The Man From Snowy River - Banjo (best books for students to read txt) 📗

they reckoned to shoot him straight. A lot of bloodthirsty devils they were — but there ain’t a doubt They must have been real plucked ‘uns — the way that they fought it out, And the king of ‘em 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 Balmaceda, and after the war was done, And Balmaceda was beaten and his troops had been forced to run, The other man fetched his army and proceeded to do things brown, He marched ‘em into the fortress and took command of the town. Cannon and guns and horses troopin’ along the road, Rumblin’ over the bridges, and never a foeman showed Till they came in sight of the harbour, and the very first thing they see Was this mite of a one-horse gunboat a-lying against the quay, And there as they watched they noticed a flutter of crimson rag, And under their eyes he hoisted old Balmaceda’s flag. Well, I tell you it fairly knocked ‘em — it just took away their breath, For he must ha’ known if they caught him, ‘twas nothin’ but sudden death. An’ 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 quay.

Well, they 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 he’d haul down his bit of bunting and come on the winning side. He listened and heard their message, and answered them all polite, That he was a Spanish hidalgo, and the men of his race MUST fight! A gunboat against an army, and with never a chance to run, And them 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 ‘em cared to run; And it don’t say whether they shot him — it don’t even give his name — But whatever they did I’ll wager that he went to his graveyard game. I tell you those old hidalgos so stately and so polite, They turn out the real Maginnis when it comes to an uphill fight. There was General Alcantara, who died in the heaviest brunt, And General Alzereca was killed in the battle’s front; But the king of ‘em all, I reckon — the man that could stand a pinch — Was the man who attacked the army with the gunboat `Admiral Lynch’.

 

A Bushman’s Song

 

I’m travellin’ down the Castlereagh, and I’m a station hand, I’m handy with the ropin’ 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 Castlereagh.

So it’s shift, boys, shift, for there isn’t the slightest doubt That we’ve got to make a shift to the stations further out, With the packhorse runnin’ after, for he follows like a dog, We must strike across the country at the old jig-jog.

This old black horse I’m riding — if you’ll notice what’s his brand, He wears the crooked R, you see — none better in the land. He takes a lot of beatin’, and the other day we tried, For a bit of a joke, with a racing bloke, for twenty pounds a side.

It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn’t the slightest doubt That I had to make him shift, for the money was nearly out; But he cantered home a winner, with the other one at the flog — He’s a red-hot sort to pick up with his old jig-jog.

I asked a cove for shearin’ once along the Marthaguy: `We shear non-union here,’ says he. `I call it scab,’ says I. I looked along the shearin’ floor before I turned to go — There were eight or ten dashed Chinamen a-shearin’ 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 whistled to my dog, And I left his scabby station at the old jig-jog.

I went to Illawarra, where my brother’s got a farm, He has to ask his landlord’s leave before he lifts his arm; The landlord owns the country side — 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 bloomin’ dog? So I makes for up the country at the old jig-jog.

But it’s time that I was movin’, I’ve a mighty way to go Till I drink artesian water from a thousand feet below; Till I meet the overlanders with the cattle comin’ 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 packhorse runs behind us, for he follows like a dog, And we cross a lot of country at the old jig-jog.

 

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 may tread 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 ranges blind: 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 Plain, But they wheeled their tracks with a wild beast’s skill, And they made for the range again. Then away to the hut where their grandsire dwelt, They rode with a loosened rein.

And their grandsire gave them a greeting bold: `Come in and rest in peace, No safer place does the country hold — With the night pursuit must cease, And we’ll 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 their grandsire’s words 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 the big reward.

In the depth of night there are forms that glide As stealthy as 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, aye, 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 stood at the stretcher head, Their bridles lay to hand, They wakened the old man out of his bed, When they heard the sharp command: `In the name of the Queen lay down your arms, Now, Dunn and Gilbert, stand!’

Then Gilbert reached for his rifle true That close at his hand he kept, He pointed it straight at the voice and drew, But never a flash outleapt, For the water ran from the rifle breech — It was drenched while the outlaws 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 the pistol here, You take to your heels and run.’

So Dunn crept out on his hands and knees In the dim, half-dawning light, And he made his way to a patch of trees, And vanished among the night, And 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 rifles 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 stock on the grave may tread Unnoticed and undenied, But the smallest child on the Watershed Can tell you how Gilbert died.

 

The Flying Gang

 

I served my time, in the days gone by, In the railway’s clash and clang, And I worked my way to the end, and I Was the head of the `Flying Gang’. `Twas 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 uplands bright and the homesteads 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 engine’s echoes rang, But their elders said: `There is work ahead When they send for the flying gang.’

Then across the miles of the saltbush plain 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 order 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.

 

Shearing at Castlereagh

 

The bell is set aringing, and the engine gives a toot, There’s five and thirty shearers here are shearing for the loot, So stir yourselves, you penners-up, and shove the sheep along, The musterers are fetching them a hundred thousand strong, And make your collie dogs speak up — what would the buyers say In London if the wool was late this year from Castlereagh?

The man that `rung’ the Tubbo shed is not the ringer here, That stripling from the Cooma side can teach him how to shear. They trim away the ragged locks, and rip the cutter goes, And leaves a track of