 Kitty McCrae, a galloping rhyme by Barcroft Henry Boke, read for LibriVox.org by Andrea Fiori. The western son, ere he sought his lair, skimmed the treetops and glancing thence, rested awhile on the curling hair of Kitty McCrae by the boundary fence. Her eyes looked anxious, her cheeks were pale, for father was two hours late with the mail. Never before had he been so late, and Kitty wondered and wished him back, leaning a thought the big swing gate that opens out on the bridal track, a torturous path that sidled down, from the single street of a mining town. With her raven curls and her saucy smile, brown eyes that glow with a changeful light, tendrally trembling all the while, like a brace of stars on the breast of night. Where could you find in the light of day a bonnier lassie than Kitty McCrae? Born in the saddle, this girl could ride, like the fearless queen of the silver bow, and nothing that ever was lapped in hide could frighten Kitty McCrae, I trove. She would wheel a mob in the hour of need, if the devil himself were in the lead, but now in the shadows deepening, when the last sun-spark had ceased to burn, afar she catches the sullen ring of horse-lift swinging around the turn. Then painfully down the narrow trail comes Alex McCrae with the grey-town mail. The fever and agieu, my girl, he said, towards all I got on that northern trip, when it left me then I was well nigh dead, has got me fast in its iron grip. And I'd rather rot in the nearest jail than ride to-night with the grey-town mail. At Golden Gully they heard to-day, towards a common topic about the town, that the Mulligan gang were around this way, so they wouldn't dispatch the gold dust down, and Brown the manager said he thought, to her wise to wait for a strong escort. I rode the leaders, the other nags. I left with the coach at the traveller's rest. Kitty my lass, you must take the bags. Post-boy, I reckons about the best. To his dark I know, but he'll never fail, to take you down with the grey-town mail. It needed no further voice to urge, this dutiful daughter to eager haste. She dawned the habit of rough blue surge, that hung in folds from her slender waist. And Post-boy stood by the stockyard rail, while she mounted behind the grey-town mail. Dark points, the rest of him iron grey, boasting no strain of expensive blood, down steepest hill he could pick his way, and never was balked by a winter flood. As long as a lion, hard as a nail, was the horse that carried the grey-town mail. A nag that seemed to be fit for a hundred miles at a push, with the old Menaro pedigree, by furious rising out of the bush, run in when a colt from a mountain mob, by Brian O'Flynn and Dusty Bob, and Postman's bosom was filled with pride, as he felt the form of his mistress's sway. In its easy grace, to his swinging stride, as he dashed along the narrow way. No prettier mercury, I'll go bail, than kitty or carried a governed mail. Leaving the edge of O'Connor's hill, they merrily scattered the drops of dew. In the spanning of many a tiny reel, whose bubbling waters were hid from view. In quick step time to the curlew's wail, rode Kitty McCray, with the grey-town mail. Sideling the range by a narrow path, where towering mountain ash trees grow, and a slip meant more than an icy bath, in the tumbling waters that foam below. Through the white fog filled each silent veil, rode Kitty McCray, with the grey-town mail. The forest shadows became less dense. They fairly flew down the river fall. As out from the shade of an old brush fence, step three armed men with a sudden call. Sharp and stern came the well-known hail. Stand, for we want the grey-town mail. Postboy swerved with a mighty bound, as an outlaw clung to his bridal rain. A hoof stroke flattened him on the ground, with a curse that was half a cry of pain. While Kitty, trembling in rather pale, rode for life in the grey-town mail. To save the bags was her only thought, as she bent for the whistle of angry lead, that followed the flash in the sharp report. But oh, you cowards, was all she said! Fast as fast as the leaden hail, Kitty rode on with the grey-town mail. Safe? Ah, no, for a tiny stream, on Postboy s coat left its crimson mark. Still she rode on, but twas in a dream, through lands where shadows fell drear and dark. Like a wounded sea-bird before the gale, fled Kitty McCray with the grey-town mail. And ever the crimson life-stream drips, for every hoof stroke a drop of blood. From feeble fingers the bridal slips, as the waracle flat they scud. And just where