BUSH ECHOES 
 
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 " 1 tliink that ymir Australian verses are the real thing, two 
 
 01 three of them are as g 1 as the best of Adam Lindsay 
 
 < tordon. They are the real life and I am most grateful for the 
 little book. ' sik Gilbert 1'arker. 
 
 " I have read and re-read your verses until the lines are 
 ringing in my head and stirring up old memories. The words 
 and rhythm must appeal to every man who knows the charm 
 of the • Back of Beyond.' " — Wm. GILBERT. 
 
 "Your charming poem 'The Call of the Bush' gives a 
 beautiful picture of fine wild country. 1 particularly like 
 your description of Kosciusko where I spent many happy 
 days."— Lord Denman. 
 
 •• Your verses have the true poetic ring and the Bush 
 ring also. Reading them has carried me back through many 
 a wild ride and stirring scene in the Australian Bush." — 
 
 Simpson Newland. 
 
 " I am greatly indebted to you for sending me a copy of your 
 charming verses, instinct with the spirit of the Australian 
 Bush. They have the swing and rhythm of Lindsay Gordon, 
 and should find a place in any anthology of Australian 
 verse."— Lord Jersey (the lute). 
 
 " Your 'Call of the Bush' is glorious, I am sincerely glad to 
 lllV ,. ,(. "_o. H. I. Ricusbieth. Rhodes Scholar. 
 
 It will Ljive great pleasure to many Australians at Oxford 
 if vmi will allow your 'Call of the Bush' to appear in the 
 • Varsity.'"— C. B.'Guei.. Editor of " Varsity. " 
 
 "Your 'Call of the Bush' is charming, I am delighted 
 with it." CHIEF Justice Way, of 8. Australia, 
 
 •■ Mv wife and I have read and re-read the 'Call of the 
 Bush ' with real enjoyment. It is delightful." — 
 
 Admiral Mann.
 
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 BUSH ECHOES 
 
 BY 
 
 W. A. HORN 
 
 PROCEEDS FOR BENEFIT OF 
 WOUNDED AUSTRALIANS 
 
 London : 
 SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT 
 
 & CO., LTD
 
 PR 
 
 HnssfJcr 
 Introduction 
 
 " There are rhymes rudely strung with intent less of 
 
 sound than of words, 
 In a land where bright blossoms are scentless and 
 
 songless bright birds." 
 
 HTHESE lines were written by my old friend 
 Adam Lindsay Gordon, and it has always 
 been a mystery to me why he and also Marcus 
 Clarke, both of whom were keen lovers of 
 Nature, should have described our flowers as 
 scentless and our birds as songless. 
 
 The Shrike of Central Australia, known 
 locally as the "Butcher bird," with his joyous 
 flute-like notes, is unrivalled as a songster, 
 while the Australian Magpie is little, if anything, 
 inferior to him. 
 
 Among the flowering shrubs, the Golden 
 Wattle, the Boronia Megastigma and the 
 Eucalyptus Citriodora cannot be truly described 
 as scentless. Their delicious perfume, with the 
 early morning dew upon them, is all pervad- 
 ing, yet subtly sweet, without being oppressive. 
 
 Australia is certainly a land of strange con- 
 tradictions. 
 
 Ti'%
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 A curious medley of the grotesque and the 
 beautiful. 
 
 Central Australia, during periods of drought, 
 is a barren desert, but in good seasons is a land 
 of gay flowers and luscious pastures. The 
 changes are almost kaleidoscopic. I have 
 crossed these vast silent plains during periods 
 of drought when there has not been a sign of 
 annual vegetation. The whole country being a 
 scene of solitude and desolation which beggars 
 description ; its moods seem as eccentric as the 
 flight of the black fellow's boomerang. For, on 
 returning within a month after rain, I have 
 found it resembling a garden of Eden, gay with 
 wild flowers and luxuriant herbage. A land 
 " made green with the running of rivers and 
 gracious with temperate airs." 
 
 In the portions of Australia adjoining the 
 fringe of the coast line, where the rainfall is 
 most evenly distributed, the count ry is ex- 
 ceedingly fertile, the climate salubrious, and 
 the bush life most enjoyable. As Marcus 
 Clarke says: — 
 
 " Australia has rightly been named the Land of the
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 "Dawning. Wrapped in the mists of early morning, 
 her history looms vague and gigantic. The lonely 
 horseman riding between the moonlight and the 
 day sees vast shadows creeping across the shelter- 
 less and silent plains, hears strange noises in the 
 primeval forest, where flourishes a vegetation long 
 dead in other lands, and feels, despite his) fortune, 
 that the trim utilitarian civilisation which bred him 
 shrinks into insignificance beside the contemptuous 
 grandeur of forest and ranges coeval with an age in 
 which European scientists have cradled his own 
 race. 
 
