroo so he turned and he cursed the jackaroo he cursed him alive or dead from the soles of his great unwieldy feet to the crown of his ugly head with an extra curse on the mokey road and the courage his heels that ran till the jackaroo from his horse got down and went for the drover man with the station hand for his picker up that the sheep ran loose the while they battled it out on the salt bush plain in the regular prize ring style now the new chum fought for honour's sake and the pride of the English race but the drover fought for his daily bread with a smile on his bearded face so he shifted ground and he sparred for wind and he made it a lengthy meal and from time to time as his scars came in they whispered to salt bush bill we've spread the sheep with a two mile spread and the grass is something grand you must stick to him bill for another round for the pride of the overland the new chum made it a rushing fight though never a blow got home till the sun rode high in the cloudless sky and glared on the brick red loam till the sheep drew into the shelter trees and settled them down to rest then the drover said he tried no more and gave his opponent best so the new chum rode to the homestead straight and he told them a story grand of the desperate fight that he'd fought that day with the king of the overland and the tale went home to the public schools of the pluck of the English swell how the drover fought for his very life but blood in the end must tell but the travelling sheep and the wilger sheep were boxed on the old man plain it was her full weeks work where they drafted out and hunted them off again with a weeks good grass in their wretched hides with a curse and a stock crack they hunted them off on the road once more to starve on the half mile track and saltbush bill on the overland will many a time recite how the best days work that he ever did was the day that he'd lost the fight end of section 10 this recording is in the public domain section 11 A man from Snowy River and other verses by Banjo Patterson read for Libra Vox.org by Isabella a mountain station I bought a run a while ago on Country Rough and Ridgey where Wallaroos and Wombats grow the upper Murrumbidgee the grasses rather scant it's true but this a fair exchange is the sheep can see a lovely view by climbing up the ranges and sheoke flats the station's name I'm not surprised at that sirs the oaks were there before I came and I supplied the flat sirs a man would wonder how it's done the stock so soon decreases they sometimes tumble off the run and break themselves to pieces I've tried to make expenses meet but wasted all my labours the sheep the dingos didn't eat were stolen by the neighbours they stole my pairs my native pairs those thrice convicted felons and ravished from me unawares my crop of paddy melons and sometimes under sunny skies without an explanation the Murrumbidgee used to rise and overflow the station but this was caused as now I know when summer sunshine glowing had melted all Chandra snow and set the river going and in the news stopped passings pukkawidgee fat cattle 700 heads swept down the Murrumbidgee their destinations quite obscure but somehow there's a notion unless the river falls they're sure to reach the southern ocean so after that I'll give it best no more with fate I'll battle I'll let the river take the rest for those were all my cattle and with one comprehensive curse I close my brief narration and advertise it in my verse for sale a mountain station end of section 11 this recording is in the public domain recorded by Isabella the came a stranger to Woolgett town to Woolgett town when the sun was low and he carried a thirst that was worth a crown yet had a quench it he did not know but he thought he might take those yokels down the guileless yokels of Woolgett town they made him a bet in a private bar in a private bar when the torque was high and they bet him some pounds no matter how far he could pelt a stone yet he could not shy a stone right over the river so brown the Darling River at Woolgett town he knew that the river from bank to bank was fifty yards and he smiled a smile as he trundled down but his hopes they sank for there wasn't a stone within fifty mile the saltbush plain and the open down produce no quarries in Woolgett town the yokels laughed at his hope so thrown and he stood a while like a man in a dream then out of his pocket he fetched a stone and pelted it over the silent stream he had been there before he had wandered down on a previous visit to Woolgett town end of section twelve this recording is in the public domain section thirteen of the man from Snow River and other verses by Banjo Patterson readfullibrebox.org by Magdalena Cook the man who was away the widow sought the lawyer's room with children three in tow she told the lawyer man her tale in tones of deepest woe said she, my husband took to drink for pains in his inside and never drew a sober breath from then until he died he never drew a sober breath he died without a will and I myself the bit of land the children's mouths to fill there some is grown and gone away but some is children yet and times is very bad indeed and livens hard to get there's men and sis and little Chris they stops at home with me and Sal has married Greenhide Bill that breaks for bingery and Fred is driving Conroy sheep along the castle ray and Charlie sharing down the bland and Peter is away the lawyer wrote the details down in ink of legal blue this many Susan Christopher they stop at home with you the Sarah Frederick and Charles I'll write to them today but what about the other one the one who is away you'll have to furnish his consent to sell the bit of land the widow shuffled in her seat oh don't you understand I thought a lawyer ought to know I don't know what to say you'll have to do without him boss for Peter is away but here the little boy spoke up said he we thought you knew he's done six months in Goldburn jail he's got six more to do thus in one comprehensive flash he made it clear as day the mystery of Peter's life the man who was away end of section 13 this recording is in the public domain section 14 of The Man From Snowy River and Other Verses by Banjo Patterson read for LibriVox.org by Christoph Dongers The Man From Iron Bark it was The Man From Iron Bark who struck the Sydney town he wandered over street and park he wandered up and down he loitered here, he loitered there till he was like to drop until at last in sheer despair he sought a barber's shop ere shave my beard and whiskers off I'll be a man of mark I'll go and do the Sydney Toff up home in Iron Bark the barber man was small in flash as barbers mostly are he wore a strike your fancy sash he smoked a huge cigar he was a humorist of note and keen at repartee he laid the odds and kept a tote whatever that may be and when he saw our friend arrive he whispered he's a lark just watch me catch him all alive the man from Iron Bark there were some gilded youths