the red-bank workings lie, she reels and falls with a feeble cry. The old horse slackened his racing pace, when he found the saddle his only load, and nervously sniffed at the still-pure face that lay up-turned in the dusty road. Like a gathered rose in the heat of day, she drooped and faded, Kitty McCray. Did Postboy stay by the dead-girl's side? Not he. Relieved of her feather-weight, he woke the echoes with measured stride, galloping up to the postal gate. Blood-dust and sweat from head to toe, a riderless horse with the grey-town mail. And now a river oak drooping, weeps and ceaseless sorrow above the grave, on the lush green flat where Kitty sleeps, hushed by the river's lapping wave, that ever tells to the trees the tale of how she rode with the grey-town mail. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Kitty McCray, a galloping rhyme by barcroft Henry Boak, read for LibriVox.org by Ankyla. The western sun, ere he sought his lair, skimmed the treetops and glancing fence, rested a while on the curling hair of Kitty McCray by the boundary fence. Her eyes looked anxious, her cheeks repel, for father was two hours late with the mail. Never before had he been so late, and Kitty wondered and wished him back, leaning a thwart the big swing-gate that opens out on the bridal track, a torturous path that sidled down from the single street of a mining-town. With her raving curls and her saucy smile, brown eyes that glow with a changeful light, tenderly trembling all the while, like a brace of stars on the breast of night. Where could you find, in the light of day, a bonnier lassie than Kitty McCray? Born in the saddle, this girl could ride, like a fearless queen of the silver bow, and nothing that ever was lapped in hide could frighten Kitty McCray, I trove. She would wheel a mob in the hour of need if the devil himself were in the lead. But now, in the shadows deepening, when the last sun-spark has ceased to burn, afar she catches the sullen ring of horse hooves swinging around the turn. Then painfully down the narrow trail comes Alex McCray with the grey-town mail. The fever and awe of my girl, he said, to as all I got on that northern trip, when it left me then I was well nigh dead, has caught me fast in its iron grip, and I'd rather rot in the nearest gow than ride to-night with the grey-town mail. But golden gully they heard today, twas a common topic among the town, that the mulligan gang were around this way, so they wouldn't dispatch the gold dust down, and Brown the manager said he thought, to her wise to wait for strong escort. I rode the leaders, the other nags I left with the coach at the travellers' rest. Kitty, my lass, you must take the bags, postboy I reckons about the best, to as dark I know, but he'll never fail to take you down with the grey-town mail. It needed no further voice to urge this dutiful daughter to eager haste. She dawned the habit, the rough blue surge, that hung and folds from her slender waist, and postboy stood by the stockyard rail, while she mounted behind the grey-town mail. Dark points, the rest of him iron grey, boasting no strain of expensive blood, down steepest hill he could pick his way, and never was bogged by a winter flood. As long as a lion, hard as a nail, was the horse that carried the grey-town mail. A nag that nearly seemed to be fit for a hundred miles at a push, with the old manor au pedigree, by furious rising out of the bush. Run in when a colt from a mountain mob, by Brian O'Flynn and Dusty Bob, and postboy's bosom was filled with pride, as he felt the form of his mistress's sway, in its easy grace to his swinging stride as he dashed along down the narrow way. No prettier mercurial go bale, than Kitty air-carried a government mill. Leaving the edge of O'Connor's hill, they merrily scattered the drops of dew, in the spanning of many a tiny rill, whose bubbling waters were hid from view. In quick step-time to the Curlew's Whale, brod Kitty McGrath with the grey-town mail, riddling the range by a narrow path, where towering mountain ash trees grow, and a slip meant more than an icy bath in the tumbling waters that foamed below, through the white fog filling each silent veil, brod Kitty McGrath with the grey-town mail. The forest shadows became less dense, they fairly flew down the river-fall. As out from the shade of the old brush-fence, stepped three armed men with a sudden call, sharp and stern came the well-known hail, and for we want the grey-town mail. Post-boy swerved with a mighty bound, as an outlaw clung to