Page:Where the Dead Men Lie.djvu/98

 It needed no further voice to urge This dutiful daughter to eager haste; She donned the habit of rough blue serge That draped itself from her slender waist; And Postboy stood by the stockyard rail While she mounted behind the Greytown mail.

Dark points, the rest of him iron-grey, Boasting no strain of expensive blood, Down steepest hill he could pick his way, And never was baulked by a winter flood— Strong as a lion, hard as a nail, Was the horse that carried the Greytown mail.

A nag that really seemed to be Fit for a hundred miles at a push: With the old Monaro pedigree— By ‘Furious Riding,’ out of ‘The Bush’; For he was run from a mountain mob By Brian O’Flynn and Dusty Bob.

And Postboy’s bosom was filled with pride As he felt the form of his mistress sway, In its easy grace, to his swinging stride As he dashed along down the narrow way. No prettier Mercury, I’ll go bail, Than Kitty e’er carried a Government mail.