Of stirring deeds that live and thrill the quiet country-side;
And when they praise his tours-de-force, be sure it won’t be long
Before they talk about his horse—the old gray Currajong.
For twenty years he drove him through the bush and round the town,
Until the old white stager knew the parish upside down;
He’d take his time, and calculate, and have his wilful way,
And stop at every Catholic gate to bid them all good day.
But well I mind the stories told when Father Pat was young—
At least, when he was not so old—his scattered flock among;
When health and strength were on his side, you’d see him swing along