his bridal rain, a hoof-stroke flattened him to the ground, with a curse that was half a cry of pain, while Kitty, trembling in rather pale, roared for life in the grey-town mail. To save the bags was her only thought, as she bent for the whistle of angry lead, that followed the flash in the sharp report, but, oh, you cowards, was all she said. Just as fast as a leaden hail, Kitty rode on with the grey-town mail. Safe? Ah, no, for a tiny stream on Post-boy s coat left its crimson mark, still she rode on but was in a dream, through lands where shadows fell drear and dark, like a wounded seabird before the gale, fled Kitty McGrath with the grey-town mail. Ever the crimson light-stream drips, and every hoof-stroke a drop of blood, from feeble fingers the bridal slips, as down the wearigle flat they scud, and just where the red-bank workings lie, she reels and falls with a feeble cry. The old horse slackened his racing pace, when he found the saddle his only load, and nervously sniffed the still pure face that lay upturned in the dusty road. Like a gathering rose, in the heat of day, she trooped and faded, Kitty McGrath. Did Post-boy stay by the dead-girl's side? Not he. Relieved of her feather-weight, he woke the echoes with measured stride, galloping up to the postal gate, blood, dust, and sweat from head to tail, a riderless horse with the grey-town mail. And now a river oak, drooping weeps, and ceaseless sorrow above the grave, on the lush green flat where Kitty sleeps, hushed by the river's lapping wave, that ever tells the trees the tale of how she rode with the grey-town mail. Kind of Paul, this recording is in the public domain. The western sun, air he sought his lair, skimmed the treetops and glancing fence, rested a while on the curling hair of Kitty McGrath by the boundary fence. Her eyes looked anxious, her cheeks were pale, for her father was two hours late with the mail. Never before had he been so late, and Kitty wondered and wished him back, leading a thwart the big swing gate that opens out on the bridal track, a torturous path that sidled down from the single street of a mining-town. With her raven curls and her saucy smile, brown eyes that glow with a changeful light, tenderly trembling all the while like a race of stars on the breast of night. Where could you find, in the light of day, a bonnier lass than Kitty McGrath? Born in the saddle, this girl could ride like the fearless queen of the Silver Bow, and nothing that ever was lapped in hide could frighten Kitty McGrath, I throw. She would wheel a mob in the hour of need if the devil himself were in the lead. But now, when the shadows deepening, when the last sun-spark had ceased to burn, afar she catches a sullen ring of horse-hoofes swinging round the turn. Then painfully down the narrow trail comes Alec McRae, with the gray-town mail. "'The fever in Agu, my girl,' he said, twas all I got on that northern trip, when it left me then, I was well and I dead, has got me fast in its iron grip, and I'd rather rot in the nearest jail than ride tonight with the gray-town mail. At Golden Gully, they heard today, twas a common topic about the town, but the Mulligan gang were around this way, so they wouldn't dispatch the gold dust down, and Brown the manager said he thought twer wise to wait for a strong escort. I rode the leaders, the other nags I left with the coach, at the traveller's rest. Kitty, my lass, you must take the bags, post-boy I reckons both the best. To his dark I know, but he'll never fail to take you down with the gray-town mail. It needed no further voice to urge this dutiful daughter to eager haste. She donned the habit of rough blue surge that hung in folds from her slender waist, and post-boy stood by the stockyard rail, while she mounted behind the gray-town mail. Dark points, the rest of him iron gray, boasting no strain of expensive blood. Down steepest hills he could pick his way, and never was balked by a winter flood, strong as a lion, hard as a nail, was a horse that carried the gray-town mail. An egg that really seemed to be fit for a hundred miles at a push, with the old Menaro pedigree, by furious rising, out of the bush. Run in with a colt from a mountain mob, by Brian O'Flynn and Dusty Bob. And post-boy's bosom was filled with pride as he felt the form of his mistress's sway, in its easy grace, to his swinging stride as he dashed along the narrow way. No prettier mercury, I'll go bale, than Kitty Air carried a government mail. Even the edge of O'Connor's hill they merrily scattered