AN ALLEGORY

The western sun, ere he sought his lair,
    Skimmed the treetops, and, glancing thence,
Rested awhile on the curling hair
    Of Kitty McCrae, by the boundary fence:
Her eyes looked anxious; her cheeks were pale;
For father was two hours late with the mail.

Never before had he been so late;
    And Kitty wondered and wished him back,
Leaning athwart the big swing gate
    That opens out on the bridle-track—
A tortuous path that sidles down
From the single street of a mining town.

With her raven curls and her saucy smile—
    Dark eyes that glow with a changeful light,
Tenderly trembling all the while
    Like a brace of stars on the breast of Night—
Where could you find in the light of day
A bonnier lass than Kitty McCrae?

Born in the saddle, this girl could ride
    Like the fearless Queen of the silver bow;
And nothing that ever was lapped in hide
    Could frighten Kitty McCrae,
I trow. She would wheel a mob in the hour of need
If the Devil himself were in the lead.

But now, in the shadows' deepening
    When the last sun-spark has ceased to burn,
Afar she catches the sullen ring
    Of horse-hoofs swinging around the turn;
Then painfully down the narrow trail
Comes Alec McCrae with the Greytown mail.

'The fever-and-ague, my girl,' he said—
    ''Twas all I got on that northern trip:
When it left me then I was well-nigh dead—
    Has got me fast in its iron grip;
And I'd rather rot in the nearest gaol
Than ride to-night with the Greytown mail.

'At Golden Gully they heard to-day—
    'Twas a common topic about the town—
That the Mulligan Gang were around this way.
    They wouldn't despatch the gold-dust down;
And Brown, the manager, said he thought
'Twere wise to wait for a strong escort.

'I rode the leaders; the other nags
    I left with the coach at the 'Travellers' Rest.'
Kitty, my lass, you must take the bags—
    Postboy, I reckon's about the best;
'Tis dark, I know, but he'll never fail
To take you down with the Greytown mail.'

It needed no further voice to urge
    This dutiful daughter to eager haste;
She donned the habit of rough blue serge
    That draped itself from her slender waist;
And Postboy stood by the stockyard rail
While she mounted behind the Greytown mail.

Dark points, the rest of him iron-grey,
    Boasting no strain of expensive blood,
Down steepest hill he could pick his way,
    And never was baulked by a winter flood—
Strong as a lion, hard as a nail,
Was the horse that carried the Greytown mail.

A nag that really seemed to be
    Fit for a hundred miles at a push:
With the old Monaro pedigree—
    By 'Furious Riding,' out of 'The Bush';
For he was run from a mountain mob
By Brian O'Flynn and Dusty Bob.

And Postboy's bosom was filled with pride
    As he felt the form of his mistress sway,
In its easy grace, to his swinging stride
    As he dashed along down the narrow way.
No prettier Mercury, I'll go bail,
Than Kitty e'er carried a Government mail.

Leaving the slope of O'Connor's Hill,
    They merrily scattered the drops of dew
In the spanning of many a tiny rill
    Whose bubbling waters were hid from view:
In quick-beat time to the curlew's wail
Rode Kitty McCrae, with the Greytown mail.

Sidling the Range by a narrow path
    Where towering mountain-ash trees grow,
And a slip meant more than an icy bath
    In the tumbling waters that foamed below;
Through the white fog filling each silent vale
Rode Kitty McCrae with the Greytown mail.

The forest shadows became less dense:
    They fairly flew down the river fall:
When out from the shade of an old brush-fence
    Stepped three armed men with a sudden call.
Sharp and stern came the well-known hail:
'Stand! for we want the Greytown mail!'

Postboy swerved with a mighty bound
    As an outlaw clung to his bridle rein:
A hoof-stroke flattened him to the ground
    With a curse that was half a cry of pain;
While Kitty, trembling and rather pale,
Rode for life and the Greytown mail.

To save the bags was her only thought
    As she bent to the whistle of angry lead
That followed the flash and the sharp report;
    But, 'Oh, you cowards!' was all she said.
Fast through the storm of leaden hail
Kitty rode on with the Greytown mail.

Safe? Ah, no! for a tiny stream
    On Postboy's coat left its crimson mark.
She still rode on; but 'twas in a dream,
    Through lands where shadows fell drear and dark:
Like a wounded sea-bird before the gale
Fled Kitty McCrae with the Greytown mail.

