BABS MALONE
Now the squatters and the cockies,
Shearers, trainers, and their jockeys
Had gathered them together for a meeting on the flat;
They had mustered all their forces,
Owners brought their fastest horses,
Monaro-bred—I couldn't give them greater praise than that.
'Twas a lovely day in Summer—
What the blacksmith called a hummer—
The swelling ears of wheat and oats had lost their tender green,
And breezes made them shiver,
Trending westward to the river—
The river of the golden sands, the moaning Eucumbene.
If you cared to take the trouble
You could watch the misty double,
The shadow of the flying clouds that skimmed the Boogong's brow,
Throwing light and shade incessant
On the Bull Peaks' ragged crescent,
Upon whose gloomy forehead lay a patch of winter's snow.
Idly watching for the starting
Of the race that he had part in,
Old Gaylad stood and champed his bit, his weight about nine stone;
His owner stood beside him,
Who was also going to ride him—
A shearer from Gegederick, whose name was Ned Malone.
But Gaylad felt disgusted,
For his joints were fairly rusted:
He longed to feel the pressure of the jockey on his back;
And he felt that for a pin he'd
Join his mates, who loudly whinnied
For him to go and meet them at the post upon the track.
From among the waiting cattle
Came the sound of childish prattle,
And the wife brought up their babe to kiss his father for good luck.
Said Malone: 'When I am seated
On old Gaylad, and am treated
With fairish play, I'll bet we never finish in the ruck.'
But the babe was not contented,
Though his pinafore was scented
With oranges and sticky from his lollies, for he cried—
This gallant little laddy,
As he toddled to his daddy,
And raised his arms imploringly—'Pease dad! div Babs a wide!'
Then the father, how he chuckled
For the pride of it! and buckled
The surcingle, and placed the babe astride the racing pad:
He did it, though he oughtn't;
And by pure good luck he shortened
The stirrups, and adjusted them to suit the tiny lad,
Who was seemingly delighted:
Not a little bit affrighted,
He sat and twined a chubby hand among the horse's mane:
His whip was in the other;
But all suddenly the mother
Shrieked, 'Take him off!' and then the field came thund'ring down the plain!
'Twas the Handicap was coming,
And the music of their drumming
Beat dull upon the turf that in its summer coat was dressed:
The racehorse reared and started;
Then the flimsy bridle parted,
And Gaylad, bearing featherweight, was striding with the rest!
That scene cannot be painted—
How the poor young mother fainted!
How the father drove his spurs into the nearest saddle-horse!
What to do he had no notion;
For you'd easier turn the ocean
Than stop the Handicap that then was half-way round the course.
On the bookies at their yelling,
On the cheap jacks at their selling,
On the crowd there fell a silence as the squadron passed the stand;
Gayest colours flashing brightly,
And the baby clinging tightly,
A wisp of Gaylad's mane still twisted in his little hand.
Not a thought had he of falling,
Though his little legs were galling,
And the wind blew out his curls behind him in a golden stream;
Though the motion made him dizzy,
Yet his baby brain was busy:
For hadn't he at length attained the substance of his dream?
He was now a jockey really!
And he saw his duty clearly
To do his best to win and justify his father's pride;
So he clicked his tongue to Gaylad,
Whispering softly, 'Get away, lad!'...
The old horse cocked an ear and put six inches on his stride.
Then the jockeys who were tailing
Saw a big bay horse come sailing
Through the midst of them with nothing but a baby on his back;
And this startling apparition
Coolly took up its position
With a view of making running on the inside of the track.
Oh, Gaylad was a beauty!
For he knew and did his duty:
Though his reins were flying loosely, strange to say, he never fell;
But held himself together,
For his weight was but a feather.
Bob Murphy, when he saw him, murmured something like 'Oh, hell!'
But Gaylad passed the filly;
Passed Jack Costigan on Chili;
Cut down the coward Wakatip and challenged Guelder Rose...
Here it was he showed his cunning—
Let the mare make all the running:
They turned into the straight at stride for stride and nose for nose.
But Babs was just beginning
To have fears about his winning:
In fact, to tell the truth, my hero felt inclined to cry;
For the Rose was still in blossom;
And two lengths behind her Possum
And gallant little Sterling, slow but sure, were drawing nigh.