that sat along the barber's wall their eyes were dull, their heads were flat they had no brains at all to them the barber passed the wink his dexter eyelid shut I'll make this bloomin' yokel think his bloomin' throat is cut and as he soaked and rubbed it in he made a rude remark I suppose the flats is pretty green up there in Iron Bark a grunt was all reply he got he shaved the bushman's chin then made the water boiling hot and dipped the razor in he raised his hand his brow grew black he paused a while to gloat then slashed the red hot razor across his victim's throat upon the newly shaven skin it made a livid mark no doubt it fairly took him in the man from Iron Bark he fetched a wild up country yell that might wake the dead to hear and though his throat he knew full well was cut from ear to ear he struggled gamely to his feet and faced the murderous foe you've done me, you dog unbeat one hit before I go I only wish I had a knife you blessed murdering shark but you'll remember all your life the man from Iron Bark he lifted up his hairy paw with one tremendous clout it landed on the barber's jaw and knocked the barber out he said to work with tooth and nail he made the place a wreck he grabbed the nearest gilded youth and tried to break his neck and all the while his throat he held to save his vital spark and murder, bloody murder yelled the man from Iron Bark a peeler man who heard the din came in to see the show he tried to run the bushman in but he refused to go and when at last the barber spoke and said, it was all in fun it was just a little harmless joke a trifle overdone a joke he cried, by George that's fine a lively sort of lark I'd like to catch that murdering swine some knight in Iron Bark and now while around the shearing floor the listening shearers gate he tells the story oh and oh and brags of his escape then barber chaps what keeps the tote by George I've had enough one tried to cut my blooming throat but thank the lord it's tough and whether he's believed or no there's one thing to remark that flying beards are all the go way up in Iron Bark end of section 14 this recording is in the public domain and we brought him down to Sydney and our rider Jimmy Rice got a fall and broke his shoulder so they nabbed me in a trice me that never wore the colours for the open steeple chase make the running said the trainer it's your only chance whatever make it hot from start to finish for the old black horse can stay and just think of how they'll take it when they hear on snowy river that the country boy was plucky and the country horse was clever the old manaro and the mountain boys today are you ready said the starter as we held the horses back all are blazing with impatience with excitement all aglow before us like a ribbon stretched the steeple chasing track and the sunrise glistening brightly on the chestnut and the black as the starters words came slowly are you ready go while I scarcely knew we'd started I was stupid like with wonder till the field closed up beside me and I appeared ahead and we flew it like a hurdle not a balk and not a blunder as we charged it all together and it fairly whistled under and then some were pulled behind me and a few shot out and led so we ran for half the distance and I'm making no pretenses when I tell you I was feeling very nervous like and queer for those jockeys road like demons you would think they'd lost their senses if you saw them rush their horses when they were running I was falling to the rear till a chap came racing past me on a horse they called the quiver and said he my country joker are you going to give it best are you frightened off the fences does their stoutness make you shiver have they come to breeding cowards by the side of snowy river are there riders on Monaro but I never heard the rest for I drove the ace and sent him just as fast as he could pace it at the big black line of timber and he shot beside the quiver now said I my boy will race it you can come with snowy river if you only game to face it let us mend the pace a little and we'll see who cries a crack so we raced away together and we left the other standing and the people cheered and shouted as we settled down to ride and we clung beside the quiver at his taking off and landing I could see his scarlet nostril and his mighty ribs expanding and we held him stride for stride but the pace was so terrific that they soon ran out their tether they were rolling in their gallop they were fairly blown and beat but they both were gamers pebbles neither one would show the feather and we rushed them at the fences and they cleared them both together nearly every time they clouted but they somehow kept their feet then the last jump rose before us and they faced it gamers ever we were both at spur and whip cord every bound and above the people's cheering and the cries of ace and quiver I could hear the trainer shouting one more run for snowy river then we stuck the jump together and came smashing to the ground while the quiver ran to blazers but the ace stood still and waited stood and waited like a statue while I scrambled on his back there was no one next or near me for the field was fairly slated so I canted home a winner the man that rode the quiver followed limping down the track and he shook my hand and told me that in all these days he never met a man who rode more gamely and our last set too was prime and we wired them on Monaro how we chanced to beat the quiver and they sent us back an answer good old sort from snowy river send us word each race you start in and we'll back you every time End of section 15 this recording is in the public domain section 16 of the man from snowy river and other verses by Banjo Patterson read for Librebox.org by Tricia G the amateur rider him going to ride for us him with the pants and the eyeglass and all amateur don't he just look it it's 20 to 1 on a fall boss must be gone off his head to be sending our steeple chase crack out over fences like these with an object like that on his back ride don't tell me he can ride with his pants just as loose as balloons how can he sit on his horse and his spurs like a pair of harpoons ought to be under the dog act he ought and be kept off the course fall why he'd fall off a cart let alone off a steeple chase horse yes sir the horse is already I wish you'd have rode him before nothing like knowing your horse sir and this chaps a terror to bore battle axe always could pull and he rushes his fences like fun stands off his jump 20 feet and then springs like a shot from a gun oh he can jump them all right sir you make no mistake he's a toff clout some in earnest too sometimes you mind that he don't clout you off don't seem to mind how he hits them his shins is as hard as a nail sometimes you'll see the fence shake and the splinters fly up from the rail all you can do is hold him and just let him jump as he likes give him his head at the fences and hang on like death if he strikes don't let him run himself