The Road to Gundagai 

The mountain road goes up and down

From Gundagai to Tumut Town.

And, branching off, there runs a track

Across the foothills grim and black,

Across the plains and ranges grey

To Sydney city far away.

It came by chance one day that I

From Tumut rode to Gundagai,

And reached about the evening tide

The crossing where the roads divide;

And, waiting at the crossing place,

I saw a maiden fair of face,

With eyes of deepest violet blue,

And cheeks to match the rose in hue — 

The fairest maids Australia knows

Are bred among the mountain snows.

Then, fearing I might go astray,

I asked if she could show the way.

Her voice might well a man bewitch —

Its tones so supple, deep, and rich.

"The tracks are clear," she made reply,

"And this goes down to Sydney Town,

And that one goes to Gundagai."

Then slowly, looking coyly back,

She went along the Sydney track

And I for one was well content

To go the road the lady went;

But round the turn a swain she met —

The kiss she gave him haunts me yet!

I turned and travelled with a sigh

The lonely road to Gundagai.

From A B Paterson’s book Rio’ Grande’s Last Race, 1905

Lay of the Motor Cars

TWe’re away! and the wind whistles shrewd

  In our whiskers and teeth;

And the granite-like grey of the road

  Seems to slide underneath.

As an eagle might sweep through the sky,

So we sweep through the land,

And pallid, pedestrians fly

  When they hear us at hand.

We outpace, we outlast, we outstrip!

   Not the fast-fleeing hare,

Nor the racehorses under the whip,

   Nor the birds of the air

Can compete with our swiftness sublime,

   Our ease and our grace.

We annihilate chickens and time

   And policemen and space.

Do you mind that fat grocer who crossed?

   How he dropped down to pray

In the road when he saw he was lost;

   How he melted away

Underneath, and there rang through the fog

   His earsplitting squeal

As he went ----  Is that he or a dog,

   That stuff on the wheel?

The Evening News, 24 February 1905.

"I'll introdooce a friend!" he said,

"And if you've got a vacant pen

You'd better take him in the shed

And start him shearing straight ahead;

He's one of these here quiet men.

"He never strikes — that ain't his game;

No matter what the others try

He goes on shearing just the same.

I never rightly knew his name —

We always call him 'Gundagai!'"

Our flashest shearer then had gone

To train a racehorse for a race;

And, while his sporting fit was on

He couldn't be relied upon,

So Gundagai shore in his place.

Alas for man's veracity!

For reputations false and true!

This Gundagai turned out to be

For strife and all-round villainy

The very worst I ever knew!

He started racing Jack Devine,

And grumbled when I made him stop.

The pace he showed was extra fine,

But all those pure-bred ewes of mine

Were bleeding like a butcher's shop.

He cursed the sheep, he cursed the shed,

From roof to rafter, floor to shelf:

As for my mongrel ewes, he said,

I ought to get a razor-blade

And shave the blooming things myself.

On Sundays he controlled a "school",

And played "two-up" the livelong day;

And many a young confiding fool

He shore of his financial wool;

And when he lost he would not pay.

He organised a shearers' race,

And "touched" me to provide the prize.

His pack-horse showed surprising pace

And won hands down — he was The Ace,

A well-known racehorse in disguise.

Next day the bruiser of the shed

Displayed an opal-tinted eye,

With large contusions on his head,

He smiled a sickly smile, and said

He's "had a cut at Gundagai!"

But, just as we were getting full

Of Gundagai and all his ways,

A telegram for "Henry Bull"

Arrived. Said he, "That's me — all wool!

Let's see what this here message says."

He opened it; his face grew white,

He dropped the shears and turned away

It ran, "Your wife took bad last night;

Come home at once — no time to write,

We fear she may not last the day."

He got his cheque — I didn't care

To dock him for my mangled ewes;

His store account, we called it square,

Poor wretch! he had enough to bear,

Confronted by such dreadful news.

The shearers raised a little purse

To help a mate, as shearers will.

"To pay the doctor and the nurse.

And, if there should be something worse,

To pay the undertaker's bill."

They wrung his hand in sympathy,

He rode away without a word,

His head hung down in misery . . .

A wandering hawker passing by

Was told of what had just occurred.

"Well! that's a curious thing," he said,

"I've known that feller all his life —

He's had the loan of this here shed!

I know his wife ain't nearly dead,

Because he hasn't got a wife!"