the drops of dew in the spanning of many a tiny rill, whose bubbling waters were hid from view, in quick-step time to the curlew's wail, rode Kitty McRae, with the gray-town mail. Scyling the range, by a narrow path where towering mountain ash trees grow, and a slip meant more than a nicey bath in the tumbling waters at foam below. Through the white fog, filling each silent veil, rode Kitty McRae, with the gray-town mail. The forest shadows became less dense, they fairly flew down the river-fall, as out from the shade of an old brush-fence, step three armed men, with a sudden call, sharp and stern came the well-known hail, stand, for we want the gray-town mail. Post-boy swerved with a mighty bound, as an outlaw clung to his bridal reign. A hoof-stroke flattened him on the ground, with a curse that was half a cry of pain. While Kitty, trembling in rather pale, rode for life and the gray-town mail. To save the bags was her only thought as she bent for the whistle of angry lead, that followed the flash and the sharp report. But O. U. Cowards was all she said, fast as fast as the leaden hail Kitty wrote on, with the gray-town mail. Safe? Oh, no, for a tiny stream on Post-boy's coat left its crimson mark. Still she wrote on, but twas in a dream. Through lands where shadows fell drear and dark, like a wounded seabird before the gale, fled Kitty McRae, with the gray-town mail. And ever the crimson, lifestream drips, for every hoof-stroke a drop of blood, from feeble fingers the bridal slips as down the lorrigal flat they scud, and just where the red-bank workings lie, she reels and falls with a feeble cry. The old horse slackened his racing pace when he found the saddle his only load, and nervously sniffed at the still, pure face that lay upturned in the dusty road. Like a gathering rose in the heat of day, she drooped and faded, Kitty McRae. Did Post-boy stay by the dead girl's side? Not he. Relieved of her feather-weight, he woke the echoes with measured stride, galloping up to the postal gate, blood, dust and sweat from head to tail, a riderless horse with the gray-town mail. And now a river-oak drooping, weeps in ceaseless sorrow above the grave on a lush green flat where Kitty sleeps, hushed by the river's lapping wave that ever tells to the trees the tale of how she rode with the gray-town mail. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Kitty McRae. A Galloping Grime by Barcroft Henry Boke. Red for LibriVox.org by Lucy Perry. The western sun ear he sought his lair, skimmed the treetops and glancing vents, rested a while on the curling hair of Kitty McRae by the boundary fence. Her eyes looked anxious, her cheeks were pale, for her father was two hours late with the mail. Never before had he been so late, and Kitty wondered and wished him back, leaning a thwart to the big swing-gate that opens out on the bridal track, a torturous path that sidled down from the single street of a mining town. With her raven curls and her saucy smile, brown eyes that glow with a changeful light, tenderly trembling all the while, like a brace of stars on the breast of night. Where could you find in the light of day a bonnier last than Kitty McRae? Born in the saddle this girl could ride like a fearless queen of the silver bow, and nothing that ever was lapped in hide could frighten Kitty McRae, I trow. She would wheel a mob in the air of need, if the devil himself were in the lead. But now in the shadows deepening, when the last sun-spark had ceased to burn, afar she catches the sullen ring of horse-hoofs swinging around the turn. Then painfully down the narrow trail comes Alex McRae with the grey-town mail. The fever and agony, my girl, he said, twas all I got on that northern trip. When it left me then I was well, my dead, has got me fast in its iron grip, and I'd rather rot in the nearest jail than ride to-night with the grey-town mail. At Golden Gully they heard today twas a common topic about the town, that the Mulligan gang were around this way, so they wouldn't dispatch the gold dust down, and Brown the manager said he thought, to a wise to wait for a strong escort. I rode the lead as the other nags. I left with the coach at the traveller's rest. Kitty, my lass, you must take the bags. Postboy I reckons about the best. Tis dark I know, but he'll never fail, to take you down with the grey-town mail. It needed no further voice to urge this beautiful daughter to eager haste. She donned the habit of rough blue surge, the tongue enfold from her slender waist, and Postboy stood by the