The Old Timer’s Steeplechase
The sheep were shorn and the wool went downAt the time of our local racing:And I’d earned a spell—I was burnt and brown—So I rolled my swag for a trip to townAnd a look at the steeplechasing.
’Twas rough and ready—an uncleared courseAs rough as the blacks had found it;With barbed-wire fences, topped with gorse,And a water-jump that would drown a horse,And the steeple three times round it.
There was never a fence the tracks to guard,—Some straggling posts defined ’em:And the day was hot, and the drinking hard,Till none of the stewards could see a yardBefore nor yet behind ’em!
But the bell was rung and the nags were out,Excepting an old outsiderWhose trainer started an awful rout,For his boy had gone on a drinking boutAnd left him without a rider.
‘Is there not one man in the crowd,’ he cried,‘In the whole of the crowd so clever,Is there not one man that will take a rideOn the old white horse from the Northern sideThat was bred on the Mooki River?’
’Twas an old white horse that they called The Cow,And a cow would look well beside him;But I was pluckier then than now(And I wanted excitement anyhow),So at last I agreed to ride him.
And the trainer said, ‘Well, he’s dreadful slow,And he hasn’t a chance whatever;But I’m stony broke, so it’s time to showA trick or two that the trainers knowWho train by the Mooki River.
‘The first time round at the further side,With the trees and the scrub about you,Just pull behind them and run out wideAnd then dodge into the scrub and hide,And let them go round without you.
‘At the third time round, for the final spinWith the pace, and the dust to blind ’em,They’ll never notice if you chip inFor the last half-mile—you’ll be sure to win,And they’ll think you raced behind ’em.
‘At the water-jump you may have to swim—He hasn’t a hope to clear it—Unless he skims like the swallows skimAt full speed over, but not for him!He’ll never go next or near it.
‘But don’t you worry—just plunge across,For he swims like a well-trained setter.Then hide away in the scrub and gorseThe rest will be far ahead of course—The further ahead the better.
‘You must rush the jumps in the last half-roundFor fear that he might refuse ’em;He’ll try to baulk with you, I’ll be bound,Take whip and spurs on the mean old hound,And don’t be afraid to use ’em.
‘At the final round, when the field are slowAnd you are quite fresh to meet ’em,Sit down, and hustle him all you knowWith the whip and spurs, and he’ll have to go—Remember, you’ve GOT to beat ’em!’
. . . . .
The flag went down and we seemed to fly,And we made the timbers shiverOf the first big fence, as the stand flashed by,And I caught the ring of the trainer’s cry:‘Go on! For the Mooki River!’
I jammed him in with a well-packed crush,And recklessly—out for slaughter—Like a living wave over fence and brushWe swept and swung with a flying rush,Till we came to the dreaded water.
Ha, ha! I laugh at it now to thinkOf the way I contrived to work it.Shut in amongst them, before you’d wink,He found himself on the water’s brink,With never a chance to shirk it!
The thought of the horror he felt, beguilesThe heart of this grizzled rover!He gave a snort you could hear for miles,And a spring would have cleared the Channel IslesAnd carried me safely over!
Then we neared the scrub, and I pulled him backIn the shade where the gum-leaves quiver:And I waited there in the shadows blackWhile the rest of the horses, round the track,Went on like a rushing river!
At the second round, as the field swept by,I saw that the pace was telling;But on they thundered, and by-and-byeAs they passed the stand I could hear the cryOf the folk in the distance, yelling!
Then the last time round! And the hoofbeats rang!And I said, ‘Well, it’s now or never!’And out on the heels of the throng I sprang,And the spurs bit deep and the whipcord sangAs I rode! For the Mooki River!
We raced for home in a cloud of dustAnd the curses rose in chorus.’Twas flog, and hustle, and jump you must!And The Cow ran well—but to my disgustThere was one got home before us.
’Twas a big black horse, that I had not seenIn the part of the race I’d ridden;And his coat was cool and his rider clean,And I thought that perhaps I had not beenThe only one that had hidden.
. . . . .
And the trainer came with a visage blueWith rage, when the race concluded:Said he, ‘I thought you’d have pulled us through,But the man on the black horse planted too,AND NEARER TO HOME THAN YOU DID!’
Alas to think that those times so gayHave vanished and passed for ever!You don’t believe in the yarn you say?Why, man! ’Twas a matter of every dayWhen we raced on the Mooki River!