THE RUN HOME.
The order comes,—"Each to his place!"
And homeward now at length we face.
The frightened monsters roar;
Some tear the unresisting ground,
And some with frantic rush and bound
(Half maddened by the stockwhip's sound)
Each other fiercely gore!
We spread along the scattered line,
Some on the "wings," and some behind,
And steer them as we can.
There's but one pass through yonder hill;
To guide them there will need some skill,
And try both horse and man.
Some hidden object checks them there;
The leaders snuff the wind, and glare,
Then bellowing with their tails in air,
Swerve madly to the right.
A stockman hears our voices ring;
With easy stretch and supple spring,
His horse bears down along their wing,
The living mass he wheels:
Too close he presses; at the sight
One "breaks" and bellows with affright;
Dick swoops upon him, like a kite;
The cutting thong he deals;
It falls with heavy sounding thwack—
Such din those mountain gullies black
Have scarce or never heard.
He knows his work, that well-trained hack,
Nor heeds the stockwhip's echoing crack,
And sullenly the bull turns back,
To join the hurrying herd.
"Look out!" a warning voice has said,
"There's 'Mulga,' boys, and right ahead!"
And now begins the rub;
From some their garments will be stripped,
And saddle-flaps and "knee-pads" ripped,
And horses' feet in holes be tripped,
Before they clear the scrub.
You, stockmen from the Murray's side,
Who through the "Mallee" boldly ride,
Beware the "mulga-stake!"
'Tis strong and tough as bullock-hide,
Nor will, like "mallee," turn aside;
But, in its savage, sylvan pride,
Will neither bend nor break!
Once through the scrub, we don't care how
Things go; we've got them steadied now
And haven't lost a beast—
And, far as ranges human eye,
The plains are level as a die—
Our toil has nearly ceased.
The Sun goes down, the day-light fails,
But now we near the Stockyard rails—
We've one sharp struggle more.
One half the mob have never been
(Forced from those gullies cool and green)
In "branding-yard" before!
We jam them at the open space;
They ring around, and fear to face
The widely open gate.
Whips crack, and voices shout in vain;
The cattle "ring," and strive again
To force a passage to the plain.
Impatiently we wait,
Till one old charger glares around,
And snuffing cautiously the ground
Stalks through between the posts.
With lowered heads the others "bore"
And jam, and squeeze, and blindly gore;
And with a hollow muttered roar
Pour in those horned hosts!
Those posts are fourteen inches through—
They creak, and groan, and tremble too,
Before that pouring rush!
They're in at last, the gates are shut;
And falls o'er paddock, yard, and hut,
A calm nocturnal hush.
[Original]
In youth he met with sad rebuffs,
Hard, hard was William's lot,
And most unnecessary cuffs
And kicks he often got.
At length one night both dark and black
A window he got through,
And with fresh weals upon his back
He joined a whaler's crew.
He learnt to "hand," and "reef," and steer,
And knew the compass pat;
He learnt to honour and revere
The boatswain and his "cat."
He went to every coral isle
Down in the Southern seas,
Where dark-eyed beauties beam and smile
Beneath the bread-fruit trees.
His foot was firm upon the deck
As Norval's on his heath;
He dared the tempest and the wreck
For whale and walrus teeth.
He braved Pacific foam and spray,
For oil and bêche-le-mer,
Till he grew ugly, old, and grey,
An ancient mariner.
His face got red, and blue, and pink
With grog and weather stains;
He looked much like the missin link
When in the mizen chains.