You should have heard the whipcord crack

As angry shearers galloped by;

In vain they tried to fetch him back —

A little dust along the track

Was all they saw of "Gundagai".

The Commonwealth (Annual), 1902

On Kiley’s Run 

The roving breezes come and go

On Kiley’s Run,

The sleepy river murmurs low,

And far away one dimly sees

Beyond the stretch of forest trees –

Beyond the foothills dusk and dun –

The ranges sleeping in the sun

On Kiley’s Run.

'Tis many years since first I came

 To Kiley's Run, 

More years than I would care to name 

Since I, a stripling, used to ride 

For miles and miles at Kiley's side, 

The while in stirring tones he told 

The stories of the days of old                

 On Kiley's Run. 

I see the old bush homestead now                

On Kiley's Run, 

Just nestled down beneath the brow 

Of one small ridge above the sweep 

Of river-flat, where willows weep 

And jasmine flowers and roses bloom, 

The air was laden with perfume                

On Kiley's Run. 

We lived the good old station life                

On 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 away 

With empty hand at close of day                

From Kiley's Run. 

We kept a racehorse now and then               

On Kiley's Run, 

And neighb'ring stations brought their men 

To meetings where the sport was free, 

And dainty ladies came to see 

Their champions ride; with laugh and song 

The old house rang the whole night long                

On Kiley's Run. 

The station hands were friends I wot                

On Kiley's Run, 

A reckless, merry-hearted lot – 

All splendid riders, and they knew 

The `boss' was kindness through and through. 

Old Kiley always stood their friend, 

And so they served him to the end                

On Kiley's Run. 

But droughts and losses came apace                

To 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 away                

From Kiley's Run. 

Old Kiley stood and saw them go                

From 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 now                

Of Kiley's Run. 

He knows a racehorse from a cow; 

But that is all he knows of stock: 

His chiefest care is how to dock 

Expenses, and he sends from town 

To cut the shearers' wages down                

On Kiley's Run. 

There are no neighbours anywhere                

Near Kiley's Run. 

The hospitable homes are bare, 

The gardens gone; for no pretence 

Must hinder cutting down expense: 

The homestead that we held so dear 

Contains a half-paid overseer                

On Kiley's Run. 

All life and sport and hope have died                

On Kiley's Run. 

No longer there the stockmen ride; 

For sour-faced boundary riders creep 

On 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 miles                

Through Kiley's Run. 

On either side the herbage smiles, 

But wretched trav'lling sheep must pass 

Without a drink or blade of grass 

Thro' that long lane of death and shame: 

The weary drovers curse the name                

Of Kiley's Run. 

The name itself is changed of late                

Of Kiley's Run. 

They call it `Chandos Park Estate'. 

The lonely swagman through the dark 

Must hump his swag past Chandos Park. 

The name is English, don't you see, 

The old name sweeter sounds to me                

Of `Kiley's Run'. 

I cannot guess what fate will bring                

To Kiley's Run – 

For chances come and changes ring – 

I scarcely think 'twill always be 

Locked up to suit an absentee; 

And if he lets it out in farms 

His tenants soon will carry arms                

On Kiley's Run.

The Bulletin, 20 December 1890.

 Under the Shadow of Kiley’s Hill

This is the place where they all were bred;

Some of the rafters are standing still;

Now they are scattered and lost and dead,

Every one from the old nest fled,

Out of the shadow of Kiley's Hill.

Better it is that they ne'er came back —

Changes and chances are quickly rung;

Now the old homestead is gone to rack,

Green is the grass on the well-worn track

Down by the gate where the roses clung.

Gone is the garden they kept with care;

Left to decay at its own sweet will,

Fruit trees and flower beds eaten bare,

Cattle and sheep where the roses were,

Under the shadow of Kiley's Hill.

Where are the children that throve and grew

In the old homestead in days gone by?

One is away on the far Barcoo

Watching his cattle the long year through,

Watching them starve in the droughts and die.

One in the town where all cares are rife,

Weary with troubles that cramp and kill,

Fain would be done with the restless strife,

Fain would go back to the old bush life,

Back to the shadow of Kiley's Hill.

One is away on the roving quest,

Seeking his share of the golden spoil,

Out in the wastes of the trackless west,

Wandering ever he gives the best

Of his years and strength to the hopeless toil.

What of the parents? That unkept mound

Shows where they slumber united still;

Rough is their grave, but they sleep as sound

Out on the range as on holy ground,

Under the shadow of Kiley's Hill.

The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses 1895