All the riding gear is rusty,
all the girths and straps are dusty,
and the saddle's old and mouldy where it's hanging on the wall,
while the stock whip and the bridle on their pegs are hanging idle,
and old Boko comes no longer to the slip rails when I call.
No,
because his bones are lying where I lay beneath him dying,
when the game old stock horse blundered
at the jump and broke his neck,
and I got a woeful smashing when the poor old fella,
crashing through the timber,
crushed me under to a bruised and sightless wreck.
Or with his single eye to guide him,
very few could live beside him,
although he was no thoroughbred,
but just a poor old grass-fed
moke,
and we held the reputation,
crack scrub dashers on the station,
you could track us
through the mulga by the timber that we broke.
And the day we got the buster was just after
bang tail muster.
I had asked the super's daughter to become head stockman's wife.
She had answered,
I am ready,
if you'll promise to be steady,
if you'll give up drink and
fighting Jack,
and lead a decent life.
And from that our quarrel started.
Both grew angry
and we parted,
and that night I started drinking at the shanty on the flat,
where the old pig
grog is sneaky,
and the next day,
all wild and shaky,
I rode over to a picnic that I
knew she would be at.
She was there,
all mirth and gladness,
but I masked my sullen
madness,
held aloof,
and would not see the sorrow growing in her eyes.
All around were
gay and busy,
but my brain was hot and dizzy,
when an old man kangaroo went bounding past
across the rise.
Spurs and bits and stirrups jingled,
shouts and glad confusion mingled,
while we urged the dogs and horses,
fresh and eager for the fray,
horses too with plenty
breeding, but the old bush nag was leading.
Once we left the open country, Boko showed
them all the way.
Dead box rise and Sheo hollow taxed their horsemanship to follow.
At the
old marsupial fence I had them pounding at their top.
Half insane and wild with liquor,
still I led and urged them quicker,
though the rest were pulling up and some were calling
out to stop.
It was only reckless fleshness,
only harebrained drunken rashness.
I looked
back and laughed to see them drawing rain away behind.
Then I turned and spurred him
to it,
but he struck
and toppled through it.
When they dragged me from beneath him,
he was dead and I was blind.
When I woke to know my blindness,
then I woke to know her
kindness,
for she stood beside my bed and bandaged up my shattered brow,
whispering,
oh let me help to bear it.
I was wrong and I will share it.
Won't you
have me,
for I love you just as much as ever now.
And she would have shared my
sorrow through this night that has no morrow,
but I loved her far too well to let her be
a cripple's bride.
And at times when I'm able just to ramble to the stable where I
sit and dream of Boko and of many a merry ride,
I can hear her children playing.
I can
hear the horses neighing.
I can hear the stock whips cracking when the cattle reach the yard.
Oh, but my sightless eyes may glisten.
All the world is one dark prison,
and the gates
to light and gladness shall be nevermore unbarred.
For the riding gear is rusty and the racing tackle musty,
and though Boko's bones are
bleaching,
there are colts upon the plain,
fiery colts just fit for breaking.
But my heart is sadly aching,
for I know that I will never ride,
nor show the way again.