 There is a poem in every form of tree or flower, 
 but the poetry which lives in the trees and flowers 
 of Australia differs from those of other countries. 
 Europe is the home of knightly song, of bright deeds 
 and clear morning thought. Asia sinks beneath 
 the weighty recollections of her past magnificence. 
 America swiftly hurries on her way, rapid, glittering, 
 insatiable even as one of her own giant waterfalls. 
 From the jungles of Africa, and the creeper-tangled 
 groves of the islands of the South, arise, from the 
 glowing hearts of a thousand flowers, heavy and 
 intoxicating odours — the Upas-poison which dwells 
 in barbaric sensuality. In Australia alone is to be 
 found the Grotesque, the Weird, the strange 
 scribblings of nature learning how to write. Some 
 see no beauty in our trees without shade, our"
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 " flowers without perfume, our birds who cannot fly, 
 and our beasts who have not yet learned to walk on 
 all fours. But the dweller in the wilderness 
 acknowledges the subtle charm of this fantastic 
 land of monstrosities. He becomes famihir with 
 the beauty of loneliness. Whispered to by the 
 my raid tongues of the wilderness, he learns the 
 language of the barren and the uncouth, and can 
 read the hieroglyphs of haggard gum trees, blown 
 into odd shapes, distorted with fierce hot winds, or 
 cramped with cold nights, when the Southern Cross 
 freezes in a cloudless sky of icy blue. The 
 phantasmagoria of that wild dreamland termed the 
 Bush interprets itself, and the Poet of our desolation 
 begins to comprehend why free Esau loved his 
 heritage of desert sand better than all the bountiful 
 richness of Egypt." 
 
 The few verses appended Initio relate mostly 
 to things Australian and are published at the 
 request of my Australian friends, and in (lie 
 hope that they may serve to remind our fellow 
 countrymen of their distant homes, and possiMy 
 lighten a weary moment or two in the trenches. 
 
 \V. A. Horn, 
 
 WlMHLEDON, I915.
 
 LISTENING. 
 
 ■ - W, \. 1 1. 1
 
 THE CALL OF EMPIRE. 
 
 IT ARK the Empire's call resounding 
 O'er ten thousand leagues of sea. 
 Shall Great Britain's Greater Britain 
 Help to keep the Empire free ? 
 
 Yes ! the crimson flame of kinship 
 Welds the links that bind us fast ; 
 
 May they hold us through the ages 
 As they held us in the past. 
 
 We will send our proud battalions, 
 Rallying to the Empire's call, 
 
 Loyal sons of loyal fathers, 
 Stalwart soldiers, one and all. 
 
 Men from heights of Tongariro, 
 
 Men from Austral's boundless plains, 
 
 They would rather death for Britain 
 Than a life in Teuton chains.
 
 Dwellers in vast silent spaces 
 Live with Nature face to face, 
 
 And combine, with self-reliance, 
 All the courage of their race. 
 
 Haste ! Unfurl the Royal Standard, 
 Let the Empire's foemen see 
 
 Australasia's sons and Britons 
 Gripping hands across the sea. 
 
 Loud the battle cry of Freedom 
 Echo's o'er each stormy wave. 
 
 They will fight with courage leading 
 On to Victory or the grave. 
 
 Midst the roar and crash of battle, 
 Lord of Hosts we ask of Thee, 
 
 Give them strength to fight and conquer, 
 That, our children may be free. 
 
 On the blood-soaked Turkish beaches 
 Austral's sons have bled and died, 
 
 And while dying, still saluting 
 Britain's flag with loyal pride.
 
 While a rubric page in history 
 Tells of those who nobly led, 
 
 We may hold in proud remembrance 
 All the still more noble dead. 
 
 Shatter'd by the Turkish shrapnel, 
 They had scorned to cry Retreat, 
 
 Never having known surrender, 
 They refused to know defeat. 
 
 Fighting for the Empire's freedom, 
 They had fought to do or die, 
 
 And full many an empty saddle 
 Speaks to many a tearful eye. 
 
 They had feared no death when Honour 
 Summoned them to Britain's aid, 
 
 Now they rest in shrouds of glory, 
 Every debt of Honour paid. 
 
 O'er their graves no pealing anthem, 
 Just the night-wind murmuring low ; 
 
 May we hear their Cooe's echo 
 When the western breezes blow.
 
 Then the *She-Oak's ceaseless wailing 
 Thro' the air may softly float, 
 
 Mingling with a wail of sorrow, 
 
 From some anguished mother's throat. 
 
 Stand ye fast ! my gallant kinsmen, 
 Hold the ground so bravely won ; 
 
 In your blood the tale is written 
 Of a soldier's duty done. 
 
 Ye who left your peaceful homesteads, 
 
 Rallying to the bugle's call, 
 Fight to win or die while fighting, 
 
 With your backs against the wall. 
 
 Fame's fair scroll will tell the story, 
 Bards as yet unborn shall sing, 
 
 How you won undying glory, 
 Steadfast soldiers of your King. 
 
 * " She-Oak." The casuarina quadrivalvis, having a hair 
 like foliage through which the passing wind produces a low 
 plaintive wail. 
 
 10
 
 o 
 u 
 
 _)
 
 THE CALL OF THE "BUSH." 
 
