Off the Grass

They were boasting on "The Greenhide" of their nags of fancy breed,
 * And stuffing them with bran and oats to run in Gumleaf Town,

But we hadn’t got a racehorse that was worth a dish of feed,
 * So didn’t have a "Buckley’s show" to take the boasters down.

For old Midnight was in Sydney and we couldn't get him up
 * In time for Gumleaf Races if it had been worth our while;

The Chorus colt was far too light to win the Gumleaf Cup,
 * And we didn't own a hackney that could finish out the mile.

But we couldn't watch them win it while we never had a say,
 * So we mustered up the horses, and we caught old Myall King;

He's as brave as ever galloped, but he’s twelve if he's a day,
 * And we couldn't help but chuckle at the humor of the thing.

But, though shaky in the shoulders, he's the daddy of them all,
 * He's the gamest bit of horseflesh from the Snowy to the Bree,

One of those that's never beaten, coming every time you call;
 * One of those you sometimes read about but very seldom see.

He's the don at every muster and the king of every camp;
 * He's the lad to stop the pikers when they take you on the rush;

And he loves the merry rattle of the stockwhip and the tramp
 * Of the cockhorned mulga scrubbers when they're breaking in the brush.

He can foot the "Greenhide" brumbies if they take a mile of start,
 * And if they get him winded in a gallop on the plain

He's as game as any lion, and he carries such a heart
 * You can never say he's beaten, for he'll always come again!

So we put up Jack the Stockman with his ten pounds overweight,
 * And he lengthened out the leathers half-a-foot and gave a smile:

"I don't suppose you'll see us when they're fairly in the straight,
 * But we'll make the beggars travel, take my oath, for half-a-mile!"

And they started, and the old horse jumped away a length in front,
 * And every post they came to gave the brown a longer lead

Till it seemed that there was nothing else but Myall in the hunt,
 * With his load of station honor and his weight of mulga feed!

Then the bay mare Bogan Lily started out to cut him down;
 * She had travelled out five hundred miles to win the Gumleaf Cup,

And she couldn't well get beaten by a hack in Gumleaf Town,
 * When she had to pay expenses for her owner's journey up.

So she started out to catch the old brown camp-horse from the Bush,
 * And a furlong from the finish she could nose his rider's knee,

Then you should have heard the shouting of the Bogan Lily push,
 * And the flinging of their hats up was a sight for you to see!

But old Myall King had often been as nearly beat before,
 * And he steadied off a little while the mare shot out ahead,

Then he shook his ears and gripped the bit—you should have heard us roar
 * As he came at Bogan Lily with his flanks a streak of red!

And the little bay mare, beaten, gave him best and threw it up,
 * And we heard her rider murmur as he saw the brown horse pass

And Jack the Stockman drop his hands and win the Gumleaf Cup—
 * "Beat by a cripple of a camp-horse, off the grass!"

Then we led him in a winner, and they cheered him from the stand,
 * With the black sweat running channels from his forearm to his foot,

And the white foam on his shoulder till you couldn’t see the brand,
 * And the crimson bloodstains scattered over spur and flank and boot.

So we carried off the honors of the meeting—and the notes;
 * And the men on Greenhide River, when they see our fellows pass,

Will tell you this in whispers, "You can train your nags on oats,
 * But be careful when you’re racing those d—d scrubbers off the grass!"