POETRY.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2272, 14 July 1881, Page 4

POETRY.

HOW WE BAN IN “ THE BLACK

WABBIGAL.”

“ Adelaide “ Observer.”

You must let mo have Topsail to-day, Boss, If wo’ro going for that "Warrigal mob ; And let Edwin ride Bunyip, the bay boss. And put Miller on Bory, the cob. Poor old Zillah’a as stiff as a poker. Or we’d give her a bit of a show ; So stick Arthur on steady old Stoker, Who can last, tho’ he is a bit slow. You’ve got Misohie ? in very good fettle. And, by gum.ha'l. be tried well to-day. For them flyers will sound all our mettle. And we shan’t have it all our own way. Last night I was boilin’ the billy, When I see tho whole lot sailing past ; In the lead was that mealy-nose filly, And, by gosh, Boss, that filly is fast. The < Pet of tho Devil ’ looked awfully grand. Spieling well out on tho wing, With four mares without ever a brand, Loping in to tho Warrigal spring.” That morning was plenty of bustle. And tackling was carefully placed On beauties with bone and with muscle, \Yhoso sires and whose dams had all raced. We soon sighted the spring, and the pipe Was by one and by all being lit. When McDermott (of bushmen the type) Said “ he’d ride up tho rise just a bit.” From his flask he’d fust taken a drain. Then slipped off as tho’ he’d been shot. And whispered, “ They’re on the big plain, And, by jingo, we’ll bag the lot.” “ Now, boys, are you ready ? Keep cool and ride steady ! We’ll make a big try to get round ’em. Boss and Ned to the right, Keep well out of sight ; The devils don’t dream we have found ’em. And Arthur and Miller, You see that big wilier, In the gorge by tho Wild Turkey Hill; To make that is your dart. Sneak round and look smart, Till I signal you keep there quite still. And I’ll make a sweep, Until I can creep To the spring right on the outside ; Then when you see smoke By the forky sheaoat. You can ride as you never did ride.” We put back our pipes in their cases, And paired off as old Jack had said. With the fire of the sport in our faces, For we all were colonial bred. And now we hare all reached our cover. We can see the black horse sniff the breeze, No maiden e’er looked for her lover More than we for that smoke by the trees. See, at last the smoke curls up, hurrah 1 They sea it as soon as we do. Jack’s close on their heels with “ Houp-la ?” And we echo his rally cry, too. Straight down the big plain all together, Then their necks are craned straight for the hills, Now, Bunyip, just let us see whether You can come in a pace that kills. Yes, Edwin has turned them ; cleverly done ! Once more towards the station we hit; The mob shows distress—five miles have they run— And they’re trying their hardest to split. Now we streak through a forest of box. Leaving shreds of our skirts in our train. Now flounder o’er smooth granite rocks, Now o’er fissures out out by the rain. Old Snoker goes straight at a whopper, But the old horse is killed by the pace. And Arthur comes down such a cropper.

That he is put out of the race. And Miller on Bory is tailing— This game is too fast for a hack — Even Bunyip’s endurance is failing. So it’s left to the Boss and old Jack, They tackle the “ Pet of the Devil ” ; They must have him, dead or alive, They rally him straight down the level That leads to the Warrigal drive. How he rushes, and dodges, and twists; How vainly he tries to clear out ; But behind him are muscles and wrists.

And men who know what they’re about. And last he grows blinded and fagged ; They drive him down the home track ; So the “Pet of the Devil” was bagged,

And is now Elliott’s favorite hack. And on grog nights we yarn of that run, As we smoke by the old fireside, And talk tall of the deeds that were done In that wonderful Warrigal ride. Ebkkbt Q. Millabd, Bimbowrie.