Yes! Babsie's heart was failing;
For he felt old Gaylad ailing:
Another fifty yards to go!...he felt his chance was gone.
Could he do it? much he doubted:
Then the crowd—oh, how they shouted!
For Babs had never dropped his whip, and now he laid it on!
Down the straight the leaders thundered
While the people cheered and wondered,
For ne'er before had any seen the equal of that sight;
And never will they, maybe,
See a flaxen-headed baby
Flog racehorse to the winning-post with all his tiny might.
But Gaylad's strength is waning—
Gone, in fact, beyond regaining:
Poor Babs is flogging hopelessly, as pale as any ghost:
But he looks so brave and pretty
That the Rose's jock takes pity,
And, pulling back a trifle, lets the baby pass the post.
What cheering and tin-kettling
Had they after at the settling!
And how they fought to see who'd hold the baby on his lap;
As President Montgomery,
With a brimming glass of Pommery,
Proposed the health of Babs Malone, who'd won the Handicap.
AT THE 'J. C.'
None ever knew his name—
Honoured, or one of shame,
Highborn or lowly;
Only upon that tree
Two letters,
J and C,
Carved by him, mark where he
Lay dying slowly.
Why came he to the West?
Had then the parent nest
Grown so distasteful?
What cause had he to shun
Life, ere 'twas well begun?
Was he that youngest son,
Of substance wasteful?
Were Fate and he at war?
Was it a penance, or
Renunciation?
Is it a glad release?
Has he at length found peace,
Now Death hath bid him cease
Peregrination?
Hands white, without a blot,
Told us that he was not
One of 'the vulgar.'
What can those cyphers be?—
Two only, J and C,
Carved in his agony
Deep in the mulga.
Was there no woman's face
Whose sunny smile might chase
Clouds from above him?
No bosom white as snow?
No lips to whisper low,
'Why doth he seek to go?
Do I not love him?'
Haunted by flashing charms—
White bosoms, rounded arms,
Lips of fair ladies—
Striving to break some link:
Was 't that which made him sink,
Dragged by the curse of drink
Deeper than Hades?
Now, wind across the grave,
Tuning a sultry stave,
Drearily whistles;
Stirring those branches where
Two silent cyphers stare—
Two letters of a prayer:
God's Son's initials.
JACK CORRIGAN
'It's my shout this time, boys; so come along and breast the bar,
And kindly mention what you're going to take;
I don't feel extra thirsty, so I'll sample that three-star'—
Now, lad! come, look alive, for goodness sake!'
So spake he, as he raised the brimming glass towards the light;
So spake Long Jack, the boldest mountaineer
Who ever down from Nungar raced a brumby mob in flight,
Or laid a stockwhip on a stubborn steer.
From Jindabyne to Providence along the Eucumbene
The kindest-hearted fellow to be found;
And when he crossed the saddle not a horse was ever seen
That could make Jack quit his hold to seek the ground.
The women smiled with pleasure, the children laughed aloud,
The very dogs came barking to his feet,
While outside the Squatters' Arms the men came forward in a crowd
To welcome Jack when he rode up the street.
But though the boldest horseman who by midnight or by day
E'er held a mob of cattle on a camp,
There were squatters on Monaro who had yet been known to say
That Jack was an unmitigated scamp.
And true it is Jack Corrigan possessed a serious fault
Which caused his gentle, blue-eyed wife much grief,
And many were the bitter tears she mingled with the salt
With which she cured their neighbours' tend'rest beef.
And often would she tearful take her smiling spouse to task—
Who'd answer, as her pretty face he kissed,
That a beast lost all identity when pickled in the cask,
And a bullock more or less would ne'er be missed.
But now as Jack stood all prepared to toss his nobbler down,
A softly-murmured whisper met his ear:
'I just saw Trooper Fraser get a warrant up the town:
He's after you, old man: you'd better clear!'
Jack never thanked the donor of this excellent advice,
As the glass fell through his fingers with a crash:
With a bound across the footpath, he was mounted in a trice
And speeding down the roadway like a flash,
While Trooper William Fraser wore a very gloomy face,
As he watched his prey go flying down the road;
But he settled in the saddle and prepared to give him chase,
As Jack struck out a line for his abode.
