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 mobgood 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 farther 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 metIn 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 blazeAt midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep andsway 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.
-Andrew Barton Paterson.
Author.-Andrew Barton Paterson ("Banjo") was born in New South Wales in 1864, and became a lawyer and journalist. He served in the South African War and as a remount officer in Egypt. He wrote forthe Sydney Bulletin many stirring bush ballads, which were afterwards published in book form-The Man from Snowy River, Rio Grande"s Last Race, Saltbush Bill, Old Bush Songs (edited), as well as prose works-An Outback Marriage, Three Elephant Power, etc. His people were pastoralists. "He is the poet of the man who rides, as Lawson is of the man who walks."General Notes.-Make sure that when you read the poem you bring out the galloping rhythm :--There was movement at the station, for the word had passed aroundThat he colt from old Regret had got away.
Find other poems that have a galloping rhythm. You may also beable to find a poem by Paterson about Clancy of the Overflow.
LESSON 35
THE OBlIgINg WAITER
[Here is a story from David Copperfield, a book written nearly a hundred years ago by Charles Dickens. David is being sent to boarding school by his cruel stepfather, Mr. Murdstone, and he has been left at the inn at Yarmouth from which the coach leaves for London.]
The coach was in the yard, shining very much all over, but without any horses to it as yet; and it looked in that state as if nothing was more unlikely than its ever going to London. I was thinking this, and wondering what would ultimately become of my box, which Mr. Barkis had put down on the yard-pavement by the pole (he having driven up the yard to turn his cart), and also what would ultimately become of me, when a lady locked out of a bow-window where some fowls and joints of meat were hanging up, and said :
"Is that the little gentleman from Blunderstone? " "Yes, ma"am, " I said.
"What name ? " inquired the lady.
"Copperfield, ma"am, " I said.
"That won"t do, " returned the lady. "Nobody"s dinner is paid for here in that name. ""Is it Murdstone, ma"am ? " I said.
"If you"re Master Murdstone, " said the lady, "why do yougo and give another name first ? "
I explained to the lady how it was, who then rang a bell and called out, "William, show the coffee-room ! " upon which a waiter came running out of a kitchen on the opposite side of the yard to show it, and seemed a good deal surprised when he was only to show it to me.
It was a large, long room, with some large maps in it. Idoubt if I could have felt much more lonely if the maps had been real foreign countries and I cast away in the middle of them. I felt it was taking a liberty to sit down, with my cap in my hand, on the comer of the chair nearest the door; and when the waiter laid a cloth on purpose for me, and put a set of cruets on it, I think I must have turned red all over with modesty.
He brought me some chops and vegetables, and took the covers off in such a bouncing manner that I was afraid I must have given him some offence. But he greatly relieved my mind by putting a chair for me at the table, and saying very affably, " Now, six-foot, come on ! "I thanked him, and took my seat at the board, but found it extremely difficult to handle my knife and fork with anything like dexterity, or to avoid splashing myself with the gravy while he was standing opposite, staring so hard, and making me blush in the most dreadful manner every time I caught his eye. After watching me into the second chop, he said :-"There"s half a pint of ale for you. Will you have it now ? "I thanked him, and said, " Yes. " Upon which, he poured it out of a jug into a large tumbler, and held it up against the light, and made it look beautiful.
"My eye! " he said, "it seems a good deal, doesn"t it? ""It does seem a good deal, " I answered, with a smile, forit was quite delightful to me to find him so pleasant.
