While The Billy BoilsSearchI patted the head of a pony,By a Collins-street kerbstone tied,And my soul is sick for the old thingsAnd the feel of the world outside.
I patted the head of a pony,My fingers are tingling yet;And I hear the call of the outlandsRing over the city’s fret.
He was low and little and weedy,But he bent his nose to my handIn the language that never was written,That the horse-lovers understand.
And I feel the beck of the mountains,And the worn ways wandering whiteThro’ the ironbarks and the messmatesAre calling to me to-night.
And I ache in this city prison,In this desert of rolling roofs,For the lift of snaffle and stirrup,For the ring of galloping hoofs,
’Mong the hills where the circling eagleSails dark on the rim o’ the day,And the yang yangs’ shrieking phalanxHeralds the stormy fray.
Flemington, Caulfield, Ascot?The Derby, the Melbourne Cup?The seethe of the surging thousands?The steeds with their riders up?
They’re tainted with craft of Commerce,By minions of Pelf they’re ruled,With a fig for the game outsider,And a curse for the nag that’s “pulled.”
’Twas a merrier sport and cleanerWhere the ironstone ranges rungTo the race that never was written,To the steeds that never were sung.
’Twas a merrier sport and sweeter,The chestnut against the brown,With the weight on the Gippsland geldingAnd a win for the mare, hands down.
On the open road we have won them,Close finish and hard-set teeth,With God’s own breath on our facesAnd His levin of life beneath.
On the open road we have lost them,Light-hearted and ridden away;For there’s never a game worth playing,Where the stake is more than the play.
Yes ! I’m sick to-night for the old thingsThat grip me like living hands,In the dark of a world of shadows —And I know, while the old faith stands,
With the mate of my soul beside me,Light-hearted, without remorse,I would tackle The Styx to-morrowOn a fretting Australian horse.