On the road toward the Show Ground then there hung a big swing-gate:
Jack's filly cleared its bars in glorious style;
But he held her well together, for he knew the trooper's weight
Would give him half a distance in each mile;
For Jack rode twelve stone fully, while Bill Fraser rode but nine:
Sweetbriar's strength must surely soon be spent,
Being grass-fed, while the trooper's chestnut horse could always dine
Off oats and barley to his heart's content.
And all aloud Jack cursed the day he'd ever killed a beast
Or branded calf he couldn't call his own,
While the hoof-strokes on the road beat out a song that never ceased
To echo in his ear with mocking tone.
'Three years in gaol! in gaol three years!' the jeering echoes sang:
The granite boulders caught the wild refrain:
'A broken life! a weeping wife!' 'twas thus the rhythm rang;
'And a baby boy you'll never see again!'
He groaned; and then, to dull the sound, spoke loudly to the mare,
And bade her never slacken in her speed:
'For God's sake take me home, lass, with a little time to spare!
Five minutes, at the most, is all I need:
Just time to catch old Dandy, where's he's munching second growth
Of hay: just time to leap upon his back;
And then the smartest trap who ever swore a lying oath
Could never foot me down the River track.'
Sweetbriar pricked her ears, and shook a foam-flake from her bit
As she heard his words, and doubtless caught their sense;
And the rotten granite pebbles rattled round her as she lit
On the homeward side the Rosedale bound'ry fence.
As they scrambled round by Locker's Hill, Jack Corrigan looked round,
And as he looked was filled with stern delight,
For he saw the bald-faced chestnut struggling fiercely on the ground,
Though the hill shut out the sequel from his sight.
His triumph was but short, for, as he stemmed the wide morass,
Where floods had muddied waters once so clear
And left the giant tussocks tangled tightly in a mass,
The trooper still kept drawing on his rear.
The Murrumbidgee's icy stream was widened out by flood:
They swam it at the willow-shaded ford:
As they passed the station buildings his long spurs were red with blood;
Sweetbriar's heaving flanks were deeply scored.
Her stride grew more uneven, though she answered every call:
No jockey rode a better race than Jack
As he eased her up the hills and pressed her onward down the fall,
Round the sidlings of the Billylingra track.
They left O'Rourke's behind them, where it fronts the big bald hill—
At the Flat Rock Jack was riding all he knew—
With all the dash and judgment of the famed Monaro skill,
Yet he couldn't keep the trooper out of view:
He spied his tiny homestead as Bill Fraser gained apace
And loudly warned the fugitive to yield,
Who turned half round but saw no sign of pity in his face
As they swept across the cultivation field:
Their hoofs' dull thunder brought the wife in wonder to the gate:
She waved her hand in answer to his shout;
While Dandy from his paddock whinnied loudly to his mate
To know what all the trouble was about.
'God help us now! the end has come!' the wretched woman cried,
And leant against the gate to catch her breath;
While the tiny, blue-eyed toddler cheered his father on his ride
Towards the ghastly winning-post of Death.
'The filly's failing fast!' thought Jack; 'she's nothing but a weed;
It's a certainty she can't keep long in front.
I'll make a splendid target, if he likes to draw a bead,
As I try to cross the river on the punt.
He left the mare and scrambled through the ti-tree growing rank,
Deep-rooted in its bed of yellow clay;
But when he reached the river, stood and trembled on the bank:
'My God!' he hoarsely said, 'it's swept away!'
The punt was gone: the wire rope still stretched from shore to shore:
Jack paused but half a moment to decide,
And as he scrambled down the bank the wond'ring trooper saw
Him struggling half across the rushing tide.
The angry waters swept him down, and every nerve was strained
To keep his hold upon the frail support:
Though icy numbness seized him, yet his courage never waned:
The hope of freedom filled his every thought.
The rope swayed low beneath his weight and bellied to the stream:
Around his head the flying ripples curled;
While high above the river's roar rang out the awful scream
Of a soul that flies in terror from the world,
As a mighty log, borne swiftly on the bosom of the flood,
Resistless swept him 'neath the eager wave
That sucked him down to river depths; and there beneath the mud
Jack Corrigan sought out a nameless grave.
'Good-bye to life! good-bye to life!' the mocking wavelets sang:
The towering cliffs took up the wild refrain.
'A broken life! a weeping wife!' 'twas thus the rhythm rang,
'And a baby boy he'll never see again!'