 C^ROM vast Australia's varied "Bush," a 
 
 myriad voices call, 
 And though they may be mute to some, I seem 
 
 to hear them all. 
 From white and spectral gum trees, hang long 
 
 strips of rustling bark, 
 Which, trembling in the night-wind, seem like 
 
 voices in the dark. 
 The sighing she-oaks sang to me, in camping 
 
 days of old ; 
 A sweetness — if a sadness — in the stories that 
 
 they told. 
 I still recall those fire-lit camps, among the 
 
 flocks and herds, 
 Awaking at the dawning to the chorus of the 
 
 birds. 
 In stillness of a star-lit night, the mournful 
 
 Curlew's call, 
 
 11
 
 The Availing of the dingo rising plaintive over 
 
 all. 
 The fragrant breath of morning sweeps, dew- 
 laden, through the trees, 
 While feathered songsters' madrigals come 
 
 floating on the breeze. 
 These warblers of the wilderness acclaim the 
 
 new-born day, 
 The air is vibrant with their song that echoes 
 
 far away. 
 The Bell-bird softly counterfeits in some 
 
 secluded dell 
 That seems so near, yet is so far, a hobbled 
 
 horse's bell, 
 This silver-tongued ventriloquist with tinkling 
 
 note beguiles 
 The lonely horseman from his camp, by rhythm 
 
 in his wiles. 
 The glorious song of Butcher-bird, melodious in 
 
 the morn, 
 Sweet minstrel of departing day, bright herald 
 
 of the Dawn ; 
 His clarion notes so clear and true, float on from 
 
 hill to hill, 
 
 12
 
 'Tis years since last I heard them, but I listen 
 for them still. 
 
 The Bronzewing from the water like a meteor 
 flashes by, 
 
 The Eagle grandly soaring in a blue and cloud- 
 less sky. 
 
 The silver-fluted Magpie from a full harmonious 
 throat 
 
 Pours out a flood of melody in every liquid 
 note. 
 
 The memory of its cadence on a distant bygone 
 day 
 
 Recalls those boundless salt-bush plains, and 
 blue hills far away — 
 
 Recalls the shimmering noonday heat when 
 mirage lakes appear 
 
 And phantom trees fringe phantom isles that 
 stud each phantom mere. 
 
 Recalls old comrades of the Bush, and camp- 
 fire stories told 
 
 Where golden wattles shed their bloom in 
 showers of powdered gold. 
 
 The fragrant golden blossom, lightly wafted by 
 the breeze, 
 
 13
 
 Falls like a perfumed aureole around the 
 
 glist'ning trees. 
 The subtle scent that lingers when the blooms 
 
 have ceased to fall, 
 Tho' fainter than the first perfume, is sweeter 
 
 than them all. 
 Across the Snowy river, on towards the " Great 
 
 Divide," 
 Where glist'ning snows are gleaming white on 
 
 Kosciusko's side 
 That perfumed wattle calls to me from every 
 
 gilded hill, 
 I've longed for all its fragrance and I'm long- 
 ing for it still. 
 I seem to see that Mount again, in garb of 
 
 driven snow, 
 The vaulted blue above it, and the sun-lit 
 
 slopes below. 
 While down each wooded mountain glen, where 
 
 rocks on rocks are piled, 
 A sweet melodious chorus floats from warblers 
 
 of the Wild. 
 The white walls of my old Bush home again I 
 
 seem to see, 
 
 14
 
 'Twas roughly slabbed and rudely thatched — 
 
 yet " Home, Sweet Home " to me. 
 I see the blue smoke's misty wreath above the 
 
 Homestead roofs, 
 I hear the bellowing of the herd — the thunder 
 
 of their hoofs. 
 I hear the whistling stockwhips, and the crash 
 
 of breaking rails, 
 And see those splendid horsemen ride with 
 
 nerve that never fails. 
 See distant hills in silhouette against the 
 
 evening glow, 
 Each purple peak reflected in the mirrored 
 
 pool below. 
 And now the night seems closing in, the 
 
 evening shadows fall, 
 The glorious lights of afterglow more beautiful 
 
 than all. 
 The Western skies seem all ablaze with lights 
 
 of varied hue, 
 The dying sun, in burnished gold, in dome of 
 
 Heavenly blue. 
 Its blood-shot disc illumined by the last expiring 
 
 ray, 
 
 15
 
 Enveloped in a crimson pall sinks silently 
 
 away. 
 Intense the hushes of the Night, their very 
 
 silence heard, 
 A voiceless murmur of the Bush tho' not a leaf 
 
 is stirred. 
 A solemn stillness reigns around, slow pales 
 
 the glowing West, 
 Beneath the glitt'ring Southern Cross all 
 
 Nature seems at rest. 
 No mortal's brush could reproduce a picture so 
 
 Divine, 
 The memory of it oft recalls the days of Auld 
 
 lang Syne. 
 In wild exploring days of old the world seemed 
 
 wide and free, 
 When not a track existed from the salt-bush 
 
 to the sea. 
 And could my life-stream only flow, as in the 
 
 days of yore, 
 The secrets of the trackless Bush I might again 
 
 explore ! 
 The mystic charm of untrod lands appealing 
 
 still to me, 
 
 16
 
 w 

 
 From trammels of an urban life I'm longing to 
 
 be free. 
 I'm weary of a city's crowd, its hustle, noise 
 
 and push ; 
 And long to hear that old refrain — a "cooe'e" 
 
 from the Bush ! 
 I long for one more peaceful camp, wherein no 
 
 sound is heard, 
 Save murm'ring of the night wind, or the 
 
 ruffling of a bird. 
 Oh ! give me back the Bushman's life, its free- 
 dom and its mirth, 
 Where man is valued for himself, and not the 
 
