The Man from Snowy River by A. B. Paterson ("The
Banjo")
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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