out you can lie third or fourth in the race until you clear the stone wall and from that you can put on the pace fell at that wall once he did and it gave him a regular spread just that time he flies it he'll stop if you pull at his head just let him race you can trust him he'll take first class care he don't fall and I think that's the lot but remember he must have his head at the wall well he's down safe as far as the start and he seems to sit on pretty neat only his bag of fried breeches would ruinate anyone's seat they're away here they come the first fence and he's on the heels for a crown good for the new chum he's over and two of the others are down now for the treble my hearty by jove he can ride after all whoop that's your sort let him fly them he hasn't much fear of a fall who in the world would have thought it and aren't they just going a pace little recruit in the lead there will make it a stoutly run race lord but they're racing in earnest and down goes recruit on his head rolling clean over his boy it's a miracle if he ain't dead battle axe battle axe yet by the lord he's got most of them beat oh did you see how he struck and the swell never moved on his seat second time round and by jingo he's holding his lead of them well hark to him clouding the timber it don't seem to trouble the swell now for the wall let him rush it a 30 foot leap I declare never a shift in his seat and he's racing for home like a hare what's that that's chasing him rat a plan regular demon to stay sit down and ride for your life now oh good that's the style come away rat a plan certain to beat you unless you can give him the slip sit down and rub in the whale bone now give him the spurs in the whip battle axe battle axe yet and it's battle axe wins for crown look at him rushing the fences he wants to bring other chap down rat a plan never will catch him if only he keeps on his pins now the last fence and he's over it battle axe battle axe wins well sir you wrote him just perfect I knew from the first you could ride some of the chap said you couldn't and I says just like this at one side mark me I says that's a tradesman the saddle he was bred wait you're all right sir and thank you and them was the words that I said end of section 16 this recording is in the public domain section 17 of the man from snowy river and other verses by banjo patterson redfulllibrevox.org by Magdalena Cook on Kylie's run the roving breezes come and go on Kylie's run the sleepy river murmurs low and far away one dimly sees beyond the stretch of forest trees beyond the foothills dusk and done the rangers sleeping in the sun on Kylie's run to as many years since first I came to Kylie's run more years than I would care to name since I a stripling used to ride for miles and miles at Kylie's side the while in stirring tones he told the stories of the days of old on Kylie's run I see the old bush homestead now on Kylie's run just nestled down beneath the brow of one small ridge above the sweep over river flat where willows weep and jasmine flowers and roses bloom the air was laden with perfume on Kylie's run we live the good old station life on Kylie's run with little thought of care or strife all Kylie seldom used to roam he liked to make the run his home the swagman never turned away with empty hand at close of day from Kylie's run we kept a racehorse now and then on Kylie's run and neighbouring stations brought their men to meetings where the sport was free and dainty ladies came to see the champions ride with laugh and song the old house rang the whole night long on Kylie's run the station hands were friends I watch on Kylie's run a reckless merry hearted lot all splendid riders and they knew the boss was kindness through and through all Kylie always stood their friend and so they served him to the end on Kylie's run what droughts and losses came a pace to Kylie's run till Rue and stared him in the face he toiled and toiled while lived the light he dreamed of overdrafts at night at length because he could not pay his bankers took the stock away from Kylie's run all Kylie stood and saw them go from Kylie's run the well-bred cattle marching slow his stockmen mates for many a day they rung his hand and went away too old to make another start all Kylie died of broken heart on Kylie's run the owner lives in England now of Kylie's run he knows a racehorse from a cow but that is all he knows of stock his chiefest care is how to dock expenses and he sends from town to cut the shearers wages down on Kylie's run there are no neighbours anywhere near Kylie's run the hospitable homes are bare the gardens gone for no pretence must hinder cutting down expense the homestead that we held so dear contains a half paid overseer on Kylie's run all life and sport and hope have died on Kylie's run no longer there the stockman ride for sour face boundary riders creep on mongrel horses after sheep where at racing speed all Kylie used to wheel the lead on Kylie's run there runs a lane for 30 miles through Kylie's run on either side the herbage smiles but wretched travelling sheep must pass without a drink or blade of grass through that long lane of death and shame the weary drovers curse the name of Kylie's run the name itself is changed of late of Kylie's run they call it Shandos Park Estate the only swagman through the dark must hump his swag past Shandos Park the name is English don't you see the old name sweeter sounds to me of Kylie's run I cannot guess what fate will bring to Kylie's run for chances come and changes ring I scarcely think it will always be locked up to suit and absentee and if he lets it out in farms his tenant soon will carry arms on Kylie's run end of section 17 this recording is in the public domain section 18 of The Man from Snowy River and other verses by Banjo Patterson Frying Pan's Theology Scene on Manaro Dramatis Persono Shock headed Blackfella Boy on a pony Snowflakes are falling so gentle and slow youngster says Frying Pan what makes it snow Frying Pan confident makes the reply shake him big flower bag up in the sky what when there's miles of it surely that's brag who is there strong enough shake such a bag what person telling you old Mr. Dodd tell you in Sunday school big filler God he drive his Bullock Dre then thunder go he shake his flower bag tumble down snow end of section 18 this recording is in the public domain section 19 of The Man from Snowy River and other verses by Banjo Patterson read for LibriVox.org by Timothy Ferguson The Two Divines it was shearing time at the Myle Lake and there rose the sound through the live long day of the constant clash the shear blades make when the fastest shearers are making play but there wasn't man in the shearers' lines that could shear a sheep with the Two Divines they had rung the sheds from east to west had beaten the cracks of the Walgett side and the Kuma shearers had given them best when they saw them shear they were satisfied from the southern slopes to the western