On Kiley’s Run
The roving breezes come and goOn Kiley’s Run,The sleepy river murmurs low,And far away one dimly seesBeyond the stretch of forest trees—Beyond the foothills dusk and dun—The ranges sleeping in the sunOn Kiley’s Run.
’Tis many years since first I cameTo Kiley’s Run,More years than I would care to nameSince I, a stripling, used to rideFor miles and miles at Kiley’s side,The while in stirring tones he toldThe stories of the days of oldOn Kiley’s Run.
I see the old bush homestead nowOn Kiley’s Run,Just nestled down beneath the browOf one small ridge above the sweepOf river-flat, where willows weepAnd jasmine flowers and roses bloom,The air was laden with perfumeOn Kiley’s Run.
We lived the good old station lifeOn Kiley’s Run,With little thought of care or strife.Old Kiley seldom used to roam,He liked to make the Run his home,The swagman never turned awayWith empty hand at close of dayFrom Kiley’s Run.
We kept a racehorse now and thenOn Kiley’s Run,And neighb’ring stations brought their menTo meetings where the sport was free,And dainty ladies came to seeTheir champions ride; with laugh and songThe old house rang the whole night longOn Kiley’s Run.
The station hands were friends I wotOn Kiley’s Run,A reckless, merry-hearted lot—All splendid riders, and they knewThe ‘boss’ was kindness through and through.Old Kiley always stood their friend,And so they served him to the endOn Kiley’s Run.
But droughts and losses came apaceTo Kiley’s Run,Till ruin stared him in the face;He toiled and toiled while lived the light,He dreamed of overdrafts at night:At length, because he could not pay,His bankers took the stock awayFrom Kiley’s Run.
Old Kiley stood and saw them goFrom Kiley’s Run.The well-bred cattle marching slow;His stockmen, mates for many a day,They wrung his hand and went away.Too old to make another start,Old Kiley died—of broken heart,On Kiley’s Run.
. . . . .
The owner lives in England nowOf Kiley’s Run.He knows a racehorse from a cow;But that is all he knows of stock:His chiefest care is how to dockExpenses, and he sends from townTo cut the shearers’ wages downOn Kiley’s Run.
There are no neighbours anywhereNear Kiley’s Run.The hospitable homes are bare,The gardens gone; for no pretenceMust hinder cutting down expense:The homestead that we held so dearContains a half-paid overseerOn Kiley’s Run.
All life and sport and hope have diedOn Kiley’s Run.No longer there the stockmen ride;For sour-faced boundary riders creepOn mongrel horses after sheep,Through ranges where, at racing speed,Old Kiley used to ‘wheel the lead’On Kiley’s Run.
There runs a lane for thirty milesThrough Kiley’s Run.On either side the herbage smiles,But wretched trav’lling sheep must passWithout a drink or blade of grassThro’ that long lane of death and shame:The weary drovers curse the nameOf Kiley’s Run.
The name itself is changed of lateOf Kiley’s Run.They call it ‘Chandos Park Estate’.The lonely swagman through the darkMust hump his swag past Chandos Park.The name is English, don’t you see,The old name sweeter sounds to meOf ‘Kiley’s Run’.
I cannot guess what fate will bringTo Kiley’s Run—For chances come and changes ring—I scarcely think ‘twill always beLocked up to suit an absentee;And if he lets it out in farmsHis tenants soon will carry armsOn Kiley’s Run.