It was Hogan, the dog poisoner -- aged man and very wise, Who was camping in the racecourse with his swag, And who ventured the opinion, to the township's great surprise, That the race would go to Father Riley's nag.

'You can talk about your riders -- and the horse has not been schooled, And the fences is terrific, and the rest!

When the field is fairly going, then ye'll see ye've all been fooled, And the chestnut horse will battle with the best.

'For there's some has got condition, and they think the race is sure, And the chestnut horse will fall beneath the weight, But the hopes of all the helpless, and the prayers of all the poor, Will be running by his side to keep him straight.

And it's what's the need of schoolin' or of workin' on the track, Whin the saints are there to guide him round the course!

I've prayed him over every fence -- I've prayed him out and back!

And I'll bet my cash on Father Riley's horse!'

Oh, the steeple was a caution! They went tearin' round and round, And the fences rang and rattled where they struck.

There was some that cleared the water -- there was more fell in and drowned, Some blamed the men and others blamed the luck!

But the whips were flying freely when the field came into view, For the finish down the long green stretch of course, And in front of all the flyers -- jumpin' like a kangaroo, Came the rank outsider -- Father Riley's horse!

Oh, the shouting and the cheering as he rattled past the post!

For he left the others standing, in the straight; And the rider -- well they reckoned it was Andy Regan's ghost, And it beat 'em how a ghost would draw the weight!

But he weighed it, nine stone seven, then he laughed and disappeared, Like a Banshee (which is Spanish for an elf), And old Hogan muttered sagely, 'If it wasn't for the beard They'd be thinking it was Andy Regan's self!'

And the poor of Kiley's Crossing drank the health at Christmastide Of the chestnut and his rider dressed in green.

There was never such a rider, not since Andy Regan died, And they wondered who on earth he could have been.

But they settled it among 'em, for the story got about, 'Mongst the bushmen and the people on the course, That the Devil had been ordered to let Andy Regan out For the steeplechase on Father Riley's horse!

The Scotch Engineer

With eyes that searched in the dark, Peering along the line, Stood the grim Scotchman, Hector Clark, Driver of 'Forty-nine', And the veldt-fire flamed on the hills ahead, Like a blood-red beacon sign.

There was word of a fight to the north, And a column hard-pressed, So they started the Highlanders forth, Without food, without rest.

But the pipers gaily played, Chanting their fierce delight, And the armoured carriages rocked and swayed, Laden with men of the Scotch Brigade, Hurrying up to the fight, And the grim, grey Highland engineer, Driving them into the night.

Then a signal light glowed red, And a picket came to the track.

'Enemy holding the line ahead, Three of our mates we have left for dead, Only we two got back.'

And far to the north through the still night air, They heard the rifles crack.

And the boom of a gun rang out, Like the sound of a deep appeal, And the picket stood in doubt By the side of the driving-wheel.

But the Engineer looked down, With his hand on the starting-bar, 'Ride ye back to the town, Ye know what my orders are, Maybe they're wanting the Scotch Brigade Up on those hills afar.

'I am no soldier at all, Only an engineer, But I could not bear that the folk should say, Over in Scotland -- Glasgow way -- That Hector Clark stayed here With the Scotch Brigade till the foe were gone, With ever a rail to run her on.

Ready behind! Stand clear!

'Fireman, get you gone Into the armoured train, I will drive her alone; One more trip -- and perhaps the last -- With a well-raked fire and an open blast -- Hark to the rifles again.'

On through the choking dark, Never a lamp nor a light, Never an engine spark, Showing her hurried flight.

Over the lonely plain Rushed the great armoured train, Hurrying up to the fight.

Then with her living freight On to the foe she came, And the rifles snapped their hate, And the darkness spouted flame.

Over the roar of the fray The hungry bullets whined, As she dashed through the foe that lay Loading and firing blind, Till the glare of the furnace burning clear Showed them the form of the engineer, Sharply and well defined.

Through! They were safely through!

Hark to the column's cheer!

Surely the driver knew He was to halt her here; But he took no heed of the signals red, And the fireman found, when he climbed ahead, There on the floor of his engine -- dead, Lay the Scotch Engineer!

Song of the Future

'Tis strange that in a land so strong, So strong and bold in mighty youth, We have no poet's voice of truth To sing for us a wondrous song.

Our chiefest singer yet has sung In wild, sweet notes a pa.s.sing strain, All carelessly and sadly flung To that dull world he thought so vain.

'I care for nothing, good nor bad, My hopes are gone, my pleasures fled, I am but sifting sand,' he said: What wonder Gordon's songs were sad!

And yet, not always sad and hard; In cheerful mood and light of heart He told the tale of Britomarte, And wrote the Rhyme of Joyous Guard.

And some have said that Nature's face To us is always sad; but these Have never felt the smiling grace Of waving gra.s.s and forest trees On sunlit plains as wide as seas.

'A land where dull Despair is king O'er scentless flower and songless bird!'

But we have heard the bell-birds ring Their silver bells at eventide, Like fairies on the mountain side, The sweetest note man ever heard.

The wild thrush lifts a note of mirth; The bronzewing pigeons call and coo Beside their nests the long day through; The magpie warbles clear and strong A joyous, glad, thanksgiving song, For all G.o.d's mercies upon earth.

And many voices such as these Are joyful sounds for those to tell, Who know the Bush and love it well, With all its hidden mysteries.

We cannot love the restless sea, That rolls and tosses to and fro Like some fierce creature in its glee; For human weal or human woe It has no touch of sympathy.

For us the bush is never sad: Its myriad voices whisper low, In tones the bushmen only know, Its sympathy and welcome glad.

For us the roving breezes bring From many a blossom-tufted tree -- Where wild bees murmur dreamily -- The honey-laden breath of Spring.

We have no tales of other days, No bygone history to tell; Our tales are told where camp-fires blaze At midnight, when the solemn hush Of that vast wonderland, the Bush, Hath laid on every heart its spell.

Although we have no songs of strife, Of bloodshed reddening the land, We yet may find achievements grand Within the bushman's quiet life.

Lift ye your faces to the sky Ye far blue mountains of the West, Who lie so peacefully at rest Enshrouded in a haze of blue; 'Tis hard to feel that years went by Before the pioneers broke through Your rocky heights and walls of stone, And made your secrets all their own.