pines they were noted men were the Two Divines towards a weather flock that had come to hand great struggling brutes that shearers shirk for the fleece was filled with grass and sand and seventy sheep was a big day's work at a pound a hundred its dashed hard lines to shear such sheep said the Two Divines but the shearers knew they'd make a check when they came to deal with the station use they were bear of belly and bear of neck with the fleece as light as a kangaroo's we'll show the boss how a shear blade shines when we reach those use said the Two Divines but a chance next day when the stunted pines were swayed and stirred with the dawn wind's breath that message came for the Two Divines that their father lay at the point of death so a way at speed through the whispering pines down the brindle track rode the Two Divines it was fifty miles to their father's hut and the dawn was bright when they rode away at the full of night when the shed was shut and the men had rest from the twelvesome day to the shed once more through the darkening pines on their weary steeds came the Two Divines well you're back right sudden the super said is the old man dead in the funeral done well no sir he ain't not exactly dead but as good as dead said the oldest son and we couldn't bear such a chance to lose so we came straight back to tackle the use they are shearing use at the Mile Lake and the shed is merry the live long day with the clashing sound that the shear blades make when the fastest shearers are making play and a couple of hundred and ninety-nines are the tallies made by the Two Divines end of section nineteen section twenty of the man from snowy river and other verses by banjo paterson red for libra box dot org by magdalena cook in the driving days only a pound said the auctioneer only a pound and I'm standing here selling this animal gain or loss only a pound for the drover's horse one of the sort that was never afraid one of the boys of the old brigade thoroughly honest in game I'll swear only a little of the worse for wear plenty is bad to be seen in town give me a bid and I'll knock him down sold as he stands and without recourse give me a bid for the drover's horse loitering there in an aimless way somehow I notice the poor all grey weary and battered and screwed of course yet when I notice the all grey horse the rough bush saddle the single rain off the bridle laid on his tangled mane straight away the crowd and the auctioneer seemed on a sudden to disappear melted away in a kind of haste for my heart went back to the driving days back to the road and I crossed again over the miles of the salt bush plane the shining plane that is said to be the dried up bed of an inland sea where the air so dry and so clear and bright refracts the sun with a wondrous light and out in the dim horizon makes the deep blue gleam of the phantom lakes at dawn of day we would feel the breeze that stirred the boughs of the sweeping trees and brought a breath of the fragrance rare that comes and goes in that scented air for the trees and grass and the shrubs contain a dry sweet scent on the salt bush plane for those that love it and understand the salt bush plane is a wonderland a wondrous country where nature's ways were revealed to me in the driving days we saw the fleet wild horses pass and the kangaroos through the Mitchell grass the emu ran with her frightened brood all unmolested and unpursued but there rose a shout and a wild herb when the dingo raced for his native scrub and he paid right dear for his stolen meals with the drovers dogs at his wretched heels for we ran him down at a rattling pace while the pack horse joined in the stirring chase and a wild hallow at the kill we'd race we were light of heart in the driving days to us a drovers horse and my hand again made a move to close on a fancied rain for I felt the swing and the easy stride of the grand old horse that I used to ride in drought or plenty in good or ill that same old steed was my comrade still the old grey horse with his honest ways was the mate to me in the driving days when we kept our watch in the cold and damp if the cattle broke from the sleeping camp over the flats and across the plain with my head bent down on his waving mane through the boughs above and the stumps below on the darkest night I could let him go at a racing speed he would choose his course and my life was safe with the old grey horse but man and horse had a favourite job when an outlaw broke from a station mob where the right goodwill was the stock whip plied as the old horse raced at the stragglers side and the green hide whip such a wheel would race we could use the whip in the driving days only a pound and was this the end only a pound for the drovers friend the drovers friend that had seen his day and now was worthless and cast away with a broken knee and a broken heart filled and starved in a hawkers cart well I made a bid for a sense of shame and the memories dear of the good old game thank you guinea and cheap at that against you there in the curly hat only a guinea and one more chance down he goes if there's no advance third and the last time one, two, three and the old grey horse was knocked down to me and now he's wandering fat and sleek on the loose and flats by the homestead creek I dare not ride him for fear he'd fall but he does a journey to beat them all for though he scarcely a truck can race he can take me back to the driving days End of section 20 this recording is in the public domain lost he ought to be home said the old man without there's something amiss he only went to the two mile he ought to be back by this he would ride the reckless filly he would have his willful way and here he's not back at sundown and what will his mother say he was always his mother's idol since ever his father died and there isn't a horse on the station that he isn't game to ride but that reckless mare is vicious and if once she gets away he hasn't got strength to hold her and what will his mother say the old man walked to the slip rail and there was a horse the old man walked to the slip rail and peered up the darkening track and looked and longed for the rider that would never more come back and the mother came and clutched him with sudden spasmodic fright what has become of my willy why isn't he home tonight away in the gloomy ranges at the foot of an iron dark the bonny winsome laddie was lying stiff and stark for the reckless mare had smashed him against a leaning limb and his comely face was battered and his merry eyes were dim and the thoroughbred chestnut filly the saddle beneath her flanks was away like fire through the ranges to join the wild mob's ranks and a broken-hearted woman and an old man worn in gray were searching all night in the ranges till the sunrise brought the day and the mother kept feebly calling with a hope that would not die willy where are you willy but how can the dead reply and hope died out with the daylight and the darkness brought to