 gold he's worth ! 
 Yes ; give me back that glorious life if only for 
 
 a day — 
 Once more to wield the stockwhip, as the 
 
 stragglers break away ; 
 To race them over hill and plain — loose rein 
 
 and tightened girth, 
 My lungs expanding with a draught of purest 
 
 air on earth. 
 Fair land of flowers, of clustering fruits and 
 
 skies of matchless hue, 
 
 17 B
 
 Although vast oceans part us now fond 
 
 memories cling to } t ou. 
 Your myriad voices call me, but Alas ! I cannot 
 
 go ; 
 Time's swift unerring glass is turned, the 
 
 sands are running low. 
 To London from your sun-land is a far-off, 
 
 distant cry 
 That I can only answer w T ith a long — a last — 
 
 good-bye ; 
 Good-bye, old comrades of the Bush, we've 
 
 ridden far and wide ; 
 How few remain ! how many passed ! beyond 
 
 the last " Divide." 
 I seem to see bronzed faces that long years 
 
 ago I knew, 
 Old comrades of ex pi ori iug days seem passing 
 
 in review. 
 A tremor lurking on my lip, a I ear may dim 
 
 my eye, 
 In memory of some vanished hand, warm 
 
 clasped in days gone by. 
 Whal loyal pals they always were those 
 
 Pioneers of old, 
 
 18
 
 Straight men who fought life's battle on the 
 
 wild and distant wold. 
 Poor Lindsay Gordon, comrade true, rode 
 
 always in the van, 
 Tall, lithe and spare, and " Devil-may-care," 
 
 but every inch a man, 
 Sweet singer of a bygone day, his song is 
 
 echoing still, 
 Where'er the Anglo-Saxons dwell his ringing 
 
 accents thrill. 
 Farewell, sweet land of sun-lit plains and stars 
 
 that brightly gleam, 
 Life's crimson tide is ebbing and I'm drifting 
 
 down its stream. 
 Life's journey nearly ended and the lights are 
 
 growing grey, 
 No halting place awaits me ere the closing of 
 
 the day. 
 Yet should perchance my Spirit hear the echo 
 
 of your call, 
 'Twill bid an Angel whisper back, How much 
 
 I loved it all. 
 
 W. A. Horn. 
 
 19
 
 "The Ghost of the teamster known as 'Gentleman 
 George ' is reported to have been seen again on the 
 Yanko Plain. Thisteamsterwas killed by falling beneath 
 the wheel of his dray. He was formerly in the Eighth 
 Hussars and took part in the charge of the Light Brigade. 
 He is said to have left England on account of domestic 
 troubles." — River ina Paper. 
 
 GENTLEMAN GEORGE. 
 
 p ENTLEMAN George in his youthful days 
 
 was the pride of the Eighth Hussars, 
 He's only a bronzed old teamster now in the 
 
 land of the *Red " Galah's " ; 
 He sits on his dray, a pipe in his mouth, in 
 
 reverie, dust and smoke, 
 fYet keeping an eye on thai blue-roan steer 
 
 who struggles to turn the yoke. 
 
 * Galah — the red parrot of New South Wales. 
 
 |It may seem an impossible feat, but bullocks, when 
 
 disinclined to work, often succeed in turning the 
 
 yoke upside down. 
 
 20
 
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 His lips at times grow stern and set when he 
 
 thinks of a traitorous wife, 
 And his blood grows hot with a withering scorn 
 
 for the woman who ruined his life. 
 For the smouldering scandal had burned and 
 
 blazed and sullied his spotless name, 
 'Twas rough on a man whose life was straight 
 
 and who always had played the game, 
 And the scar on his cheek from a Muscovite 
 
 blade, in that chivalrous charge of the 
 
 Light Brigade, 
 Glowed scarlet at thoughts of the heartless 
 
 jade who ruined his life in a day. 
 Creak, creak, creak, go the wheels of his rickety 
 
 dray, 
 And he plys his whip on the blue-roan's hip. 
 Woay! Bawley, come hither, woay!" 
 
 u 
 
 He recalls the runs with the " Hursley " pack ; 
 
 those glorious days with " The Vine," 
 Ere the shadows of age commenced to dim the 
 
 shimmer of youthful shine : 
 Recalls the race from point to point, on the back 
 
 of the "Ascot Clown": 
 
 21
 
 And the ringing cheers that rang in his ears as 
 
 he won by a length, hands down, 
 Recalls a scene that pleases and thrills — the 
 
 home of his youth in ihe Hampshire hills ; 
 Where the Avon comes down in a thousand 
 
 rills, to the fields where he used to play. 
 Creak, creak, creak, go the wheels of his rickety 
 
 dray, and he thinks of the life he was 
 
 leading then 
 And the life he is leading to-day. 
 These thoughts of the grace of days long dead 
 
 rouse a bitter feeling of pain : 
 Ah ! what would he give for a headlong charge 
 
 with the Light Brigade again ; 
 And what of the comrades of those days ; do 
 
 they still give a thought to him ? 
 For the world too soon forgets a man when 
 
 once he is out of the swim. 
 In vivid dreams, when camped at night, 
 
 beneath his rickety dray, 
 He sees the squadrons galloping past, as their 
 
 hoof- strokes thunder away : 
 Sees gleaming sword blades parry and thrust, 
 
 and the dauntless valour displayed 
 
 22
 
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 By his troopers who rode to certain death, in 
 
 the van of the Light Brigade. 
 Ah! what did their country do for them — the 
 
 bravest where all were brave ? 
 It sung their deeds in a Laureate's song, but 
 
 left them a pauper's grave. 
 Creak, creak, creak, go the wheels of the 
 
 rickety dray, 
 As he flays a strip from the blue-roan's hip. 
 
