I dedicate this poem to remember one of the greatest writers, Banjo Paterson
in 1890.
Created & published on StoryJumper™ ©2025 StoryJumper, Inc.
All rights reserved. Sources: storyjumper.com/attribution
Preview audio:
storyj.mp/ac5em52kpjx9
There was movement at the station, for the word at passed around
That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses- he was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to fray.
2
3
All the tired and noted riders at the station near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushman love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.
4
5
There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
The old man with his hair white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairling up-
He would go where ever horse and man could go.
6
7
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand,
He learned to ride while droving on the plains.
And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,
He was something like a racehorse undersized.
8
9
And the Snowy River riders on the mountain make their home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horseman since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such horseman I have seen.'
10
11
With a torch of Timor pony - three parts thoroughbred at least -
And such as are by the mountain horseman prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry - just the sort that won't say die -
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.
12
13
But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
And the old man that said, "That horse will never do
For a long time and tiring gallop - lad, you'd better stop away,
Those hills are too rough for such as you.
14
15
So he went - they found the horses by the big mimosa clump - They raced towards the mountains brow,
And the old man gave his orders, 'Boys go at them at the jump,
No use to try for fancy riding now.
16
17
So he waited sad and wistful - only Clancy stood his friend - 'I think we ought to let him come.'he said;
'I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,
For both his horse and he are mountain bred.'
18
19
'He hails from Snowy River, up the Kosciusko side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse's hoof strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
The ma that hold his own is good enough.
20
21
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills.'
22
23
So Clancy rode to wheel them - he was racing with the wing
Where the best and oldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stock-horse past them, and they made the rangers ring
With the stock-whip, a he met them face to face.
24
25
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well loved mountain full in view,
And they charged between the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash, And off into the mountain scrub they flew.
26
27
Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black Resounded to the thunder of their tread, And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
28
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And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way, Where mountain ash and Kurrajong grew wide; And the old man muttered fiercely, ‘We may bid the mob good day, NO man can hold them down the other side.’
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When they reached the mountain’s summit, even Clancy took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
32
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I dedicate this poem to remember one of the greatest writers, Banjo Paterson
in 1890.
Created & published on StoryJumper™ ©2025 StoryJumper, Inc.
All rights reserved. Sources: storyjumper.com/attribution
Preview audio:
storyj.mp/ac5em52kpjx9
There was movement at the station, for the word at passed around
That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses- he was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to fray.
2
3
All the tired and noted riders at the station near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushman love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.
4
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"The Man From Snowy River"
A thrilling poem about a skilled horseman's daring ride to round up wild horses in the Snowy River region.
(50 pages)
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