If there's a skeleton
in your family's closet...
...you may as well
make him dance!
Come-By-Chance
A. B. "Banjo" Paterson
1864-1941
As I pondered very weary
o'er a volume long and dreary
For the plot was void of interest
'twas the Postal Guide, in fact,
There I learnt the true location,
distance, size, and population
Of each township, town, and village
in the radius of the Act.
And I learnt that Puckawidgee
stands beside the Murrumbidgee,
And that Booleroi and Bumble
get their letters twice a year,
Also that the post inspector,
when he visited Collector,
Closed the office up instanter,
and re-opened Dungalear.
But my languid mood forsook me,
when I found a name that took me,
Quite by chance I came across it
`Come-by-Chance' was what I read;
No location was assigned it,
not a thing to help one find it,
Just an N which stood for northward,
and the rest was all unsaid.
I shall leave my home, and forthward
wander stoutly to the northward
Till I come by chance across it,
and I'll straightway settle down,
For there can't be any hurry,
nor the slightest cause for worry
Where the telegraph don't reach you
nor the railways run to town.
And one's letters and exchanges
come by chance across the ranges,
Where a wiry young Australian
leads a pack-horse once a week,
And the good news grows by keeping,
and you're spared the pain of weeping
Over bad news when the mailman
drops the letters in the creek.
But I fear, and more's the pity,
that there's really no such city,
For there's not a man can find it
of the shrewdest folk I know,
`Come-by-chance', be sure
it never means a land of fierce endeavour,
It is just the careless country
where the dreamers only go.
Though we work and toil and hustle
in our life of haste and bustle,
All that makes our life worth living
comes unstriven for and free;
Man may weary and importune,
but the fickle goddess Fortune
Deals him out his pain or pleasure,
careless what his worth may be.
All the happy times entrancing,
days of sport and nights of dancing,
Moonlit rides and stolen kisses,
pouting lips and loving glance:
When you think of these be certain
you have looked behind the curtain,
You have had the luck to linger
just a while in `Come-by-chance'.
The Man from Snowy River
Andrew Barton `Banjo' Paterson
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 stock-horse 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 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 stock-horse 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 off 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 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 stringy barks 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 descent.
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 reedbeds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River
is a household word to-day,
And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.
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