With that clean, easy, sweeping stride that marked old Currajong.
Through all the years he ne’er was late the second Mass to say,
And twenty miles he’d “duplicate,” and pass us on the way.
Hard-held and beating clean tattoos, the old gray, stepping kind,
Like gravel from his twinkling shoes would fling the miles behind.
And often some too daring lad, a turn of speed to show,
Would straighten up his sleepy prad and give the priest a “go”;
But, faith, he found what others found, and held the lesson long,
That nothing in the country round could move with Currajong.
And, oh, the din! and, oh, the fuss! mere words were vain to tell