 " Woay ! Bawley, come hither, woay ! ' 
 
 This bearded Bushman carries himself with an 
 
 easy careless grace, 
 And honesty written in every line of his manly, 
 
 careworn face. 
 Tho' his mind is filled with vain regrets, it is 
 
 useless now to repine, 
 Yet it shortens a weary mile at times, to think 
 
 of the " Auld lang syne." 
 But the rough bush life has left its stamp on 
 
 his face and his mind as well, 
 For in drink he strives to drown the thoughts 
 
 that make his life such a hell. 
 
 23
 
 His epithets savour of realms below, when the 
 
 blue-roan turns the yoke ; 
 A blue flame seems around his head, and an 
 
 odour of sulphurous smoke. 
 He's a rare good hand with a sulky steer, he 
 
 shows no mercy and knows no fear: 
 And the lash of his whip will scald and sear the 
 
 bullock that goes astray. 
 Creak, creak, creak, go the wheels of his 
 
 rickety dray, 
 And his whip is plied on the blue-roan's hide. 
 
 " Woay ! Bawley, come hither, woay ! ' 
 
 He rashly stands on the pole to reach that 
 
 obstinate blue-roan steer, 
 AVhen the wheel goes into a fathomless rut, and 
 
 the teamster's end is near. 
 He loses his balance and seems to reel as he 
 
 falls behind the blue-roan's heel, 
 And is crushed by that ponderous creaking 
 
 wheel in a Juggernaut kind of way. 
 Creak, creak, creak, go the wheels of the 
 
 rickety dray, 
 
 24
 
 And the lamp of his life goes flickering out at 
 the close of that fateful day. 
 
 Thus ended the life of a man who rode in the 
 
 van of the Light Brigade. 
 They buried him out on the Yanko Plain, where 
 
 there isn't a shadow of shade: 
 No comrade to close his bloodshot eyes or to 
 
 drop a regretful tear, 
 And little to mark his lonely grave on that 
 
 shadeless plain so drear. 
 A rough hewn cross by a Bushman placed at 
 
 the head of a mound of loam ; 
 His name unknown to his pals abroad, forgotten 
 
 by all at home. 
 No funeral anthem's notes are heard o'er the 
 
 grave of that dead Hussar ; 
 Instead of the kettledrum's roll they hear the 
 
 screech of the Red Galah. 
 A G interlaced with G on the cross, and a short 
 
 bush prayer was said, 
 While a curlew's plaintive wailing note seemed 
 
 a requiem over the dead. 
 
 25
 
 'Tie the old, old tale of a ruined " Swell," who 
 goes to the Bush and perhaps to well 
 
 AVe'll hope for the best you never can tell, there 
 may be a rut on the way. 
 
 His spirit now roams those dreary plains in the 
 land of the Red Galah ; 
 
 'Tie the soul of a teamster that haunts the spot, 
 
 not that of an Eighth Hussar. 
 If you cross those plains in the dead of night, 
 
 you'll hear that team in a headlong flight, 
 And the shout of the driver in ghostly white : 
 
 " Woay ! Bawley, come hither, woay ! " 
 
 Creak, creak, creak, go the wheels of the 
 
 vanishing dray, 
 The slash of a whip on a skeleton hip, as the 
 
 hoof- strokes echo away. 
 
 26
 
 {Photo in Australia.) 
 
 THUNDERSTORM.
 
 "FALCON," THE PRIDE OF THE 
 
 RUN. 
 
 A 
 
 BRIGHT satin bay, that seemed blended 
 With sheen of red gold in the sun, 
 With a head that was " bloodlike and splendid" 
 Was "Falcon," the Pride of the Run. 
 
 He was ribbed to the hips like a Centaur, 
 Deep-chested and lengthy of rein, 
 
 And the blood of the stallions of Egypt 
 Coursed hot through each prominent vein. 
 
 His dam was a thoroughbred Arab, 
 His sire was by " Talk of the Hill," 
 
 And though he's been dead for a decade, 
 He lives in our memories still. 
 
 A typical son of " Zuleika," 
 
 Improving in shape with his years, 
 
 All his equine emotions expressed 
 By the play of his beautiful ears. 
 
 27
 
 No rasper so big as to stop him, 
 No distance was ever too great, 
 
 He would come with a rush at the finish, 
 And cut down his field in the straight. 
 
 The sweetest of tempers when mounted, 
 
 A regular demon to stay, 
 A horse that a king might be proud of, 
 
 My black-pointed, beautiful bay. 
 
 His hoofs are now mounted in silver 
 Supporting the trophies he won, 
 
 He died in the drought of the Nineties, 
 Old " Falcon," the Pride of the Run. 
 