spare God pity the stricken mother and answer the widow's prayer though far and wide they sought him they found not where he fell for the ranges held him precious and guarded their treasure well the waddle blooms above him and the blue bells blow close by and the brown bees buzz the secret and the wild birds sing reply but the mother pined and faded and cried and took no rest and rode each day to the ranges on her hopeless weary quest seeking her loved one ever she faded and pined away but with strength of her great affection she still sought every day I know that sooner or later I shall find my boy she said but she came not home one evening and they found her lying dead and stamped on the poor pale features as the spirit homeward passed was an angel smile of gladness she had found the boy at last end of section 21 this recording is in the public domain little bush maiden wandering eyed playing alone in the creek bed dry in the small green flat on every side walled in by the moon by ranges high tell us a tale of your lonely life mid the great grey forest that no no change I never have left my home she said I have never been over the moon be range father and mother are both long dead and I live with Granny in Yonwee place where are your father and mother we said she puzzled a while with a thoughtful face then a light came into the shy brown eye and she smiled for she thought the question strange on a thing so certain when people die they go to the country over the range and what is this country like my lass there are blossoming trees and pretty flowers and shining creeks where golden grass is fresh and sweet from the summer showers they never need work nor want nor weep no troubles can come their hearts to a strange some summer night I shall fall asleep and wake in the country over the range child you are wise in your simple trust for the wisest man knows no more than you ashes to ashes and dust to dust our views by a range are bounded too but we know that God has this gift in store that when we come to the final change we shall meet with our love ones gone before to the beautiful country over the range end of section 22 this recording is in the public domain out in the gray cheerless chill of the morning light out on the track where the nightshade still lurk air the first gleam of the sun god's returning light round come the race horses early at work reefing and pulling and racing so readily close sit the jockey boys holding them hard steady the stallion there canter him steadily don't let him gallop so much as a yard fiercely he fights while the others run wide of him reefs at the bit that would hold him in thrall plunges and bucks till the boy that's astride of him goes to the ground with a terrible fall stop him there block him there drive him in carefully lead him about till he's quiet and cool sound as a bell though he's blown himself fearfully now let us pick up this poor little fool stunned oh by jove I'm afraid it's a case with him ride for the doctor keep bathing his head send for a cart to go down to our place with him no use one long sigh in the little chap's dead only a jockey boy foul mouth than bad you see ignorant heathenish gone to his rest parson or presbyter Pharisee Sadducey what did you do for him bad was the best Negroes and foreigners all have a claim on you yearly you send your well advertised hoard but the poor jockey boy shame on you shame on you feed ye my little ones what said the Lord him ye held less than the outer barbarian left him to die in his ignorant sin have you no principles humanitarian have you no precept go gather them in knew he God's name in his brutal profanity that name was an oath out of many but one what did he get from our famed Christianity where has his soul if he had any gone 14 years old and what was he taught of it what did he know of God's infinite grace draw the dark curtain of shame or the thought of it draw the shroud over the jockey boys face and of section 23 this recording is in the public domain section 24 of the man from snowy river and other verses by banjo padderson read for LibriVox.org how McGinnis went missing let us cease our idle chatter let the tears bid you our cheek for a man from Talangata has been missing for a week where the roaring flooded Murray covered all the lower land there he started Murray with a bottle in his hand and his fate is hid forever but the public seemed to think that he slumbered by the river next the influence of drink and they scarcely seem to wonder that the river wide and deep never woke him with its thunder never stirred him in his sleep as the crashing logs came sweeping and their tumult filled the air then McGinnis murmured sleeping tis awake in old killed air so the river rose and found him sleeping softly by the stream and the cruel waters drowned him ear he wakened from his dream and the blossom tupped at Wattle blooming brightly on the Lee saw McGinnis and the bottle going drifting out to see end of section 24 this recording is in the public domain section 25 of the man from snowy river and other verses by Banjo Patterson read for LibriVox.org by Rhonda Fetterman a voice from the town a sequel to Moe Bray Morris's a voice from the bush I thought in the days of the droving of steps I might hope to retrace to be done with the bush roving and settle once more in my place with a heart that was well nigh to breaking in the long lonely rides on the plane I thought of the pleasure of taking the hand of a lady again I am back into civilization once more in the stir and the strife but the old joys have lost their sensation the light has gone out of my life the men of my time they have married made fortunes or gone to the wall too long from the scene I have tarried and somehow I'm out of it all for I go to the balls and the races a lonely companion less elf and the ladies bestow all their graces on others less gray than myself while the talk goes around I'm a dumb one midst youngsters that chatter and pray and they call me the man who was someone way back in the year 68 and I look sour and old at the dancers that swing to the strains of the band and the ladies all give me the Lancers no waltzes I quite understand for matrons intent upon matching their daughters with infinite push would scarce think I'm worthy the catching the broken down man from the bush new partners have come in new faces and I of the bygone brigade sharply feel that oblivion my places I must lie with the rest in the shade and the youngsters fresh featured and pleasant they live as we lived fairly fast but I doubt of the men of the present are as good as the men of the past of excitement and praise they are cherry there is nothing much good upon earth their watchword is nil admirary they are bored from the days of their birth where the life that we led was a revel they wince and relent and refrain I could show them the road to the devil were I only a youngster again I could show them the road where the stumps are the pleasures