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It's right enough while horses pull and take their fences strong, To rush a flier to the front and bring the field along; But what about the last half-mile, with horses blown and beat -- When every jump means all you know to keep him on his feet?

When any slip means sudden death -- with wife and child to keep -- It needs some nerve to draw the whip and flog him at the leap -- But Corrigan would ride them out, by danger undismayed, He never flinched at fence or wall, he never was afraid; With easy seat and nerve of steel, light hand and smiling face, He held the rushing horses back, and made the sluggards race.

He gave the shirkers extra heart, he steadied down the rash, He rode great clumsy boring brutes, and chanced a fatal smash; He got the rushing Wymlet home that never jumped at all -- But clambered over every fence and clouted every wall. But ah, you should have heard the cheers that shook the members' stand Whenever Tommy Corrigan weighed out to ride Lone Hand. They were, indeed, a glorious pair -- the great upstanding horse, The gamest jockey on his back that ever faced a course. Though weight was big and pace was hot and fences stiff and tall, "You follow Tommy Corrigan" was passed to one and all.

But now we'll keep his memory green while horsemen come and go, We may not see his like again where silks and satins glow. We'll drink to him in silence, boys -- he's followed down the track Where many a good man went before, but never one came back. And let us hope in that far land where shades of brave men reign, That gallant Tommy Corrigan will ride Lone Hand again.

Paterson, ; Singer of the Bush, A. Paterson, ; A. He's an old grey horse, with his head bowed sadly, And with dim old eyes and a queer roll aft, With the off-fore sprung and the hind screwed badly, And he bears all over the brands of graft; And he lifts his head from the grass to wonder Why by night and day the whim is still, Why the silence is, and the stampers' thunder Sounds forth no more from the shattered mill.

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In that whim he worked when the night winds bellowed On the riven summit of Giant's Hand, And by day when prodigal Spring had yellowed All the wide, long sweep of enchanted land; And he knew his shift, and the whistle's warning, And he knew the calls of the boys below; Through the years, unbidden, at night or morning, He had taken his stand by the old whim bow. But the whim stands still, and the wheeling swallow In the silent shaft hangs her home of clay, And the lizards flirt and the swift snakes follow O'er the grass-grown brace in the summer day; And the corn springs high in the cracks and corners Of the forge, and down where the timber lies; And the crows are perched like a band of mourners On the broken hut on the Hermit's Rise.

All the hands have gone, for the rich reef paid out, And the company waits till the calls come in; But the old grey horse, like the claim, is played out, And no market's near for his bones and skin. So they let him live, and they left him grazing By the creek, and oft in the evening dim I have seen him stand on the rises, gazing At the ruined brace and the rotting whim.

The floods rush high in the gully under, And the lightnings lash at the shrinking trees, Or the cattle down from the ranges blunder As the fires drive by on the summer breeze.

Poem of the Masses

Still the feeble horse at the right hour wanders To the lonely ring, though the whistle's dumb, And with hanging head by the bow he ponders Where the whim boy's gone - why the shifts don't come. See the old horse take, like a creature dreaming, On the ring once more his accustomed place; But the moonbeams full on the ruins streaming Show the scattered timbers and grass-grown brace. Yet he hears the sled in the smithy falling, And the empty truck as it rattles back, And the boy who stands by the anvil, calling; And he turns and backs, and he "takes up slack".

While the old drum creaks, and the shadows shiver As the wind sweeps by, and the hut doors close, And the bats dip down in the shaft or quiver In the ghostly light, round the grey horse goes; And he feels the strain on his untouched shoulder, Hears again the voice that was dear to him, Sees the form he knew - and his heart grows bolder As he works his shift by the broken whim. He hears in the sluices the water rushing As the buckets drain and the doors fall back; When the early dawn in the east is blushing, He is limping still round the old, old track.

Now he pricks his ears, with a neigh replying To a call unspoken, with eyes aglow, And he sways and sinks in the circle, dying; From the ring no more will the grey horse go. In a gully green, where a dam lies gleaming, And the bush creeps back on a worked-out claim, And the sleepy crows in the sun sit dreaming On the timbers grey and a charred hut frame, Where the legs slant down, and the hare is squatting In the high rank grass by the dried-up course, Nigh a shattered drum and a king-post rotting Are the bleaching bones of the old grey horse.

