Bush Verses

Mountain Memories

'Twas while I camped in Weston's Hut upon the Buffalo River;

When rain and hail rang on the roof and snow winds made me shiver.

The mountain creeks were brimming full, the river ran a banker,

So like a Schooner in distress, I was compelled to anchor.

The one and only picture that at once won my affection,

And called to mind the grandest days within my recollection;

Then for the sake of olden time, and memory that entwined it,

I turned the picture on the wall and wrote these lines behind it.

'Twas of a stockman and a horse, a thoroughbred and splendid,

With veins on fire and thighs like wire, when at top speed extended;

A wild steer charging on the flank appeared as though the victor,

So true the artist had portrayed the spirit of the picture.

The headlong gallop down the plain of horse and man's existence,

The cattle sheltered on the rise, the ranges in the distance;

They each and all recalled the days with Drover Andy Farren,

The days of youth and love and hope when droving on the Narren.

I loved the life which freedom gave - the big broad life out yonder,

The memory lingers with me still where'er I chance to wander;

The reckless comrades wild as steers how could a man forget them,

And strange to think in all the years to never since have met them.

Where are those boon companions now, all carefree and light-hearted?

They met as mates and lived as men, and like true bushmen parted.

They rode the track that led outback to conquer flood and fire,

While I the failure of them all, aspired for something higher.

And so I face the break of day, and turn towards the river,

To find it seething on its way, more dangerous than ever;

It well might make the strongest pause, however intrepid,

For when the snow on Selwyn thaws, these mountain streams are rapid.

The track that leads to Webbs' is rough, 'cross many a raging torrent,

And there's a welcome sure enough for man and horse, I warrant;

The rain is simply teeming down, the flood is just the limit,

We surely were not born to drown - Come on old horse, we'll swim it!

By Wm Jas Wye