Off the Grass

by William Henry Ogilvie

They were boasting on "The Greenhide" of their nags of fancy breed,
And stuffing them with bran and oats to run in Gumleaf Town,
But we hadn’t got a racehorse that was worth a dish of feed,
So didn’t have a "Buckley’s show" to take the boasters down.

For old Midnight was in Sydney and we couldn't get him up
In time for Gumleaf Races if it had been worth our while;
The Chorus colt was far too light to win the Gumleaf Cup,
And we didn't own a hackney that could finish out the mile.

But we couldn't watch them win it while we never had a say,
So we mustered up the horses, and we caught old Myall King;
He's as brave as ever galloped, but he’s twelve if he's a day,
And we couldn't help but chuckle at the humor of the thing.
 
But, though shaky in the shoulders, he's the daddy of them all,
He's the gamest bit of horseflesh from the Snowy to the Bree,
One of those that's never beaten, coming every time you call;
One of those you sometimes read about but very seldom see.

He's the don at every muster and the king of every camp;
He's the lad to stop the pikers when they take you on the rush;
And he loves the merry rattle of the stockwhip and the tramp
Of the cockhorned mulga scrubbers when they're breaking in the brush.

He can foot the "Greenhide" brumbies if they take a mile of start,
And if they get him winded in a gallop on the plain
He's as game as any lion, and he carries such a heart
You can never say he's beaten, for he'll always come again!
  
So we put up Jack the Stockman with his ten pounds overweight,
And he lengthened out the leathers half-a-foot and gave a smile:
"I don't suppose you'll see us when they're fairly in the straight,
But we'll make the beggars travel, take my oath, for half-a-mile!"

And they started, and the old horse jumped away a length in front,
And every post they came to gave the brown a longer lead
Till it seemed that there was nothing else but Myall in the hunt,
With his load of station honor and his weight of mulga feed!
  
Then the bay mare Bogan Lily started out to cut him down;
She had travelled out five hundred miles to win the Gumleaf Cup,
And she couldn't well get beaten by a hack in Gumleaf Town,
When she had to pay expenses for her owner's journey up.

So she started out to catch the old brown camp-horse from the Bush,
And a furlong from the finish she could nose his rider's knee,
Then you should have heard the shouting of the Bogan Lily push,
And the flinging of their hats up was a sight for you to see!

But old Myall King had often been as nearly beat before,
And he steadied off a little while the mare shot out ahead,
Then he shook his ears and gripped the bit—you should have heard us roar
As he came at Bogan Lily with his flanks a streak of red!
  
And the little bay mare, beaten, gave him best and threw it up,
And we heard her rider murmur as he saw the brown horse pass
And Jack the Stockman drop his hands and win the Gumleaf Cup—
"Beat by a cripple of a camp-horse, off the grass!"

Then we led him in a winner, and they cheered him from the stand,
With the black sweat running channels from his forearm to his foot,
And the white foam on his shoulder till you couldn’t see the brand,
And the crimson bloodstains scattered over spur and flank and boot.

So we carried off the honors of the meeting—and the notes;
And the men on Greenhide River, when they see our fellows pass,
Will tell you this in whispers, "You can train your nags on oats,
But be careful when you’re racing those d—d scrubbers off the grass!"