Page:Where the Dead Men Lie.djvu/100

 To save the bags was her only thought As she bent to the whistle of angry lead That followed the flash and the sharp report; But, ‘Oh, you cowards!’ was all she said. Fast through the storm of leaden hail Kitty rode on with the Greytown mail.

Safe? Ah, no! for a tiny stream On Postboy’s coat left its crimson mark. She still rode on; but ’twas in a dream, Through lands where shadows fell drear and dark: Like a wounded sea-bird before the gale Fled Kitty McCrae with the Greytown mail.

And ever the crimson life-stream drips— For every hoof-stroke a drop of blood— From feeble fingers the bridle slips As down the Warrigal Flat they scud; And just where the Redbank workings lie She reels and falls with a feeble cry.

The old horse slackened his racing pace When he found the saddle his only load, And laid his nose to the pretty face White upturned in the dusty road; Like a gathered rose in the heat of day, So drooped and faded Kitty McCrae.