that end in remorse and the game where the devil's three trumps are the woman the card and the horse shall the blind lead the blind shall the sower of wind reap the storm as of your though they get to their goals somewhat slower they march where we hurried before for the world never learns just as we did they gallantly go to their fate unheeded all warnings unheeded the maxim of elders sedate as the husbandment patiently toiling draws a harvest each year from the soil so the fools grow afresh for the spoiling and a new crop of thieves for the spoil but a truce to this dull moralizing let them drink while the drops are of gold I have tasted the dregs were surprising were the new wine to me like the old and I weary for lack of employment in idleness day after day for the key to the door of enjoyment is youth and I've thrown it away end of section 25 this recordings in the public domain section 26 of the man from snowy river and other verses by banjo Patterson read for LibriVox.org by Magdalena Cook a bunch of roses roses ready and roses white what are the joys that my heart discloses sitting alone in a fading light memories come to me here tonight with the wonderful scent of the big red roses memories come as the daylight fades down on the hearth where the firelight doses flicker and flutter the lights and shades and I see the face of a queen of maids whose memory comes with a scent of roses visions arise of a scene of mirth and a ballroom bell that superbly poses a queenly woman of queenly worth and I'm the happiest man on earth with a single flower from a bunch of roses only her memory lives tonight God in his wisdom her young life closes over her grave made the turf be light cover her coffin with roses white she was always fond of the big white roses such are the visions that fade away man proposes and God disposes look in the glass and I see today only an old man worn and gray bending his head to a bunch of roses end of section 26 this recording is in the public domain section 27 of the man from snowy river and other verses by Benjo Patterson read for Libra vox dot org by Timothy Ferguson black swans as I lie to rest on a patch of clover in the Western Park when the day is done I watch as the wild black swans fly over with their phalanx turned to the sinking Sun and I hear the clang of their leader crying to a lagging mate in the reward flying and they fade away in the darkness dying with the stars are mustering one by one a year black swans to our world of wonder for a while to join you in your westward flight with the stars above and the dim earth under through the cooling air of the glorious night as we swept along on our pinions winging we should catch the chime of a church bell ringing or the distant note of a torrent singing or the fire of flash of a station light from the northern lakes with the reeds and rushes where the hills are closed with a purple haze with the bellbirds chime and the songs of thrushes make music sweet in the jungle maze they will hold their course to the westward ever till they reach the banks of the old grey river where the waters wash and the reed beds quiver in the burning heat of the summer days are you strange wild birds will you bear a greeting to the folk that live in that western land then for every sweep of your pinions beating you shall bear a wish to the sunburnt band to the stalwart men who are stoutly fighting with the heat and drought and the dust storms smiting yet whose life somehow has a strange inviting when once to the work they have put their hand facing it yet oh my friends stout hearted what does it matter for rain or shine for the hopes deferred and gained a parted nothing could conquer that heart of thine and a health and strength beyond confessing as the only joys that are worth possessing may the days to come be as rich in blessing as the days we spent in the old lang zine I would faint go back to the grey river to the old bush days when our hearts were light but alas those days they have fled forever they are like the swans that have swept from sight and I know full well that the strangers faces would meet us now in our dearest places for our day is dead and has left no traces but the thoughts that live in my mind tonight there are folk long dead and our hearts would sicken we would grieve for them with a bitter pain if the past could live and the dead could quicken we might turn to that life again but on lonely nights we would hear them calling we should hear their steps on the pathways falling we should load the life with a hate appalling in our lonely rides by the reach and plane in the silent park is a scent of clover and the distant roar of the town is dead and I hear once more as the swans fly over their far off clamour from overhead they are flying west by their instinct guided and for man likewise is his fate decided and griefs apportioned and joy is divided by a mighty power with a purpose dread end of section 27 this recording is in the public domain section 28 of the man from snowy river and other verses by Banjo Patterson read for LibriVox.org by Timothy Ferguson the all-righten he came from further out that land of heat and drought and dust and gravel he got a touch of sun and rested at the run until his cure was done and he could travel when spring had decked the plane he flitted off again as flit the swallows and from that western land when many months was spanned a letter came to hand which read as follows dear sir I take my pen and hopes that all your men and you are hearty you think that I forgot your kindness mr. Scott oh no dear sir I am not that sort of party you sometimes bet I know well now you'll have a show the books to frighten up here at Wingardy young Billy Fife and me we're training strife and he is a all-righten just now we're running buys but sir first time he tries I'll send you word of and running on the crook their measures we have took it is the deadest hook you ever heard of so when we let him go white then I'll let you know and you can have a show to put a might on now sir my leave I'll take yours truly William Blake PS make no mistake he's a all-righten by next week's riverine I saw my friend had been a bit too cunning I read the racehorse strife and jockey William 5 disqualified for life suspicious running but though they spoiled his game I reckon all the same I fairly ought to claim my friend a whiten for though he wasn't straight his deeds would indicate his heart at any rate was a all-righten and of section 28 section 29 of the man from snowy river and other verses by banjo Patterson read for LibriVox.org by mcdalyanna cook the boss of the Admiral Lynch did you ever hear tell of chilly I was reading the other day of President Balmoussaida and how he was sent away it seems that he didn't suit him they thought that they'd like a change so they started an insurrection and chased him across the range they seem to be restless people and judging by what you hear they race up these revolutions