 "When I gaze on the now empty saddle, 
 The martingale, bridle and whip, 
 
 A sigh of regret will escape me, 
 A tremor will lurk on my lip. 
 
 The son of " Zulcika " was peerless, 
 I've ridden some beauties, but none 
 
 So handsome, good tempered and fearless, 
 As " Falcon," the Pride of the Run. 
 
 28
 
 X 
 
 < 
 
 u
 
 In the "Great Western Steeple" the "Banker, 
 A horse from the far Castlereagh 
 
 Was one of the sort to beware of, 
 A ragged hipped, flea-bitten grey. 
 
 The course was a stiff and a long one, 
 
 The fences were solid and tall, 
 They were most of them raspers to ride at 
 
 The last one the stiffest of all. 
 
 A rainbow of silks in the sunshine, 
 As the riders parade on the track ; 
 
 A white-and-blue jacket on " Banker," 
 On " Falcon," an Amber and Black. 
 
 We lined up in front of the starter, 
 
 Our eyes on the flag till it fell, 
 A thrill of excitement went coursing 
 
 Through horse and through rider as well. 
 
 AVe're off and the hoof- strokes resounding 
 Like breaking of surf on the shore; 
 
 " Six to four on the Banker bar nothing," 
 The bookmakers lustily roar. 
 
 29 
 
 n
 
 The light weights soon cut out the running 
 As we raced down the slope of the hill — 
 
 Old " Falcon " was pulling me double, 
 And I, in my seat — sitting still. 
 
 On the lowlands the " take-off " was heavy, 
 
 And over our fetlocks in mud, 
 The "Democrat" baulked at a rasper, 
 
 And brought down the " Postboy ,! and 
 " Scud." 
 
 The Grey horse now took up the running, 
 
 He passed us by barely a head, 
 A stride — and again we drew level, 
 
 And over the hurdles we led. 
 
 We collared the "Pedlar" and "Transit," 
 And shot past the Warrego "Swell," 
 
 He cannoned in mid-air with "Smuggler," 
 We heard the dull thud as he foil. 
 
 Neck and neck we uow raced for a distance 
 Side by side over fences we flew, 
 
 The rider of "Banker" grew anxious, 
 And rode him for all that lie knew. 
 
 30
 
 We rattled the railings in rhythm, 
 We were shoulder to shoulder in air, 
 
 And heel jostled heel as we landed, 
 A sheet would have covered the pair. 
 
 But the Grey wasn't easily beaten, 
 He raced for the lead coming home, 
 
 His ribs rudely ripped by the rowels, 
 His flanks fairly fleckered with foam. 
 
 I steadied old " Falcon " a little, 
 
 The " Banker " shot past at the stand, 
 
 I heard the hoarse cheers in the distance, 
 From throats of the Castlereagh band. 
 
 They reckoned the race was a moral 
 For their upstanding flea-bitten grey, 
 
 I laughed to myself as they shouted, 
 
 The " Banker ! " " The ' Banker's ' away ! " 
 
 it 
 
 The amateur rider's outridden," 
 The golden bay Arab is done," 
 Ah ! they little knew what was in hand in 
 Old " Falcon," the Pride of the Run. 
 
 31
 
 We hung for a time on his quarter ; 
 
 Then slowly drew up to his rein, 
 He clouted the rails at the corner, 
 
 We cleared them and caught him again. 
 
 The Grey horse was fully extended, 
 I felt the warm blast from his nose 
 
 And the swish of the whip that descended 
 In rib-binding slash as we rose. 
 
 The field vainly racing to catch us, 
 We came with a rush at the wall, 
 
 We crossed it together while shewing 
 The glint of our heels to them all. 
 
 There were signs of distress in the " Banker," 
 
 A rasping great double ahead 
 I went for the pride of position, 
 
 I raced him — outpaced him and led. 
 
 I gained half a length in the landing ; 
 
 The flea-bitten favourite was done ; 
 The only one left in the running 
 
 Was " Falcon," the Pride of the Run. 
 
 32
 
 Old " Falcon " was fencing superbly, 
 
 And flying his fences with ease ; 
 I slackened his reins for a moment, 
 
 He was pulling me over my knees. 
 
 "The Ring" were now shouting their wagers, 
 "A hundred to twenty — bar one : ,: 
 
 You could bet that the "one" they were barring 
 Was " Falcon," the Pride of the Run. 
 
 He was taking the snaffle with freedom, 
 His stride lengthy, level and low, 
 
 I stroked his sleek neck for a moment, 
 And said, " Now old boy you may go." 
 
 A touch with my heel and he answered, 
 He shot like a bolt from the blue, 
 
 Spread-eagling the field at the finish 
 
 Midst the cheers that were ringing anew. 
 
 Midst the roar of the crowd in the distance, 
 
 The waving of hats on the lawn, 
 Over fences too stiff to be broken, 
 
 He flung them behind him in scorn. 
 
 33
 
 He shortened his stride near the railings, 
 And lifting the Amber and Black, 
 
 He flew the big fence, the bit in his teeth, 
 And eleven stone ten on his back. 
 
 His rise like a stag at the rasper, 
 
 His glorious leap I recall, 
 The flight through the air and the landing, 
 
 A furlong in front of them all. 
 
