While The Billy BoilsSearchThe western sun, ere he sought his lair,Skimmed the treetops, and, glancing thence,Rested awhile on the curling hairOf Kitty McCrae, by the boundary fence:Her eyes looked anxious; her cheeks were pale;For father was two hours late with the mail.
Never before had he been so late;And Kitty wondered and wished him back,Leaning athwart the big swing gateThat opens out on the bridle-track—A tortuous path that sidles downFrom the single street of a mining town.
With her raven curls and her saucy smile—Dark eyes that glow with a changeful light,Tenderly trembling all the whileLike a brace of stars on the breast of Night—Where could you find in the light of dayA bonnier lass than Kitty McCrae?
Born in the saddle, this girl could rideLike the fearless Queen of the silver bow;And nothing that ever was lapped in hideCould frighten Kitty McCrae,I trow. She would wheel a mob in the hour of needIf the Devil himself were in the lead.
But now, in the shadows' deepeningWhen the last sun-spark has ceased to burn,Afar she catches the sullen ringOf horse-hoofs swinging around the turn;Then painfully down the narrow trailComes Alec McCrae with the Greytown mail.
'The fever-and-ague, my girl,' he said—''Twas all I got on that northern trip:When it left me then I was well-nigh dead—Has got me fast in its iron grip;And I'd rather rot in the nearest gaolThan ride to-night with the Greytown mail.
'At Golden Gully they heard to-day—'Twas a common topic about the town—That the Mulligan Gang were around this way.They wouldn't despatch the gold-dust down;And Brown, the manager, said he thought'Twere wise to wait for a strong escort.
'I rode the leaders; the other nagsI left with the coach at the 'Travellers' Rest.'Kitty, my lass, you must take the bags—Postboy, I reckon's about the best;'Tis dark, I know, but he'll never failTo take you down with the Greytown mail.'
It needed no further voice to urgeThis dutiful daughter to eager haste;She donned the habit of rough blue sergeThat draped itself from her slender waist;And Postboy stood by the stockyard railWhile 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 beFit 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 mobBy Brian O'Flynn and Dusty Bob.
And Postboy's bosom was filled with prideAs he felt the form of his mistress sway,In its easy grace, to his swinging strideAs he dashed along down the narrow way.No prettier Mercury, I'll go bail,Than Kitty e'er carried a Government mail.
Leaving the slope of O'Connor's Hill,They merrily scattered the drops of dewIn the spanning of many a tiny rillWhose bubbling waters were hid from view:In quick-beat time to the curlew's wailRode Kitty McCrae, with the Greytown mail.
Sidling the Range by a narrow pathWhere towering mountain-ash trees grow,And a slip meant more than an icy bathIn the tumbling waters that foamed below;Through the white fog filling each silent valeRode 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-fenceStepped 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 boundAs an outlaw clung to his bridle rein:A hoof-stroke flattened him to the groundWith a curse that was half a cry of pain;While Kitty, trembling and rather pale,Rode for life and the Greytown mail.
To save the bags was her only thoughtAs she bent to the whistle of angry leadThat followed the flash and the sharp report;But, 'Oh, you cowards!' was all she said.Fast through the storm of leaden hailKitty rode on with the Greytown mail.
Safe? Ah, no! for a tiny streamOn 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 galeFled 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 slipsAs down the Warrigal Flat they scud;And just where the Redbank workings lieShe reels and falls with a feeble cry.
The old horse slackened his racing paceWhen he found the saddle his only load,And laid his nose to the pretty faceWhite upturned in the dusty road;Like a gathered rose in the heat of day,So drooped and faded Kitty McCrae.
Did Postboy stay by the dead girl's side?Not he! relieved of her feather-weight,He woke the echoes with measured stride,Galloping up to the postal gate—Blood, dust, and sweat from head to tail,A riderless horse with the Greytown mail!
And now a river-oak, drooping, weepsIn ceaseless sorrow above the graveDown on the flat where Kitty sleeps,Hushed by the river's lapping wave—That ever tells to the trees the taleOf how she rode with the Greytown mail.