Part 9

Well, I scarcely knew we'd started, I was stupid-like with wonder Till the field closed up beside me and a jump appeared ahead. And we flew it like a hurdle, not a baulk and not a blunder, As we charged it all together, and it fairly whistled under, And then some were pulled behind me and a few shot out and led.

So we ran for half the distance, and I'm making no pretences When I tell you I was feeling very nervous-like and queer, For those jockeys rode like demons; you would think they'd lost their senses If you saw them rush their horses at those rasping five foot fences -- And in place of making running I was falling to the rear.

Till a chap came racing past me on a horse they called 'The Quiver', And said he, 'My country joker, are you going to give it best? Are you frightened of the fences? does their stoutness make you shiver? Have they come to breeding cowards by the side of Snowy River? Are there riders on Monaro? ----' but I never heard the rest.

For I drove the Ace and sent him just as fast as he could pace it, At the big black line of timber stretching fair across the track, And he shot beside the Quiver. 'Now,' said I, 'my boy, we'll race it. You can come with Snowy River if you're only game to face it, Let us mend the pace a little and we'll see who cries a crack.'

So we raced away together, and we left the others standing, And the people cheered and shouted as we settled down to ride, And we clung beside the Quiver. At his taking off and landing I could see his scarlet nostril and his mighty ribs expanding, And the Ace stretched out in earnest and we held him stride for stride.

But the pace was so terrific that they soon ran out their tether -- They were rolling in their gallop, they were fairly blown and beat -- But they both were game as pebbles -- neither one would show the feather. And we rushed them at the fences, and they cleared them both together, Nearly every time they clouted, but they somehow kept their feet.

Then the last jump rose before us, and they faced it game as ever -- We were both at spur and whipcord, fetching blood at every bound -- And above the people's cheering and the cries of 'Ace' and 'Quiver', I could hear the trainer shouting, 'One more run for Snowy River.' Then we struck the jump together and came smashing to the ground.

Well, the Quiver ran to blazes, but the Ace stood still and waited, Stood and waited like a statue while I scrambled on his back. There was no one next or near me for the field was fairly slated, So I cantered home a winner with my shoulder dislocated, While the man that rode the Quiver followed limping down the track.

And he shook my hand and told me that in all his days he never Met a man who rode more gamely, and our last set to was prime, And we wired them on Monaro how we chanced to beat the Quiver. And they sent us back an answer, 'Good old sort from Snowy River: Send us word each race you start in and we'll back you every time.'

The Amateur Rider

HIM going to ride for us! HIM -- with the pants and the eyeglass and all. Amateur! don't he just look it -- it's twenty to one on a fall. Boss must be gone off his head to be sending our steeplechase crack Out over fences like these with an object like that on his back.

Ride! Don't tell ME he can ride. With his pants just as loose as balloons, How can he sit on his horse? and his spurs like a pair of harpoons; Ought to be under the Dog Act, he ought, and be kept off the course. Fall! why, he'd fall off a cart, let alone off a steeplechase horse.

. . . . .

Yessir! the 'orse is all ready -- I wish you'd have rode him before; Nothing like knowing your 'orse, sir, and this chap's a terror to bore; Battleaxe always could pull, and he rushes his fences like fun -- Stands off his jump twenty feet, and then springs like a shot from a gun.

Oh, he can jump 'em all right, sir, you make no mistake, 'e's a toff; Clouts 'em in earnest, too, sometimes, you mind that he don't clout you off -- Don't seem to mind how he hits 'em, his shins is as hard as a nail, Sometimes you'll see the fence shake and the splinters fly up from the rail.

All you can do is to hold him and just let him jump as he likes, Give him his head at the fences, and hang on like death if he strikes; Don't let him run himself out -- you can lie third or fourth in the race -- Until you clear the stone wall, and from that you can put on the pace.

Fell at that wall once, he did, and it gave him a regular spread, Ever since that time he flies it -- he'll stop if you pull at his head, Just let him race -- you can trust him -- he'll take first-class care he don't fall, And I think that's the lot -- but remember, HE MUST HAVE HIS HEAD AT THE WALL.

. . . . .

Well, he's down safe as far as the start, and he seems to sit on pretty neat, Only his baggified breeches would ruinate anyone's seat -- They're away -- here they come -- the first fence, and he's head over heels for a crown! Good for the new chum, he's over, and two of the others are down!

Now for the treble, my hearty -- By Jove, he can ride, after all; Whoop, that's your sort -- let him fly them! He hasn't much fear of a fall. Who in the world would have thought it? And aren't they just going a pace? Little Recruit in the lead there will make it a stoutly-run race.

Lord! But they're racing in earnest -- and down goes Recruit on his head, Rolling clean over his boy -- it's a miracle if he ain't dead. Battleaxe, Battleaxe, yet! By the Lord, he's got most of 'em beat -- Ho! did you see how he struck, and the swell never moved in his seat?

Second time round, and, by Jingo! he's holding his lead of 'em well; Hark to him clouting the timber! It don't seem to trouble the swell. Now for the wall -- let him rush it. A thirty-foot leap, I declare -- Never a shift in his seat, and he's racing for home like a hare.

What's that that's chasing him -- Rataplan -- regular demon to stay! Sit down and ride for your life now! Oh, good, that's the style -- come away! Rataplan's certain to beat you, unless you can give him the slip; Sit down and rub in the whalebone now -- give him the spurs and the whip!

Battleaxe, Battleaxe, yet -- and it's Battleaxe wins for a crown; Look at him rushing the fences, he wants to bring t'other chap down. Rataplan never will catch him if only he keeps on his pins; Now! the last fence! and he's over it! Battleaxe, Battleaxe wins!

. . . . .

Well, sir, you rode him just perfect -- I knew from the first you could ride. Some of the chaps said you couldn't, an' I says just like this a' one side: Mark me, I says, that's a tradesman -- the saddle is where he was bred. Weight! you're all right, sir, and thank you; and them was the words that I said.

On Kiley's Run

The roving breezes come and go On Kiley's Run, The sleepy river murmurs low, And far away one dimly sees Beyond the stretch of forest trees -- Beyond the foothills dusk and dun -- The ranges sleeping in the sun On Kiley's Run.