Flynn and J. Mulga Bill's Bicycle by A. I'm good all round at everything as everybody knows, Although I'm not the one to talk - I hate a man that blows. But riding is my special gift, my chiefest, sole delight; Just ask a wild duck can it swim, a wildcat can it fight. There's nothing clothed in hair or hide, or built of flesh or steel, There's nothing walks or jumps, or runs, on axle, hoof, or wheel, But what I'll sit, while hide will hold and girths and straps are tight: I'll ride this here two-wheeled concern right straight away at sight.

He turned the cycle down the hill and mounted for the fray, But 'ere he'd gone a dozen yards it bolted clean away. It left the track, and through the trees, just like a silver steak, It whistled down the awful slope towards the Dead Man's Creek. It shaved a stump by half an inch, it dodged a big white-box: The very wallaroos in fright went scrambling up the rocks, The wombats hiding in their caves dug deeper underground, As Mulga Bill, as white as chalk, sat tight to every bound.

It struck a stone and gave a spring that cleared a fallen tree, It raced beside a precipice as close as close could be; And then as Mulga Bill let out one last despairing shriek It made a leap of twenty feet into the Dean Man's Creek. I'll give that two-wheeled outlaw best; it's shaken all my nerve To feel it whistle through the air and plunge and buck and swerve.

It's safe at rest in Dead Man's Creek, we'll leave it lying still; A horse's back is good enough henceforth for Mulga Bill.

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    Steeds of the Mist by Will H. Steeds, O steeds of the morning mist, Whose halters none but the wind may twist, Whose soft white flanks may feel no spur But the breeze that is setting the woods a-stir; O beautiful, silent, steeds of grey, I will give you my heart to carry away! As I stoop in the curve of your arching manes I shall feel the tug of your silver reins; I shall see the foam on your rosy breasts As the dawn dips under your splendid crests; Though I know that your step is firm and fleet I shall hear no sound of your gliding feet!

    You shall carry me over the mountain bar To the land where your breeding pastures are, Beyond where your squadrons blind the sun, To the fields where the glitterng moon-mists run, To the forge where your hoofs are silver-shod 'Neath the anvil sparks of the stars of God! O beautiful silent steeds of grey, You shall carry my wistful heart away; As your shadows are lost on the mountain wall So the shadow of grief from my heart shall fall, And the peace of the skies shall be mine to share When you cover my heart from its world of Care!

    On Nungar the mists of the morning hung low, The beetle-browed hills brooded silent and black, Not yet warmed to life by the sun's loving glow, As through the tall tussocks rode young Charlie Mac. What cared he for mists at the dawning of day, What cared he that over the valley stern 'Jack', The monarch of frost, held his pitiless sway? A galloping son of a galloping sire - Stiffest fence, roughest ground, never took him aback; With his father's cool judgement, his dash and his fire, The pick of Monaro, rode young Charlie Mac.

    And the pick of the stable the mare he bestrode - Arab-grey, built to stay, lithe of limb, deep of chest, She seemed to be happy to bear such a load As she tossed the soft forelock that curled on her crest. They crossed Nungar Creek, where its span is but short At its head, where together spring two mountain rills, When a mob of wild horses sprang up with a snort - 'By thunder!

    A pretty bay foal had been born to her there, Whose veins held the very best blood in the land - 'The Lord of the Hills', as the bold mountain men, Whose courage and skill he was wont to defy, Had named him; they yarded him once, but since then He'd held to the saying 'Once bitten twice shy. She laid to the chase just as soon as she felt Her rider's skilled touch, light, yet firm, on the rein. Stride for stride, lengthened wide, for the green timber belt, The fastest half-mile ever done on the plain.

    They reached the low sallee before he could wheel The warrigal mob; up they dashed with a stir Of low branches and undergrowth - Charlie could feel His mare catch her breath on the side of the spur That steeply slopes up till it meets the bald cone. He looked once around as she crept to his heel And the swish that he gave his long tail in the air Seemed to say, 'Here's a foeman well worthy my steel. Once down on the level 'twas galloping-ground, For a while Charlie thought he might yard the big bay At his uncle's out-station, but no!

    He wheeled round And down the sharp dip to the Gulf made his way. Betwixt those twin portals, that, towering high And backwardly sloping in watchfulness, lift Their smooth grassy summits towards the far sky, The course of the clear Murrumbidgee runs swift; No time then to seek where the crossing might be, It was in at one side and out where you could, But fear never dwelt in the hearts of those three Who emerged from the shade of the low muzzle-wood. Once more did the Lord of the Hills strike a line Up the side of the range, and once more he looked back, So close were they now he could see the sun shine In the bold grey eyes flashing of young Charlie Mac.