 A thunder of hoofs was behind us, 
 A shattering and splintering of rails, 
 
 A whistling of whalebone and whipcord, 
 But the blood of the Arab prevails. 
 
 He flashed past the post and the stewards ; 
 
 The " Great Western Steeple " was won! 
 And I for the last time dismounted 
 
 Old " Falcon," the Pride of the Run. 
 
 " Run," a Sheep or Cattle Ranch. 
 
 U
 
 DROUGHT v. DELUGE. 
 
 A USTRALIA'S silent central plains, I know 
 ^^ them all so well, 
 In rains a Stockman's Paradise, in droughts a 
 
 very Hell. 
 Fierce Drought now stalks across the land, so 
 
 barren, bare and red, 
 This spectre leaves to mark his trail, the dying 
 
 and the dead. 
 With Simoom breath he blasts the earth, and 
 
 withers every stream, 
 And following closely in his wake gaunt Famine 
 
 reigns supreme. 
 A bloodshot sun is blazing down, and not a 
 
 sign of change, 
 A fierce hot wind Sirocco like, sweeps o'er the 
 
 stony range. 
 Vast whirlwinds spin along the track, and 
 
 dust-formed pillars rise, 
 
 35
 
 And fragments of a crumbling world are wafted 
 
 to the skies. 
 Great thunder clouds with billowy heads rise 
 
 threatening o'er the plain, 
 So prodigal of promises, so niggardly of 
 
 rain. 
 Deflected rays of noonday light cause spectral 
 
 trees to rise, 
 And stud the Isles in phantom lakes as shoreless 
 
 as the skies. 
 The silent Sirens of Mirage oft beckon and 
 
 beguile 
 The thirsty traveller from the track for many 
 
 a weary mile. 
 The trees are but the stunted shrubs that 
 
 shimmering rays enlarge, 
 The lakes are but illusions and the phantoms 
 
 of mirage. 
 Dumb suffering sheep in clusters group along 
 
 the heated glade, 
 *AVilh drooping head and heaving flanks each 
 
 seeks the other's shade. 
 
 *Sheep in search of shade place their heads under- 
 neath each other's bodies. 
 
 36
 
 I-,, .in i Wood ( arving by the Author.)
 
 Before the demon Drought appeared and every- 
 thing went wrong, 
 They roamed in plenty o'er these plains a 
 
 hundred thousand strong. 
 Now but the remnant of a flock, for years their 
 
 owner's pride, 
 Their whitened bones like tombstones, mark 
 
 the places where they died. 
 The wells have failed, the grass is gone, the 
 
 tanks are nearly dry, 
 There's nothing left this remnant but to suffer 
 
 and to die. 
 The self-reliant Bushmen who reclaimed these 
 
 outer lands, 
 Wrought many a smiling homestead from a 
 
 wilderness of sands. 
 When battling with the fiercest drought they 
 
 scorned to cry retreat, 
 They didn't know surrender, and they wouldn't 
 
 know defeat. 
 They watched the clouds with anxious eyes, 
 
 and hope so long deferred, 
 And saw diminish day by day, the remnants of 
 
 the herd, 
 
 37
 
 And when their flocks in thousands died on 
 
 barren hill and plain, 
 They set their lips and steeled their hearts — 
 
 and waited for the rain. 
 And now there seems a coming change, there's 
 
 Lightning in the North, 
 The angry voice of Jupiter is heard in rising 
 
 wrath. 
 The Demon Drought makes fierce response with 
 
 hot Siroccan blast, 
 The rival forces face to face, the storm is 
 
 gathering fast. 
 A low black cloud against the wind comes 
 
 threatening from the West, 
 Advancing with resistless force above the 
 
 stony crest. 
 The Heavens resounding to the crash of thunder 
 
 pealing loud, 
 A vivid flash of lightning and the bursting of 
 
 the cloud. 
 A storm of hail comes rattling down like 
 
 shrapnel on the roofs, 
 Amidst the bellowing of the herds, the clatter- 
 ing of their hoofs. 
 
 38
 
 The welcome rain comes down in sheets, the 
 
 creeks are running free, 
 The arid plain of yesterday is like an inland 
 
 sea. 
 Kaleidoscopic changes come o'er every hill and 
 
 dale, 
 Gaunt Famine leaves the stricken land and 
 
 Plenty will prevail. 
 The crimson curtain of the sun sinks slowly in 
 
 the West, 
 Its tempered rays with genial warmth suffuse 
 
 each moistened crest. 
 A generous Nature lends her aid to every grow- 
 ing thing, 
 And quickening in the grateful earth wild herbs 
 
 luxuriant spring. 
 Lush vegetation on the plains, rich grasses 
 
 clothe each hill, 
 While every erstwhile, sandy creek becomes a 
 
 rippling rill. 
 The demon Drought has broken up and Famine 
 
 ceased to reign, 
 Soon grateful flocks will revel in the plenty of 
 
 the plain. 
 
 39
 
 The citron eucalyptus yields its subtle scent so 
 
 rare, 
 
 The raindrops shining on its leaves like 
 
 diamonds in the air ; 
 The warblers of the wilderness acclaim the 
 
 fruitful scene, 
 Their joyous songs come floating down each 
 
 verdure clad ravine. 
 Among Australia's varied flowers, the golden 
 
 hues prevail, 
 And in a bounteous season gild each verdant 
 
 hill and vale ; 
 In fertile earth and humid warmth their glories 
 
 soon unfold, 
 Last month a sheet of drifting dust — to-day a 
 
 cloth of gold. 
 
