There was movement at the station for the word had passed around that the colt from old regret had got awayAnd had joined the wild bush horses he was worth a thousand pounds so all the cracks had gathered to the frayAll the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far had mustered at the homestead overnightFor the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are and the stock horse snuffs the battle with delightThere was Harrison who made his pile when pardon won the cup and the old man with his hair as white as snowBut few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up he would go wherever horse or man could goAnd Clancy of the overflow came down to lenda hand no better horseman ever held the reins for never horse could throw him while the saddlegirths would stand and he learned to ride while droving on the plains and one was there a striplingon a small and weedy beast he was something like a racehorse undersized with a touch of time or ponythree parts thoroughbred at least and such as are by mountain horsemen prizedHe was hard and tough and wiry just the sort that won't say die there was courage in his quick impatient treadAnd he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye and the proud and lofty carriage of his headBut still so slight and weedy one would doubt his power to stay and the old man said that horse will never doFor a long and tiring gallop lad you'd better stop awayThose hills are far too rough for such as youSo he waited sad and wistful only Clancy stood his friend oh I think we ought to let him come he saidAnd I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end for both his horse and he a mountain bredOh he hails from snowy river up by Kosciuszko side where the hills are twice as steep and twice as roughWhere a horse is who strike by light from the thin stones every strideAnd the man that holds his own is good enoughAnd the snowy river riders on the mountains make their homeWhere the river runs those giant hills betweenI have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roamBut no way yet such horsemen have I seenSo he wentThey found the horsesBy the big mimosa clumpThey raced away towards the mountain's browAnd the old man gave his ordersBoys, go at them from the jumpNo use to try for fancy riding nowAnd Clancy, you must wheel themTry and wheel them to the rightAnd ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spillsFor never yet was RyderThat could keep that mob in sightIf once they'd gained the shelter of those hillsSo Clancy rode to wheel themHe was racing on the wingWhere the best and boldest riders take their placeAnd he raced his stock horse past themAnd he made the rangers ringWith his stock whip as he met them face to faceThen they halted for a momentWhile he swung the dreaded lashBut they saw their well-beloved mountain full in viewAnd they charged beneath the stock whipWith a sharp and sudden dashAnd off into the mountain scrub they flewThen past the horsemen followedWhere the gorges deep and blackResounded to the thunder of their treadAnd the stock whips woke the echoesAnd they fiercely answered backFrom cliffs and crags that beetled overheadAnd upward ever, upward the wild horses heldTheir horses to the groundAway where Currajong and Mountain Ash grew wideAnd the old man muttered fiercelyWe may bid them off g'dayNo man could hold them down the other sideWhen they reached the mountain summitEven Clancy took a pullIt well might make the boldest hold their breathThe wild hop scrub grew thicklyAnd the hidden ground was fullOf wombat holes and any slip was deathBut the old man muttered fiercelyThat the man from Snowy RiverLet the pony have his headAnd he swung his stock whip roundAnd gave a cheerAnd he raised him down the mountainLike a torrent down its bedWhile the others stood and watched in very fearHe sent the flintstones flyingBut the pony kept his feetOh he cleared the fallen timber in his strideAnd the man from Snowy RiverNever shifted in his seatIt was grand a sightTo see that mountain horseman rideThrough the stringy barks and saplingsOn the rough and broken groundDown the hillside at a racing pace he wentAnd he never drew the bridleTill he landed safe and soundAt the bottom of the terrible descentHe was right among the horsesAs they climbed the farther hillAnd the watchers on the mountain standing muteSaw him climb the hill and the watchers on the mountain standing muteAnd he was right among them stillAs he raced across the clearing in pursuitThen they lost him for a momentWhere two mountain gullies metIn the rangers' oh-but-a-final glimpse revealsOn a *** and distant hillsideThe wild horses racing yetWith the man from Snowy River at their heelsAnd he ran them single-handedTill their sides were white with foamFollowed like a bloodhound on their trackTill they halted cowed and beatenThen he turned their heads for homeAnd a lone ant and a sister brought them backBut his hardy mountain ponyHe could scarcely raise a trotHe was blood from hip to shoulder from the spurBut his pluck was still undauntedAnd his courage fiery hotFor never yet was mountain horse a curAnd down by KosciuszkoWhere the pine-clad ridges raiseTheir torn and rugged battlements on highWhere the air is clear as crystalAnd the white stars fairly blazeAt midnight in the cold and frosty skyAnd where around the overflowThe reedbeds sweep and swayTo the breezes and the rolling plains are wideOh, the man from Snowy RiverIs a household word todayAnd Stockman tell the story of his rideAnd Stockman tell the story of his rideAnd Stockman tell the story of his rideAnd Stockman tell the story of his rideAnd Stockman tell the story of his ride