Andrew Barton Paterson (Эндрю Бартон Патерсон)
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 ne’er 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.” Loitering there in an aimless way Somehow I noticed the poor old grey, Weary and battered and screwed, of course; Yet when I noticed the old grey horse, The rough bush saddle, and single rein Of the bridle laid on his tangled mane, Straighway the crowd and the auctioneer Seemed on a sudden to disappear, Melted away in a kind if haze -- For my heart went back to the droving days. Back to the road, and I crossed again Over the miles of the saltbush plain -- The shining plain that is said to be The dried-up bed of an inland sea. Where the air so dry and so clear and bright Refracts the sun with a wondrous light, And out in the dim horizon makes The deep blue gleam of the phantom lakes. At dawn of day we could feel the breeze That stirred the boughs of the sleeping trees, And brought a breath of the fragrance rare That comes and goes in that scented air; For the trees and grass and the shrubs contain A dry sweet scent on the saltbush plain. for those that love it and understand The saltbush plain is a wonderland, A wondrous country, were Nature’s ways Were revealed to me in the droving days. We saw the fleet wild horses pass, And kangaroos through the Mitchell grass; The emu ran with her frightened brood All unmolested and unpursued. But there rose a shout and a wild hubbub When the dingo raced for his native scrub, And he paid right dear for his stolen meals With the drovers’ dogs at his wretched heels. For we ran him down at a rattling pace, While the pack-horse joined in the stirring chase. And a wild halloo at the kill we’d raise -- We were light of heart in the droving days. ’Twas a drover’s horse, and my hand again Made a move to close on a fancied rein. For I felt a swing and the easy stride Of the grand old horse that I used to ride. In drought or plenty, in good or ill, The same old steed was my comrade still; The old grey horse with his honest ways Was a mate to me in the droving days. When we kept our watch in the cold and damp, If the cattle broke from the sleeping camp, Over the flats and across the plain, With my head bent down on his waving mane, Through the boughs above and the stumps below, On the darkest night I could let him go At a racing speed; he would choose his course, And my life was safe with the old grey horse. But man and horse had a favourite job, When an outlaw broke from the station mob; With a right good will was the stockwhip plied, As the old horse raced at the straggler’s side, And the greenhide whip such a weal would raise -- We could use the whip in the droving days. ----------------- ”Only a pound!” and was this the end -- Only a pound for the drover’s friend. The drover’s friend that has seen his day, And now was worthless and cast away With a broken knee and a broken heart To be flogged and starved in a hawker’s cart. Well, I made a bid for a sense of shame And the memories of the good old game. ”Thank you? Guinea! and cheap at that! Against you there in the curly hat! Only a guinea, and one more chance, Down he goes if there’s no advance, Third, and last time, one! two! three!” And the old grey horse was knocked down to me. And now he’s wandering, fat and sleek, On the lucerne flats by the Homestead Creek; I dare not ride him for fear he’s fall, But he does a journey to beat them all, For though he scarcely a trot can raise, He can take me back to the droving days.
Andrew Barton Paterson’s other poems:
956