about two or three times a year and the man that goes out of office he goes for the boundary quick for there isn't no vote by ballot it's bullets that does the trick and ain't it like a real battle where the prisoners lives are spared and they fight till this one side beaten and then there's a truce declared and the man that has got the licking goes down like a blooming lord to hand in his resignation and give up his blooming sword and the other man bows and takes it and everything's all polite this wasn't that kind of a picnic this wasn't that sort of a fight for the prisoners they took they shot him no odds were they smaller great if they collared old Balmoussaida they reckoned to shoot him straight a lot of blood thirsty devils they were but the rain to doubt they must have been real plucked ends the way they fought it out and the king of them all I reckon the man that could stand a pinch was the boss of a one horse gunboat they called her the Admiral Lynch well he was for Balmoussaida and after the war was done and Balmoussaida was beaten and his troops had been forced to run the other man fetched his army and proceeded to do things Brown he marched him into Fortress and took command of the town and cannon and guns and horses creeping along the road rumbling over the bridges and never a foeman showed till they came inside of the harbour and the very first thing they see was this might of a one horse gunboat allowing against the king and there as they watched they noticed a flutter of crimson rag and under their eyes he hoisted old Balmoussaida's flag well I'll tell you it fairly knocked him it just took away their breath for they must have known if they caught him towards nothing but sudden death and he'd got no fire in his furnace no chance to put out to sea so he stood by his gun and waited with his vessel against the king well I sent him a civil message to say that the war was done and most of his side were corpses and all that were left had run and blood had been spilt sufficient so they gave him a chance to decide if it hauled down his bit of bunting and come on the winding side he listened and heard their message and answered them all polite that he was the Spanish Hidalgo and the men of his race must fight a gunboat against any army with never a chance to run and then with their hundred cannon and him with a single gun the odds were a trifle heavy but he wasn't the sort to flinch so he opened fire on the army did the boss of the Admiral Lynch they pounded his boat to pieces they silenced his single gun and captured the whole consignment for none of them cared to run and it don't say whether they shot him it don't even give his name but whatever they did all wager that he went to his graveyard game I tell you those old Hidalgos so stately and so polite they turn out the real McGinnis when it comes to an uphill fight there was General Alcantara who died in the heaviest brunt and General Alcerica was killed in the battles front but the king of them all I reckon the man that could stand a pinch was the man who attacked the army with a gunboat Admiral Lynch end of section 29 this recording is in the public domain I'm handy with the rope and pole I'm handy with the brand and I can ride a rowdy colt or swing the axe all day but there's no demand for a station hand along the castle ray so it's shift boys shift for there isn't the slightest doubt that we've got to make a shift to the station's further out with the pack horse running after for he follows like a dog we must strike across the country at the old jig jog this old black horse on riding if you'll notice what's his brand he wears the crooked hour you see none better in the land he takes a lot of beating and the other day we tried for a bit of a joke with a racing bloke for 20 pounds aside it was shift boys shift for there wasn't the slightest doubt but I had to make him shift for the money was nearly out but he candid home a winner with the other one at the flog got sought to pick up with his old jig jog I asked a cove for shearing once along the Martha guy we sheared on Union here says he I call it scabs as I I looked along the shearing floor before I turned to go there were 8 or 10 dash Chinaman a shearing in a row it was shift boys shift for there wasn't the slightest doubt it was time to make a shift with the leprosy about so I saddled up my horses and I left his scabby station at the old jig jog I went to Ilawara where my brothers got a farm he asked to ask his landlord's lead before he lifts his arm the landlord owns the countryside man woman dog and cat they haven't the cheek to dare to speak without they touch their hat it was shift boys shift for there wasn't the slightest doubt their little landlord God and I would soon have fallen out was I to touch my hat to him was I his blooming dog so I makes up for the country at the old jig jog but it's time that I was moving I have a mighty way to go till I drink artesian water from a thousand feet below till I meet the overlanders with the cattle coming down and I'll work a while till I make a pile then have a spree in town so it's shift boys shift for there isn't the slightest doubt we've got to make a shift to the stations further out the pack horse runs behind us where he follows like a dog and we cross a lot of country at the old jig jog end of section 30 this recording is in the public domain section 31 of The Man from Snowy River and other verses by Banjo Patterson read for LibriVox.org by Magdalena Cook how Gilbert died there's never a stone at the sleeper's head there's never a fence beside and the wandering stock on the grave-made tread are unnoticed and undenied but the smallest child on the watershed can tell you how Gilbert died for he rode at dusk with his comrade Dunn to the hut at the Stockman's Ford in the waning light of the sinking sun they peered with a fierce accord they were outlaws both and on each man's head was a thousand pounds reward they had taken toll of the country round and the troopers came behind with a black that tracked like a human hound in the scrub and the rangers blown he could run the trail where a white man's eye no sign of a track could find he had hunted them out of the One Tree Hill and over the old man-plane but they wheeled their tracks with a wild beast skill and they made for the ranger gain then away to the hut where the grand sire dwelt they rode with a loosened rain and the grand sire gave them a greeting bold come in and rest in peace no safer place does the country hold with a night pursuit must cease and will drink success to the roving boys and to hell with the black police but they went to death when they entered there in the hut at the Stockman's Ford for the grand sire's word were as false as fair they were doomed to the hangman's cord he had sold them both to the black police for the sake of a big reward in the depth of night there are forms that glide as stealthier serpents creep and around the hut where the outlaws