FROM THE FAR WEST

The first flush of grey light, the herald of daylight,
Is dimly outlining the musterers' camp,
Where over the sleeping the stealthily creeping
Breath of the morning lies chilly and damp,

As, blankets forsaking, 'twixt sleeping and waking,
The black-boys turn out to the manager's call—
Whose order, of course, is, 'Be after the horses,
And take all sorts of care you unhobble them all!'

Then, each with a bridle (provokingly idle),
They saunter away his commands to fulfil,
Where, cheerily chiming, the musical rhyming
From equine bell-ringers comes over the hill.

But now the dull dawning gives place to the morning:
The sun, springing up in a glorious flood
Of golden-shot fire, mounts higher and higher,
Till the crests of the sandhills are stained with his blood.

Now hobble-chains' jingling, with thud of hoofs mingling,
Though distant, sounds near—the cool air is so still—
As, urged by their whooping, the horses come trooping
In front of the boys round the point of the hill.

What searching and rushing for bridles and brushing
Of saddle marks, tight'ning of breastplate and girth!
And what a strange jumble of laughter and grumble—
Some comrade's misfortune the subject of mirth.

I recollect well how that morning Jack Bell
Had an argument over the age of a mare—
The C O B gray one, the dam of that bay one
Which storekeeper Brown calls the Young Lady Clare;

How Tomboy and Vanity caused much profanity,
Scamp'ring away with their tails in the air,
Till, after a chase at a deuce of a pace,
They ran back in the mob and we collared them there.

Then the laugh and the banter, as gaily we canter,
With a pause for the nags at a miniature lake,
Where the yellowtop catches the sunlight in patches,
And lies like a mirror of gold in our wake.

O, the rush and the rattle of fast-fleeing cattle,
Whose hoofs beat a mad rataplan on the earth!
Their hot-headed flight in! Who would not delight in
The gallop that seems to hold all life is worth?

And over the rolling plains slowly patrolling
To the sound of the cattle's monotonous tramp,
Till we hear the sharp pealing of stockwhips, revealing
The fact that our comrades have put on the camp.

From the spot where they're drafting the wind rises, wafting
The dust till it hides man and beast from our gaze,
Till, suddenly lifting and easterly drifting,
We catch a short glimpse of the scene through the haze—

A blending and blurring of swiftly recurring
Colour and movement, that pass on their way;
An intricate weaving of sights and sounds, leaving
An eager desire to take part in the fray;

A dusty procession, in circling succession,
Of bullocks that bellow in impotent rage;
A bright panorama, a soul-stirring drama—
The sky for its background, the earth for its stage.

How well I remember that twelfth of November
When Jack and his little mare, Vanity, fell!
On the Diamantina there never was seen a
Pair who could cut out a beast half as well.

And yet in one second Death's finger had beckoned,
And horse and bold rider had answered the call
Brooking no hesitation, without preparation,
That sooner or later must come to us all.

Thrice a big curly-horned Cobb bullock had scorned
To meekly acknowledge the ruling of Fate;
Thrice Jack with a clout of his whip cut him out,
But each time the beast galloped back to his mate.

Once more he came blund'ring along, with Jack thund'ring
Beside him, his spurs in poor Vanity's flanks,
When, from some cause or other forsaking its mother,
A little white calf trotted out from the ranks.

'Twas useless, I knew it; yet I turned to pursue it:
At the same time I gave a loud warning to Jack:
It was all unavailing: I saw him come sailing
Along as the weaner ran into his track.

Little Vanity tried to turn off on one side,
Then altered her mind and attempted to leap...
The pace was too fast: that jump was her last;
For she and her rider fell all in a heap.

I was quickly down kneeling beside him, and feeling
With tremulous hand for the throb of his heart.
'The mare—is she dead?' were the first words he said,
As he suddenly opened his eyes with a start.

He spoke to the creature—his hand could just reach her—
Gently caressing her lean Arab head:
She acknowledged his praising with eyes quickly glazing...
A whinny...a struggle...and there she lay dead!

I sat there and nursed his head, for we durst
Not remove him: we knew where he fell he would die.
As I watched his life flicker, his breath growing thicker,
I'd have given the world to be able to cry.

Rough-voiced, sunburnt men, far away beyond ken
Of civilisation, our comrades, stood nigh—
All true-hearted mourners, and sadly forlorn as
He gave them a handshake and bade them good-bye.

In my loving embrace there he finished life's race,
And nobly and gamely that long course was run;
Though a man and a sinner he weighed out a winner,
And God, the Great Judge, will declare he has won.