stockyard rail while she mounted behind the grey-town mail. Dark points the rest of him iron grey, boasting no strain of expensive blood. Down steepest hills he could pick his way, and never was balked by a winter flood. Strong as a lion, hard as a nail, was the horse that carried the grey-town mail. A nag that really seemed to be fit for 100 miles at a push, with the old Manorow pedigree, bifurious rising out of the bush, run in when a colt from a mountain mob by Brian Flynn and Dusty Bob. And Postboy's bosom was filled with pride, and he felt the form of his mistress's sway, in its easy grace to his swinging stride as he dashed down along the narrow way. No prettier mercury I'll go bail than Kitty Ear carried a government mail. Leaving the edge of O'Connor's hill, they merrily scattered the drops of dew, in the spanning of many a tiny rill, whose bubbling waters were hid from view. In quick step time to the Curlew's Whale, rode Kitty McCray with the grey-town mail. Excitling the range by a narrow path, where towering mountain ash trees grow, and a slip meant more than an icy bath in the tumbling waters that foamed below, through the white fog filling each silent veil, rode Kitty McCray with the grey-town mail. The forest shadows became less dense, they fairly flew down the river-fall, as out from the shade of an old brush fence. Step three armed men with a sudden call, sharp and stern came the well-known hail, stand for we want the grey-town mail. Most boys swerved with a mighty bound, as an outlaw clung to his bridal reign, a hoof-stroke flattened him on the ground, with a curse that was half the cry of pain, while Kitty, trembling and rather pale, rode for life in the grey-town mail. To save the bags was her only thought, as she bent for the whistle of angry lead, that followed the flash and the sharp retort, but O'You Cowards was all she said. Fast as fast as the lead and hail, Kitty rode on with the grey-town mail. Safe are no for a tiny stream on post-boy's coat left its crimson mark, still she rode on but was in a dream, through lands where shadows fell drear and dark, like a wounded sea-bird before the gale fled Kitty McRae with the grey-town mail. And ever the crimson life streamed rips, for every hoof-stroke a drop of blood, from feeble fingers the bridal slips, as down the warrigal flat they scud, and just where the red-bank workings lie she reels and falls with a feeble cry. The old horse slackened his racing pace, when he found the saddle his only load, and nervously sniffed at the still pure face that lay upturned in the dusty road, like a gathered rose in the heat of the day she drooped and faded Kitty McRae. Did post-boy stay by the dead girl's side? Not he, relieved of her feather-weight. He woke the echoes with measured stride, galloping up to the postal gate, blood dust and sweat from head to tail, a rideless horse with the grey-town mail. An hour of rogue drooping weeps, in ceaseless sorrow above the grave, on the lush-green flat where Kitty sleeps, hushed by the river's lapping wave, the devil tells to the trees the tale of how she rode with the grey-town mail. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Kitty McRae, a galloping rhyme by Barcroft Henry Boak, read for LibriVox.org by Mark Smith. The western son, ere he sought his lair, skimmed the treetops and glancing thence, rested a while on the curling hair of Kitty McRae by the boundary fence. Her eyes looked anxious, her cheeks were pale, for father was two hours late with a mail. Never before had he been so late, and Kitty wandered and wished him back, leading a thwart the big swing-gate that opens out on the bridal track a tortuous path that sidled down from the single street of a mining-town. With her raven curls and her saucy smile, brown eyes that glow with a changeful light, tenderly trembling all the while like a brace of stars on the breast of night, where could you find in the light of day a bonnier lassie than Kitty McRae? Born in the saddle, this girl could ride, like the fearless queen of the silver bow, and nothing that ever was lapped in hide could frighten Kitty McRae, Hytro. She would wheel a mob in the hour of need if the devil himself were in the lead. But now, when the shadows deepening, when the last sun-spark had ceased to burn, afar she catches the sullen ring of horse hoofs swinging around the turn, then painfully down the narrow trail comes Alex McRae with a gray-town mail. "'A fever and agu, my girl,' he said, "'twas all I got on that northern trip, when it left me