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The Man From Snowy River
Andrew Barton "Banjo" Paterson,
The Bulletin, 26 April 1890
There was movement at the station, for the word
had passed around
That the colt
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 blood 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;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would
stand,
He learnt to
ride while droving 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 Timor pony -- three parts thoroughbred at least
--
And such as
are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry -- just the sort that won't say die
--
There was
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."
So he waited sad and wistful -- only Clancy stood his friend
--
"I think we
ought to let him come," he said;
"I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,
For both his
horse and he are mountain bred."
"He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's
side,
Where the
hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every
stride,
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
roam,
But nowhere
yet such 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
for 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 the mob in sight,
If once 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 ranges
ring
With the
stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded
lash,
But they saw
their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip 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 stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered
back
From cliffs
and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,
Where
mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good
day,
NO man can
hold them down the other side."
When they reached the mountain's 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 any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
And he swung
his stockwhip 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 flint stones 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 --
It was grand
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
watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them
still,
As he raced
across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies
met
In the
ranges, 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 their track,
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for
home,
And alone and
unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy 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 a cur.
And down by Kosciusko, 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
in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway
To the
breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day,
And the
stockmen tell the story of his ride.
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