    He saw little Empress, stretched out like a hound On the trail of its quarry, the pick of the pack, With ne'er-tiring stride, and his heart gave a bound As he saw the lithe stockwhip of young Charlie Mac Showing snaky and black on the neck of the mare In three hanging coils with a turn round the wrist. And he heartily wished himself back in his lair 'Mid the tall tussocks beaded with chill morning mist. Then he fancied the straight mountain-ashes, the gums And the wattles all mocked him and whispered, "You lack The speed to avert cruel capture, that comes To the warrigal fancied by young Charlie Mac, For he'll yard you, and rope you, and then you'll be stuck In the crush, while his saddle is girthed to your back.

    Then out in the open, and there you may buck Till you break your bold heart, but you'll never throw Mac!

    He spurted his utmost to leave her, but yet The Empress crept up to him, stride upon stride. No need to say Charlie was riding her now, Yet still for all that he had something in hand, With here a sharp stoop to avoid a low bough, Or a quick rise and fall as a tree-trunk they spanned. In his terror the brumby struck down the rough falls T'wards Yiack, with fierce disregard for his neck - 'Tis useless, he finds, for the mare overhauls Hi slowly, no timber could keep her in check.

    There's a narrow-beat pathway that winds to and fro Down the deeps of the gully, half hid from the day, There's a turn in the track, where the hop-bushes grow And hide the grey granite that crosses the way While sharp swerves the path round the boulder's broad base - And now the last scene in the drama is played: As the Lord of the Hills, with the mare in full chase, Swept towards it, but, ere his long stride could be stayed, With a gathered momentum that gave not a chance Of escape, and a shuddering, sickening shock, He struck on the granite that barred his advance And sobbed out his life at the foot of the rock.

    Then Charlie pulled off with a twitch on the rein, And an answering spring from his surefooted mount, One might say, unscathed, though a crimsoning stain Marked the graze of the granite, but that would ne'er count With Charlie, who speedily sprang to the earth To ease the mare's burden, his deft-fingered hand Unslackened her surcingle, loosened tight girth, And cleansed with a tussock the spur's ruddy brand.

    There he lay by the rock - drooping head, glazing eye, Strong limbs stilled for ever; no more would he fear The tread of a horseman, no more would he fly Through the hills with his harem in rapid career, The pick of the Mountain Mob, bays, greys, or roans.

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    He proved by his death that the place 'tis that kills, And a sun-shrunken hide o'er a few whitened bones Marks the last resting-place of the Lord of the Hills. Witchery by Will H. Do I touch her at times with the spur? A barbarous sport? Well, I yield! Yes, if you like! Girth up, and ride out to the fray! First published in The Bulletin , 13 May Note: the poem was originally published with the illustration shown here.

    The Man from Snowy River by A. There was movement at the station, for the word had 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 the fray. All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far Had mustered at the homestead overnight, For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are, And the stockhorse snuffs the battle with delight.

    There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup, The old man with his hair as white as snow; But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up - He would go wherever horse and man could go. And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand, No better horseman ever held the reins; For never horse could throw him while the saddle girths would stand, He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.

    Rhyme Scheme | Power Poetry

    Big Jim from Jackson Date: When she got there, the cupboard was bare. I shot her with pleasure I shot her with pride You couldn't have missed her She was 50 ft wide. I went to the funeral, I went to the grave Some people thrugh flowers I through a grannade. Her body whent up her body whent down her body whent Splattt all over the ground.

    The Fooles Troupe Date: Cause every time she let it out, The rooster used to chase it round and round the barnyard, but he never caught it cause that little hen was just too fast!

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    Three German officers in a tank, Parley-voo. Three German officers in a tank, Parley-voo, Three German officers in a tank, Two to drive and one to push, Inky-pinky parley-voo. We barbequed his head. And what about his body? We flushed it down the potty, And round and round it goes, And round and round it goes, And row-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ownd it goes. Blessings, Barbara, who learned it from her fourth grade daughter. Oh, what is that? Christopher Robin is sodding the cat. When an idea is wanting, a word can always be found to take: I'm amazed you got away with songs with actual swearing in them, and things suggestive enough I never would have gotten the joke.

    I didn't quit get my signature on this. It another one I almost forgot! And when she saw what she had done, She gave her father forty-one.