hide they plant in the shadows deep and they wait till the first faint flush of dawn shall waken their prey from sleep but Gilbert wakes while the night is dark a restless sleeper eh he has heard the sound of a sheep-dog's bark and his horse's warning neigh and he says to his mate there are hawks abroad and it's time that we went away their rifles stored at the stretch ahead their bridles lay to hand they waken the old man out of his bed when they heard the sharp command in the name of the queen lay down your arms now Dun and Gilbert stand and Gilbert reach for his rifle-truth that close at his hand he kept he pointed it straight at the voice and drew but never a flash out leapt for the water ran from the rifle-breach it was drenched while the outlaw slept then he dropped the piece with a bitter oath and he turned to his comrade Dunn we are sold he said we are dead men both but there may be a chance for one I'll stop and I'll fight with a pistol here you take to your heels and run so Dunn crept out on his hands and knees in the dim half-daunting light and he made his way to a patch of trees and vanished among the night but the trackers hunted his tracks all day but they never could trace his flight but Gilbert walked from the open door in a confident style and rash he heard at his side the rifle's roar and he heard the bullets crash but he laughed as he lifted his pistol hand and he fired at the rifle-flash then out of the shadows the troopers aimed at his voice and the pistol sound with the rifle-flashes the darkness flamed he staggered and spun around and they riddled his body with rifle balls as it lay on the blood-soaked ground there's never a stone at the sleeper's head there's never a fence beside and the wandering stalk on the grave may tread unnoticed and undenied but the smallest child on the water shed can tell you how Gilbert died End of Section 31 This recording is in the public domain Section 32 of The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses by Banjo Patterson Read for LibriVox.org by Rain The Flying Gang I served my time in the days gone by in the railways clash and clang and I worked my way to the end and I was the head of the Flying Gang it was a chosen band that was kept at hand in case of an urgent need was it south or north we were started forth and away at our utmost speed if word reached town that a bridge was down the imperious summons rang come out with the pilot engine sharp and away with the Flying Gang then a piercing scream and a rush of steam as the engine moved ahead with a measured beat by the slum and street of the busy town we fled by the upland sprite and the homestead's white with the rush of the western gale and the pilot swayed with the pace we made as she rocked on the ringing rail and the country children clapped their hands as the engines echoes rang but their elders said there is work ahead when they send for the Flying Gang then across the miles of the salt bush plane that gleamed with the morning dew where the grasses waved like the ripening grain the pilot engine flew a fiery rush in the open bush where the grade marks seemed to fly and the orders sped on the wires ahead the pilot must go by the governor's special must stand aside and the fast express go hang let your orders be that the line is free for the boys of the Flying Gang End of Section 32 This recording is in the public domain Section 33 of The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses by Benjo Patterson Read for LibriVox.org by Linda Ferguson Shearing at Castle Ray The bell is set a ring and the engine gives a toot this 5 and 30 shearers here are shearing for the loot so stir yourselves you penners up and shove the sheep along the muster has affection them 100,000 strong and make your collie dogs speak up what would the buyers say in London if the wool was late this year from Castle Ray The man that rung the tubbo shed is not the ringer here that stripling from the cumicide can teach him how to shear they trim away the ragged locks and rip the cutter goes and leaves a track of snowy fleece from brisket to the nose it's lovely how they peel it off with never stop nor stay they're racing for the ringer's place this year at Castle Ray The man that keeps the cutter sharp is growling in his cage he's always in a hurry and he's always in a rage you clumsy fisted mutton heads you'd turn a fellow sick you pass yourselves a shear as you were born to swing a pig another broken cutter here that's too you broke today it's awful how such crawlers come to shear at Castle Ray The youngsters picking up the fleece enjoy the merry din they throw the cluster up the fleece he throws it to the bin the press is standing by the rack waiting for the wool there's room for just a couple more the press is nearly full now jump upon the lever lads and heave and heave away another bell of golden fleece is branded Castle Ray End of Section 33 This recording is in the public domain Recording by Linda Ferguson Section 34 of the Main from Snow River and Other Verses by Banjo Patterson Readful LibriVox.org by Magdalena Cook The Winds Message There came a whisper down the blend between the dawn and dark above the tossing of the pine above the river's flow it stirred the bows of giant gums and stalwart iron bark it drifted where the wild ducks played amid the swamps below it brought a breath of mountain air from off the hills of pine a scent of eucalyptus trees in honey-laden bloom and drifting, drifting far away along the southern line it caught from leaf and grass and fern a subtle strange perfume it reached the toiling city folk but few there were that heard the rattle of their busy life had choked the whisper down and some but caught a fresh-blown breeze with scent of pine that stirred a thought of blue hills far away beyond the smoky town and others heard the whisper pass but could not understand the magic of the breeze's breath that set their hearts aglow nor how the roving wind could bring across the overland a sound of voice as silent now and songs of long ago but some that heard the whisper clear were filled with vague unrest the breeze had brought its message home they could not fix to bide their fancies wandered all day towards the blue hills breast towards the sunny slopes that lie along the riverside the mighty rolling western plains are very fair to see we're waving to the passing breezes the silver mile stand but fairer are the giant hills all rugged though they be from which the two great rivers rise that run along the bland oh rocky range and rugged spur and river running clear that swings around the sudden bends with swirl of snow-white foam though we your sons are far away we sometimes seem to hear the message that the breezes bring to call the wanderers home the mountain peaks are white with snow that feeds a thousand reels along the river banks the mays grow tall on virgin land and we shall live to see once more those sunny southern hills and strike once more the bridal