then I was well-nigh dead, has got me fast in its iron grip, and I'd rather rot in the nearest jail than ride to-night with a gray-town mail.' At golden gully they heard today, it was a common topic about the town, that the mulligan gang was around this way, so they wouldn't dispatch the gold dust down, and brown the manager said he thought sure wise to wait for a strong escort. I rode the leaders, the other nags I left with a coach at the traveler's rest. "'Kitty, my lass, you must take the bags,' post-boy I reckons about the best. "'Tis dark, I know, but he'll never fail to take you down with a gray-town mail.' It needed no further voice to urge this dutiful daughter to eager haste. She'd don the habit of rough blue surge that hung enfolds from her slender waist, and post-boy stood by it the stock-yard rail while she mounted behind the gray-town mail. Dark points, the rest of him iron gray, boasting no strain of expensive blood, down steepest hill he could pick his way, and never was balked by a winter flood. Strong as a lion, hard as a nail, was the horse that carried the gray-town mail. A nag that really seemed to be fit for a hundred miles at a push, with the old Manaro pedigree, by furious rising out of the bush, run in when a cult from a mountain mob by Brian O'Flynn and Dusty Bob. And post-boy's bosom was filled with pride, as he felt the form of his mistress's sway, in its easy grace to his swinging stride as he dashed along down the narrow way. No prettier, Mercury, I'll go bail, than Kitty air-carried a government mail. Even the edge of O'Connor's hill they merrily scattered the drops of dew in the spanning of many a tiny rill whose bubbling waters were hid from view. In quick-step time to the Curlew's Whale, rode Kitty MacRae, with the gray-town mail. Sideling the range by a narrow path where towering mountain ash trees grow, and a slip met more than an icy bath in the tumbling waters that foam below, through the white fog filling each silent veil, rode Kitty MacRae, with the gray-town mail. The forest shadows became less dense. They fairly flew down the river-fall, as out from the shade of an old brush fence, step three armed men with a sudden call, sharp and stern came the well-known hail. Stand, for we want the gray-town mail. Post-boy swerved with a mighty bound, as an outlaw clung to his bridal reign, a hoof-stroke flattened him on the ground with the curse that was half a cry of pain, while Kitty, trembling and rather pale, rode for life and the gray-town mail. To save the bags was her only thought, as she bent before the whistle of angry lead that followed the flash and the sharp report, but, oh, you cowards, was all she said. Fast as fast as the leaden hail Kitty rode on with the gray-town mail. Safe, ah, no, for a tiny stream on Post-boy's coat left its crimson mark. Still she rode on, but was in a dream, through lands where shadows fell drear and dark, like a wounded sea-bird before the gale fled Kitty MacRae with the gray-town mail. And ever the crimson lifestream drips, for every hoof-stroke a drop of blood, from feeble fingers the bridal slips as down the warrigal flat they scud. And just where the red-bank workings lie she reels and falls with a feeble cry. The old horse slackened his racing-pace when he found the saddle his only load, and nervously sniffed at the still, pure face that lay upturned in a dusty road, like a gathered rose in the heat of day she drooped and faded. Kitty MacRae. Did Post-boy stay by the dead girl's side? Not he. Relieved of her feather-weight, he woke the echoes with measured stride galloping up to the postal gate, blood, dust, and sweat from head to tail, a riderless horse with a gray-town mail. And now a river-oak drooping, weeps and ceaseless sorrow above the grave on the lush green flat where Kitty sleeps, hushed by the river's lapping wave. That ever tells to the trees the tale of how she rode with a gray-town mail. And of poem this recording is in the public domain. Kitty MacRae. A Galloping Rhyme by Barcroft Henry Boak. Read for Liborox.org by Morgan Montesante. The western sun ere he sought his lair skimmed the treetops and glancing vents, rested a while on the curling hair of Kitty MacRae by the boundary fence. Her eyes looked anxious, her cheeks were pale. Her father was two hours late with the mail. Never before had he been so late, and Kitty wondered and wished him back, leaning at four at the big-swing gate that opens out on the bridal track, a torturous path that sidled down from the single street of a mining