And ever the crimson life-stream drips—
    For every hoof-stroke a drop of blood—
From feeble fingers the bridle slips
    As down the Warrigal Flat they scud;
And just where the Redbank workings lie
She reels and falls with a feeble cry.

The old horse slackened his racing pace
    When he found the saddle his only load,
And laid his nose to the pretty face
    White upturned in the dusty road;
Like a gathered rose in the heat of day,
So drooped and faded Kitty McCrae.

Did Postboy stay by the dead girl's side?
    Not he! relieved of her feather-weight,
He woke the echoes with measured stride,
    Galloping up to the postal gate—
Blood, dust, and sweat from head to tail,
A riderless horse with the Greytown mail!

And now a river-oak, drooping, weeps
    In ceaseless sorrow above the grave
Down on the flat where Kitty sleeps,
    Hushed by the river's lapping wave—
That ever tells to the trees the tale
Of how she rode with the Greytown mail.

Hear the loud swell of it, mighty pell-mell of it!
    Thousands of voices all blent into one:
See 'hell for leather' now trooping together, now
    Down the long slope of the range at a run!
Dust in the wake of 'em: see the wild break of 'em!
    Spear-horned and curly, red, spotted and starred:
See the lads bringing 'em, blocking 'em, ringing 'em,
    Fetching 'em up to the wings of the yard!

Mark that red leader now: what a fine bleeder now!
    Twelve hundred at least if he weighs half a pound!
None go ahead of him. Mark the proud tread of him!
    See how he bellows and paws at the ground!
Watch the mad rush of 'em! raging and crush of 'em!
    See when they struck how the corner-post jarred!
What a mad chasing and wheeling and racing and
    Turbulent talk 'twixt the wings of the yard!

Harry and Teddy, there! let 'em go steady there!
    Some of you youngsters will surely get pinned.
What am I saying? I've had my last day in
    The saddle: I might as well talk to the wind.
Why should I grieve at all? soon I must leave it all—
    Leave it for ever; and yet it seems hard
That I should be lingering here 'stead of fingering
    Handle of whip 'twixt the wings of the yard.

Hear the loud crack of the whips on the back of the
    Obstinate weaners who will not go in!—
Sharp fusilade of it till, half afraid of it,
    Echo herself shuts her ears at the din.
They'll say when it's over now that I'm in clover now—
    Happy old pensioner! yet it seems hard,
E'en on the brink of the grave, when I think of the
    Times out of mind that I rode to that yard.

Hark to the row at the rails! there's a cow at the
    Charge: how she laughs all their lashes to scorn!
Mark how she ran ag'in little Tom Flanagan!
    Lucky for him that it wasn't her horn:
He'd make no joke of it had he a poke of it.
    There she comes back! but he's put on his guard:
Greenhide descending now, sharp reports blending now,
    Flogging her back up the wings of the yard.

The breeze brings their bellowing, soft'ning it, mellowing,
    Till it sounds like a spent giant in pain—
Steals up the valley on, sounding a rally on
    Sonorous hills that return it again.
Useless my whining now! useless repining now!
    'Twon't make me any less battered and scarred:
Though I've grown grey at it—oh, for a day at it!
    Oh, for an hour 'twixt the wings of the yard!

Oh, how I yearn for those times! how I burn for those
    Days when my weapons, the whip and the spur,
The double-reined bridle, were not hanging idle!...
    But I'm old, and as useless as Stumpy—that cur:
No good for heeling now, he has a feeling now
    Not unlike mine—that it's woefully hard
We should be lying here, groaning and sighing here,
    Watching the cattle come up to the yard.

Life has no salt in it. See how I halt in it!—
    I, who once rode with the first of the flight—
Watching and waiting now, feebly debating now
    Whether the close will bring darkness or light;
Half my time pondering, back through life wandering,
    Groaning to see how that life has been marred—
Seeing the blots in it, all the bad spots in it,
    Mustering, bringing past sins to the yard.

Shall I be able to show a clean waybill to
    God, when he rounds up and drafts off his own—
When, at the mustering, millions of clustering
    Souls come to judgement before the white throne?
Is the Lord's hand on me? Have I his brand on me?
    When I go up will the passage be barred?
Am I a chosen one? must the gates close on one?
    Shall I be left 'twixt the wings of his yard?