The Sick Stockrider

Hold hard, Ned! Lift me down once more, and lay me in the shade. Old man, you've had your work cut out to guide Both horses, and to hold me in the saddle when I sway'd, All through the hot, slow, sleepy, silent ride. The dawn at "Moorabinda" was a mist-rack dull and dense, The sunrise was a sullen, sombre glow, The sky was lead, the air was chill, the bushes straggling fence, The soddened flats were scarcely featuring slow. But the grey mare's head was drooping now, and it wasn't much I meant, When I promised I'd ride by your side; I only said I'd see it through; and it's pleasant to consent, But the racing was at sea, not on the land. And at sunrise we took trotting track, and trotted on the sands, And the sea was swishing up against the track; We were four in forty horses, all at standing by the stands, And I noticed you were pulling on my track. And when the flag dropped down, and we stood gazing down the line, While the horses pawed the sand with hoof and mane, And the two beside me strained their necks, and reached out straight and fine, Then it seems I heard your voice above the whirr. And you cried, "Ned, I'll race you from the track into the sea!" But I wasn't quite the racer that I was, For I broke my wrist, and heard a crash—one thing in front of me, Then a crumpled heap I lay upon the sand.