town. With her raven curls and her saucy smile, round eyes that glow with a changeful light, tenderly trembling all the while like a brace of stars on the breast of night, where could you find in the light of day a bonnier lass than Kitty MacRae? Born in the saddle, this girl could ride like the fearless queen of the silver bow, and nothing that ever was laughed in high could frighten Kitty MacRae, I trove. She would wheel a mob in the hour of need if the devil himself were in the lead. But now in the shadows, deepening, when the last sun spark had ceased to burn, afar she catches the solemn ring of horse hooves swinging around the turn. Then painfully down the narrow trail comes Alex MacRae with the gray-town male. The fever and awe of my girl, he said, it was all I got on that northern trip. When it left me, then I was well nigh dead, has got me fast in its iron grip, and I rather rot in the nearest goal than ride tonight with the gray-town male. At Golden Golly they heard today, it was a common topic about the town, that the Malagan gang were around this way, so they wouldn't dispatch the gold dust down. And Brown the manager said he thought, tour wise to wait for a strongest score. I rode the leaders the other nags. I left for the coach at the traveler's rest. Kitty, my lass, you must take the bags. Postboy reckons about the best. It is dark I know, but he'll never fail to take you down with the gray-town male. It needed no further voice to urge the dutiful daughter to eager haste. She donned the habit of rough blue surge that hung in the folds from her slender waist. And Postboy stood by the stockyard rail while she mounted behind the gray-town male. Dark points the rest of him ivory gray, boasting no strain of expensive blood. Down steepest hill he could pick his way and never was balked by a winter flood. Strong as a lion, hard as a nail. Was the horse that carried the gray-town male. And Naglet really seemed to be fit for a hundred miles at a push. With the old Monero pedigree, by furious rising out of the bush, run in when a colt from a mountain mob by Brian O. Flynn and Dusty Bob. And Postboy's bosom was filled with pride as he felt the form of his mistress's sway. In its easy grace, to his swinging side, as he dashed along down the narrow way. No prettier mercury, I'll go bail, than kitty air carry a government male. Leaving the edge of O'Connor's hill, they merely scattered the drops of dew and the spanning of many a tiny row. Whose bubbling waters were hid from view in quick-step time to the Curlew's Whale, rode Kitty McRae with the gray-town male. Scythling the range by a narrow path where towering mountain ash trees grow, and a slip meant more than an icy bath in the tumbling waters that foam below. Through the white fog, filling each veil, rode Kitty McRae with the gray-town male. The forest shadows became less dense. They fairly flew down the riverfall, as out from the shade of an old brush fence stepped three armed men with a sudden call. Sharp and stern came the well-known hail. Stand, for we want the gray-town male. Postboy swore with a mighty bound, as an outlaw clung to his bridal rain. A hoof's stroke flattened him on the ground with a curse that was half a cry of pain, while Kitty trembling in rather pale road for life and the gray-town male. To save the bags was her only thought, as she bent for the whistle of angry lead that followed the flash and the sharp report. But OU Cowards was all she said. Fast as fast as the lead in hail, Kitty rode on with the gray-town male. And ever the crimson life streamed drifts, for every hoof's stroke a drop of blood. From people's fingers, the bridal slips, as down the wargal flat they scud, and just where the red bank workings lie, she reels and falls with a feeble cry. The horse slackened his racing pace when he found the saddle his only load, and nervously stiffed at the still-pure face the layup turned in the dusty road. Like a gathered rose in the heat of day, she drooped and faded, Kitty McCray. Did Postboy stay by the dead girl's side? Not he. Relieved of her feather-weight, he woke the echoes with major stride, galloping up to the postal gate, blood, dust, and sweat from head to tail, a riderless horse with a gray-town male. And now a river oak drooping weeps, and seas with sorrow above the grave, on the lush green flat where Kitty sleeps, hushed by the river's lapping wave that ever tells to the trees the tail of how she rode with a gray-town male. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain.