Kitty McCrae - A Galloping Rhyme

The western sun, ere he sought his lair,     Skimmd the treetops, and glancing thence,     Rested awhile on the curling hair     Of 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 gate     That opens out on the bridle-track,     A tortuous path that sidled down     From the single street of a mining town.     With her raven curls and her saucy smile,     Brown eyes that glow with a changeful light,     Tenderly trembling all the while     Like a brace of stars on the breast of night,     Where could you find in the light of day     A bonnier lassie than Kitty McCrae?     Born in the saddle, this girl could ride     Like the fearless queen of the silver bow;     And nothing that ever was lapped in hide     Could frighten Kitty McCrae, I trow.     She would wheel a mob in the hour of need     If the Devil himself were in the lead.     But now, in the shadows deepening     When the last sun-spark had ceasd to burn,     Afar she catches the sullen ring     Of horse-hoofs swinging around the turn,     Then painfully down the narrow trail     Comes Alex 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 Id rather rot in the nearest gaol     Than 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,     So they wouldnt 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 nags     I left with the coach at the Travellers Rest.     Kitty, my lass, you must take the bags     Postboy, I reckons about the best;     Tis dark, I know, but hell never fail     To take you down with the Greytown mail.     It needed no further voice to urge     This dutiful daughter to eager haste;     She donned the habit, of rough blue serge,     That hung in folds from her slender waist,     And Postboy stood by the stockyard rail,     While 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 be     Fit for a hundred miles at a push,     With the old Manaro pedigree,     By Furious Rising, out of The Bush,     Run in when a colt from a mountain mob     By Brian OFlynn and Dusty Bob.     And Postboys bosom was filled with pride     As he felt the form of his mistress sway,     In its easy grace, to his swinging stride     As he dashed along down the narrow way.     No prettier Mercury, Ill go bail,     Than Kitty ere carried a Guvnment mail.     Leaving the edge of OConnors Hill,     They merrily scattered the drops of dew     In the spanning of many a tiny rill,     Whose bubbling waters were hid from view:     In quick-step time to the curlews wail     Rode Kitty McCrae, with the Greytown mail.     Sidling the Range, by a narrow path     Where towering mountain ash-trees grow,     And a slip meant more than an icy bath     In the tumbling waters that foamed below;     Through the white fog, filling each silent vale,     Rode Kitty McCrae, with the Greytown mail.     The forest shadows became less dense,     They fairly flew down the river fall,     As out from the shade of an old brush-fence     Stepped 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 bound,     As an outlaw clung to his bridle rein,     A hoof-stroke flattened him on the ground     With 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 thought     As she bent fore the whistle of angry lead     That followd the flash and the sharp report;     But, Oh, you cowards! was all she said.     Fast as fast as the leaden hail     Kitty rode on with the Greytown mail.     Safe? ah, no, for a tiny stream     On Postboys coat left its crimson mark.     Still she rode on, but twas in a dream,     Through lands where shadows fell drear and dark,     Like a wounded sea-bird before the gale     Fled 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 slips     As down the Warrigal Flat they scud,     And just where the Redbank workings lie,     She reels and falls with a feeble cry.     The old horse slackend his racing pace     When he found the saddle his only load,     And nervously sniffed at the still, pure face     That lay upturned in the dusty road;     Like a gathered rose in the heat of day,     She droopd and faded, Kitty McCrae.     Did Postboy stay by the dead girls 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, weeps     In ceaseless sorrow above the grave     On the lush-green flat where Kitty sleeps,     Hushd by the rivers lapping wave     That ever tells to the trees the tale     Of how she rode with the Greytown mail.