Part 10

'Tis many years since first I came To Kiley's Run, More years than I would care to name Since I, a stripling, used to ride For miles and miles at Kiley's side, The while in stirring tones he told The stories of the days of old On Kiley's Run.

I see the old bush homestead now On Kiley's Run, Just nestled down beneath the brow Of one small ridge above the sweep Of river-flat, where willows weep And jasmine flowers and roses bloom, The air was laden with perfume On Kiley's Run.

We lived the good old station life On Kiley's Run, With little thought of care or strife. Old Kiley seldom used to roam, He liked to make the Run his home, The swagman never turned away With empty hand at close of day From Kiley's Run.

We kept a racehorse now and then On Kiley's Run, And neighb'ring stations brought their men To meetings where the sport was free, And dainty ladies came to see Their champions ride; with laugh and song The old house rang the whole night long On Kiley's Run.

The station hands were friends I wot On Kiley's Run, A reckless, merry-hearted lot -- All splendid riders, and they knew The 'boss' was kindness through and through. Old Kiley always stood their friend, And so they served him to the end On Kiley's Run.

But droughts and losses came apace To Kiley's Run, Till ruin stared him in the face; He toiled and toiled while lived the light, He dreamed of overdrafts at night: At length, because he could not pay, His bankers took the stock away From Kiley's Run.

Old Kiley stood and saw them go From Kiley's Run. The well-bred cattle marching slow; His stockmen, mates for many a day, They wrung his hand and went away. Too old to make another start, Old Kiley died -- of broken heart, On Kiley's Run.

. . . . .

The owner lives in England now Of Kiley's Run. He knows a racehorse from a cow; But that is all he knows of stock: His chiefest care is how to dock Expenses, and he sends from town To cut the shearers' wages down On Kiley's Run.

There are no neighbours anywhere Near Kiley's Run. The hospitable homes are bare, The gardens gone; for no pretence Must hinder cutting down expense: The homestead that we held so dear Contains a half-paid overseer On Kiley's Run.

All life and sport and hope have died On Kiley's Run. No longer there the stockmen ride; For sour-faced boundary riders creep On mongrel horses after sheep, Through ranges where, at racing speed, Old Kiley used to 'wheel the lead' On Kiley's Run.

There runs a lane for thirty miles Through Kiley's Run. On either side the herbage smiles, But wretched trav'lling sheep must pass Without a drink or blade of grass Thro' that long lane of death and shame: The weary drovers curse the name Of Kiley's Run.

The name itself is changed of late Of Kiley's Run. They call it 'Chandos Park Estate'. The lonely swagman through the dark Must hump his swag past Chandos Park. The name is English, don't you see, The old name sweeter sounds to me Of 'Kiley's Run'.

I cannot guess what fate will bring To Kiley's Run -- For chances come and changes ring -- I scarcely think 'twill always be Locked up to suit an absentee; And if he lets it out in farms His tenants soon will carry arms On Kiley's Run.

Frying Pan's Theology

Scene: On Monaro. DRAMATIS PERSONAE: Shock-headed blackfellow, Boy (on a pony). Snowflakes are falling So gentle and slow, Youngster says, 'Frying Pan, What makes it snow?' Frying Pan confident Makes the reply -- 'Shake 'em big flour bag Up in the sky!' 'What! when there's miles of it! Sur'ly that's brag. Who is there strong enough Shake such a bag?' 'What parson tellin' you, Ole Mister Dodd, Tell you in Sunday-school? Big feller God! He drive His bullock dray, Then thunder go, He shake His flour bag -- Tumble down snow!'

The Two Devines

It was shearing-time at the Myall Lake, And there rose the sound thro' the livelong day Of the constant clash that the shear-blades make When the fastest shearers are making play, But there wasn't a man in the shearers' lines That could shear a sheep with the two Devines.

They had rung the sheds of the east and west, Had beaten the cracks of the Walgett side, And the Cooma shearers had giv'n them best -- When they saw them shear, they were satisfied. From the southern slopes to the western pines They were noted men, were the two Devines.

'Twas a wether flock that had come to hand, Great struggling brutes, that the shearers shirk, For the fleece was filled with the grass and sand, And seventy sheep was a big day's work. 'At a pound a hundred it's dashed hard lines To shear such sheep,' said the two Devines.

But the shearers knew that they'd make a cheque When they came to deal with the station ewes; They were bare of belly and bare of neck With a fleece as light as a kangaroo's. 'We will show the boss how a shear-blade shines When we reach those ewes,' said the two Devines.

But it chanced next day when the stunted pines Were swayed and stirred with the dawn-wind's breath, That a message came for the two Devines That their father lay at the point of death. So away at speed through the whispering pines Down the bridle track rode the two Devines.

It was fifty miles to their father's hut, And the dawn was bright when they rode away; At the fall of night when the shed was shut And the men had rest from the toilsome day, To the shed once more through the dark'ning pines On their weary steeds came the two Devines.

'Well, you're back right sudden,' the super. said; 'Is the old man dead and the funeral done?' 'Well, no, sir, he ain't not exactly dead, But as good as dead,' said the eldest son -- 'And we couldn't bear such a chance to lose, So we came straight back to tackle the ewes.'

. . . . .

They are shearing ewes at the Myall Lake, And the shed is merry the livelong day With the clashing sound that the shear-blades make When the fastest shearers are making play, And a couple of 'hundred and ninety-nines' Are the tallies made by the two Devines.

In the Droving Days

'Only a pound,' said the auctioneer, 'Only a pound; and I'm standing here Selling this animal, gain or loss. Only a pound for the drover's horse; One of the sort that was never afraid, One of the boys of the Old Brigade; Thoroughly honest and game, I'll swear, Only a little the worse for wear; Plenty as bad to be seen in town, Give me a bid and I'll knock him down; Sold as he stands, and without recourse, Give me a bid for the drover's horse.'