 40
 
 CLIMATES: A COMPARISON. 
 
 '"["'HERE'S a place in Northern Queensland 
 
 that the Bushmen call Mackay, 
 Where the sun is always blazing hot and every 
 
 throat is dry ; 
 I heard a Bushman call for drinks in words I 
 
 dare not quote, 
 But I heard the liquor hissing down his heated 
 
 hairy throat. 
 A sunstroke killed this Bushman, and his soul 
 
 to Hades went ; 
 Next day from Hades to Mackay a Hellogram 
 
 was sent 
 For blankets and an overcoat, he paid for a 
 
 reply, 
 And said he'd caught an awful chill, but really 
 
 felt quite spry, 
 For Hades was so bracing when compared with 
 
 North Mackay. 
 
 41
 
 MUSIC ON THE WATERS. 
 
 [Written in reply to a challenge to write thirty 
 lines on sea-sickness with a musical term 
 in every line.] 
 
 IF rolling is her crotchet 
 
 This vessel ought to score : 
 She spoils my rest, she spoils my notes, 
 She spoils my repertoire. 
 
 There demi goes my dinner, 
 
 As the ship on upper C 
 Appocjgiaturas. Oh ! the brute, 
 
 She's pitched too high for me. 
 
 The salt sea wind is very sharp : 
 
 I hate the briny air : 
 It makes the quaver in my voice 
 
 More natural than rare. 
 
 42
 
 I find the great crescendo swell 
 Turns me in some degree. 
 
 I never could compose myself, 
 And serve my time, at sea. 
 
 I know you'll think me very bass, 
 I'll pause till calm prevails ; 
 
 It's all because they've gone and set 
 A bad falsetto sails, 
 
 I cannot scale the dizzy mast: 
 The chords are very slack ; 
 
 Oh ! how I shake ; I know I shall 
 B flat upon my back. 
 
 I'll bet a tenor that she strikes 
 
 The bar upon her lee ; 
 Andante* up the money, should 
 
 She safely reach the key. 
 
 "Encore! Oh, steward, once again," 
 
 Fortissimo I trill ; 
 Oh, presto ! " Steward, hurry up, 
 
 Staccato ! ! I'm so ill." 
 
 *Ante up, an Americanism for pay up. 
 43
 
 A MARBLE CLIO. 
 
 (Poeta nascitur, non fit.) 
 
 IN youth I dreamed a dream of Clio 
 * Fickle muse of " Tuneful Nine," 
 Dreamed that I on Mount Parnassus, 
 Knelt before her marble shrine. 
 
 Other muses may have tempted, 
 Yet my memory will recall 
 Clio as the most attractive 
 Most inconstant of them all. 
 
 Wandering near those limpid waters 
 Where Castalia's fountains play, 
 Methought I saw the Goddess beckon, 
 Seeming near, yet far away. 
 
 AYhile the moonbeams on the ripples 
 As the waters rose and fell 
 Like a glittering swordblade gleaming 
 On the crest of every swell. 
 
 44
 
 X 
 < 
 
 •S3 
 

 
 Like a shimmering pathway leading 
 To a dreamland far away, 
 Where all joys may be unending 
 Or all sorrows, who can say ? 
 
 Dreaming that the waters breaking 
 On that dim and mystic shore, 
 Had a wealth of joyful music 
 I had never known before. 
 
 Dreaming that I crossed the plateau 
 Where the Goddess seemed to stand, 
 But in striving there to greet her 
 Clasped a cold and pulseless hand. 
 
 Naught was there but chiselled statue 
 Beckoning with uplifted thumb, 
 Cold in all its marble stillness 
 Radiant, beautiful, but dumb. 
 
 Then a peal of scornful laughter 
 Echoed down the mountain side, 
 From the muse in dreamy distance 
 Laughing at my wounded pride. 
 
 45
 
 Now I knew this wayward Goddess 
 Had my humble verse despised, 
 And in anger undissembled 
 Thus the muse apostrophised. 
 
 Fickle Goddess, tho' thy votaries 
 Worship thee on bended knee, 
 While you wear no nuptial symbol 
 Why refuse a smile to me? 
 
 Why reject my simple off 'ring, 
 Humbly placed before your shrine ? 
 Why, accepting every other, 
 Still in scorn refusing mine ? 
 
 Yet I will not now upbraid you, 
 Fondly loved for many a day ; 
 I but clasped the lifeless marble 
 When I sought the living clay. 
 
 Let another's arms enfold you, 
 Let another's lips caress ; 
 I [e to you may prove as constant, 
 You to me can not be less. 
 
 46
 
 Let me lave in Lethe's waters, 
 Stifling every vain regret 
 And endeavour to forgive thee, 
 Or in flight of years forget ; 
 And thine image cease to haunt me, 
 If not yet, not yet — not yet. 
 
 L'ENVOI. 
 
 Patient reader, pray be lenient, 
 When you read this erring verse, 
 Faulty in its rhyme and rhythm, 
 Yet perchance it might be worse. 
 
 47
 
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