Hold hard, Ned! Lift me down once more, and lay me in the shade.

Old man, you’ve had your work cut out to guide

Both horses, and to hold me in the saddle when I swayed,

All through the hot, slow, sleepy, silent ride.

The dawn at “Moorabinda” was a mist rack dull and dense,

The sun-rise was a sullen, sluggish lamp;

I was dozing in the gateway at Arbuthnot’s bound’ry fence,

I was dreaming on the Limestone cattle camp.

We crossed the creek at Carricksford, and sharply through the haze,

And suddenly the sun shot flaming forth;

To southward lay “Katawa”, with the sand peaks all ablaze,

And the flushed fields of Glen Lomond lay to north.

Now westward winds the bridle-path that leads to Lindisfarm,

And yonder looms the double-headed Bluff;

From the far side of the first hill, when the skies are clear and calm,

You can see Sylvester’s woolshed fair enough.

Five miles we used to call it from our homestead to the place

Where the big tree spans the roadway like an arch;

‘Twas here we ran the dingo down that gave us such a chase

Eight years ago — or was it nine? — last March.

‘Twas merry in the glowing morn among the gleaming grass,

To wander as we’ve wandered many a mile,

And blow the cool tobacco cloud, and watch the white wreaths pass,

Sitting loosely in the saddle all the while.

‘Twas merry ‘mid the blackwoods, when we spied the station roofs,

To wheel the wild scrub cattle at the yard,

With a running fire of stock whips and a fiery run of hoofs;

Oh! the hardest day was never then too hard!

Aye! we had a glorious gallop after “Starlight” and his gang,

When they bolted from Sylvester’s on the flat;

How the sun-dried reed-beds crackled, how the flint-strewn ranges rang,

To the strokes of “Mountaineer” and “Acrobat”.

Hard behind them in the timber, harder still across the heath,

Close beside them through the tea-tree scrub we dash’d;

And the golden-tinted fern leaves, how they rustled underneath;

And the honeysuckle osiers, how they crash’d!

We led the hunt throughout, Ned, on the chestnut and the grey,

And the troopers were three hundred yards behind,

While we emptied our six-shooters on the bushrangers at bay,

In the creek with stunted box-trees for a blind!

There you grappled with the leader, man to man, and horse to horse,

And you roll’d together when the chestnut rear’d;

He blazed away and missed you in that shallow water-course —

A narrow shave — his powder singed your beard!

In these hours when life is ebbing, how those days when life was young

Come back to us; how clearly I recall

Even the yarns Jack Hall invented, and the songs Jem Roper sung;

And where are now Jem Roper and Jack Hall?

Ay! nearly all our comrades of the old colonial school,

Our ancient boon companions, Ned, are gone;

Hard livers for the most part, somewhat reckless as a rule,

It seems that you and I are left alone.

There was Hughes, who got in trouble through that business with the cards,

It matters little what became of him;

But a steer ripp’d up Macpherson in the Cooraminta yards,

And Sullivan was drown’d at Sink-or-swim;

And Mostyn — poor Frank Mostyn — died at last, a fearful wreck,

In the “horrors” at the Upper Wandinong,

And Carisbrooke, the rider, at the Horsefall broke his neck;

Faith! the wonder was he saved his neck so long!

Ah! those days and nights we squandered at the Logans’ in the glen —

The Logans, man and wife, have long been dead.

Elsie’s tallest girl seems taller than your little Elsie then;

And Ethel is a woman grown and wed.

I’ve had my share of pastime, and I’ve done my share of toil,

And life is short — the longest life a span;

I care not now to tarry for the corn or for the oil,

Or for wine that maketh glad the heart of man.

For good undone, and gifts misspent, and resolutions vain,

‘Tis somewhat late to trouble. This I know —

I should live the same life over, if I had to live again;

And the chances are I go where most men go.

The deep blue skies wax dusky, and the tall green trees grow dim,

The sward beneath me seems to heave and fall;

And sickly, smoky shadows through the sleepy sunlight swim,

And on the very sun’s face weave their pall.

Let me slumber in the hollow where the wattle blossoms wave,

With never stone or rail to fence my bed;

Should the sturdy station children pull the bush-flowers on my grave,

I may chance to hear them romping overhead.

I don’t suppose I shall though, for I feel like sleeping sound,

That sleep, they say, is doubtful. True; but yet

At least it makes no difference to the dead man underground

What the living men remember or forget.

Enigmas that perplex us in the world’s unequal strife,

The future may ignore or may reveal;

Yet some, as weak as water, Ned, to make the best of life,

Have been to face the worst as true as steel.

Poetry Monster – Home

A few random poems:

External links

Bat’s Poetry Page – more poetry by Fledermaus

Talking Writing Monster’s Page –

Batty Writing – the bat’s idle chatter, thoughts, ideas and observations, all original, all fresh

Poems in English 

• Sonnet 133: Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 132: Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 131: Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 130: My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 12: When I do count the clock that tells the time by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 129: Th’ expense of spirit in a waste of shame by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• The Eolian Harp by Samuel Taylor Coleridge by Fledermaus
• Sonnet 32: If thou survive my well-contented day by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 31: Thy bosom is endearèd with all hearts by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 30: When to the sessions of sweet silent thought by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 2: When forty winters shall besiege thy brow by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 29: When in disgrace with Fortune and men’s eyes by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 28: How can I then return in happy plight by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 27: Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 26: Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 25: Let those who are in favour with their stars by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 24: Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 23: As an unperfect actor on the stage by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 22: My glass shall not persuade me I am old by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 21: So is it not with me as with that muse by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare

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