Page:Where the Dead Men Lie.djvu/99

 Leaving the slope of O’Connor’s Hill, They merrily scattered the drops of dew In the spanning of many a tiny rill Whose bubbling waters were hid from view: In quick-beat time to the curlew’s wail Rode Kitty McCrae, with the Greytown mail.

Sidling the Range by a narrow path Where towering mountain-ash trees grow, And a slip meant more than an icy bath In the tumbling waters that foamed below; Through the white fog filling each silent vale Rode Kitty McCrae with the Greytown mail.

The forest shadows became less dense: They fairly flew down the river fall: When out from the shade of an old brush-fence Stepped three armed men with a sudden call. Sharp and stern came the well-known hail: ‘Stand! for we want the Greytown mail!’

Postboy swerved with a mighty bound As an outlaw clung to his bridle rein: A hoof-stroke flattened him to the ground With a curse that was half a cry of pain; While Kitty, trembling and rather pale, Rode for life and the Greytown mail.