Adown the grass-grown paths we strayed:
    The evening cowslips oped
Their yellow eyes to look at her;
The love-sick lilies moped
With envy that she rather chose
    To take a creamy-petalled rose
And lean it 'gainst her ebon hair,
All in that garden fair.

A languid breeze, with stolen scent
    Of box-bloom in his grasp,
Sighed out his longing in her ear,
    And with his dying gasp
Scattered the perfume at her feet
To blend with others not less sweet:
He loved her, but she did not care,
All in that garden fair.

The rose she honoured nodded down:
    His comrades burst with spite:
Poor fool! he knew not he was doomed
    To barely last the night.
Are hearts to her but as that flower,
The plaything of a careless hour,
To lacerate and never spare
All in that garden fair?

I held her hand that I might trace
    Her fortune in its palm:
A bolder moonbeam than the rest
    Crept up and kissed her arm,
And, kissing once, was loth to leave,
So hid himself within the sleeve
That clasped the lithe arm, white and bare,
All in that garden fair.

I traced her fortune: love and wealth—
    Though life, alas! was short.
But will that wealth be bought with love?
    Or love with wealth be bought?
I know not: knowing only this—
Her hand seemed waiting for a kiss:
I longed to, but I did not dare,
All in that garden fair.

But she, alas! is not for me,
And I am not for her;
Yet ever deep within my heart
    A faint regret must stir—
A thrill of longing that among
Those moonlit paths with lover's tongue
I might return, and woo her there
All in that garden fair.

    The rum was rich and rare:
    There were wagers in the air:
The atmosphere was rosy, and the tongues were wagging free;
    But one was in the revel
    Whose occiput was level—
Plain Josephus Riley, from the North Countree!

    The conversation's flow
    Was not devoid of blow,
And neither was it wanting in the mild, colloquial D.
    With a most ingenuous smile,
    'This here is not my style,'
Said plain Josephus Riley, from the North Countree.

    'And I wouldn't be averse
    To emptying my purse,
And laying some small wager with the present companee:
    To cut the matter short,
    Foot-racing is my forte,'
Said plain Josephus Riley, from the North Countree.

    'I think it's on the cards
    I can run three hundred yards
(The match to be decided where you gentlemen agree)
    Against your fleetest horse:
    The race would prove a source
Of pleasure,' said Josephus, from the North Countree.

    'To equalise the task,
    This little start I ask:
The rider, ere he follows, must imbibe a cup of tea—
    A simple breakfast-cup
    He will have to swallow up.
That's me!—Josephus Riley, from the North Countree.'

    Then a knowing 'un looked wise—
    Begged to apologise;
But might he ask what temp'rature the liquid was to be?
    Would it come from out the pot
    Milkless, steaming, boiling hot?
'Oh, not at all!' said Riley, from the North Countree.

    'Allow me to explain: I do observe with pain
    This jocular reflection on my native honestee.
    My bump of truth is huge:
    I'd scorn a subterfuge,'
Said plain Josephus Riley, from the North Countree.

    'Before the parties start
    I'll take the Judge apart
To prove, by tasting, whether I have tampered with the tea;
    And I beg to state again
    Your suspicions give me pain,'
Said plain Josephus Riley, from the North Countree.

    Then they all were satisfied
    That the match was 'boneefied':
The bond was signed, and Riley went to 'preparate' the tea;
   But his slow, ambiguous smile
    Would have seemed to token guile
In any man but Riley, from the North Countree.

    He brought the fatal cup
    By its saucer covered up:
The Judge examined its contents with awful gravitee;
    Then read the papers o'er,
    But could not find a flaw:
'Wade in, Josephus Riley, from the North Countree!'

    Then the wagerer just bowed,
    And, passing through the crowd,
He handed up the beverage unto the wageree;
    And off across the flat,
    Springing gaily, pit-a-pat,
Went plain Josephus Riley, from the North Countree.

    But behind him what a yell
    Of execration fell
From lips that lent themselves to shapes of great profanitee!
    For the people of that town
    Were done a lovely brown
By plain Josephus Riley, from the North Countree.

    And here's the reason why:
    The tea was simply DRY!
You might eat it, but to drink it was impossibilitee;
    Yet, curious to state,
    Men did not appreciate
This hum'rous innovation from the North Countree.

    You'll understand, of course,
    That wager was a source
Of very little profit to the hapless wageree;
    And, dating from that day,
    I much regret to say
Men look askance at Riley, from the North Countree.