The Man From Snowy River
There was movement at the station, for the word had
passed around
That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses - he was worth a
thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near
and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush
horses are,
And the stockhorse snuffs the battle with delight.
There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won
the cup,
The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly
up -
He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle girths
would stand,
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.
And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy
beast,
He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony - three parts thoroughbred at
least -
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry - just the sort that
won’t say die -
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery
eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.
But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power
to stay,
And the old man said, “That horse will never do
For a long and tiring gallop - lad, you’d better stop
away,
Those hills are far too rough for such as you.”
So he waited sad and wistful - only Clancy stood his
friend -
“I think we ought to let him come,” he said;
“I’ll warrant he’ll be with us when he’s wanted at the
end,
For both his horse and he are mountain bred.
He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko’s side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse’s hoofs strike firelight from the flint
stones every stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their
home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced
to roam
But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen.”
So he went - they found the horses by the big mimosa
clump -
They raced away towards the mountain’s brow,
And the old man gave his orders, “Boys, go at them from
the jump,
No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy you must wheel them, try and wheel them to
the right.
Ride boldly lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in
sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills.”
So Clancy rode to wheel them - he was racing on the wing
Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stockhorse past them, and he made the
ranges ring
With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the
dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and
sudden dash,
And of into the mountain scrub they flew.
Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep
and black
Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely
answered back
From the cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,
Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, “We may bid the mob
good day,
No man can hold them down the other side.”
When they reached the mountain’s summit, even Clancy
took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground
was full
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down
its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.
He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his
feet,
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat -
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringybarks and saplings, on the rough and
broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and
sound,
At the bottom of that terrible decent.
He was right among the horses as they climbed the
further hill,
And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among
them still,
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain
gullies met
In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing
yet,
With the man from Snowy River at their heels.
And he ran them single handed till their sides were
white with foam.
He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their
heads for home,
And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a
trot,
He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery
hot,
For never yet was mountain horse a cur.
And down by Kosciusko, where the pine clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars
fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around the Overflow the reed beds sweep and
sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word today,
And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.
By
A B “Banjo” Paterson.