The Guy Fawkes Heritage Horse Association Inc.

There was movement at the station, 

for the word had passed around

That the colt from old Regret

 had got away,

And had joined the wild bush horses 

— he was worth a thousand pound,

So all the cracks had gathered 

to the fray.

All the tried and noted riders from the 

stations near and far

Had mustered at the homestead overnight,

For the bushmen love hard riding where 

the wild bush horses are,

And the stock-horse snuffs the 

battle with delight.

There was Harrison, who made his pile

 when Pardon won the cup,

The old man with his hair as 

white as snow;

But few could ride beside him when

 his blood was fairly up

He would go wherever horse 

and man could go.

And Clancy of the Overflow 

came down to lend a hand,

No better horseman ever held the reins;

For never horse could throw him 

while the saddle-girths would stand

He learnt to ride while droving 

on the plains.

And one was there, a stripling on a small 

and weedy beast;

He was something like

 a racehorse undersized,

With a touch of Timor pony—

three parts thoroughbred at least

And such as are by mountain 

horsemen prized.

He was hard and tough and wiry—

just the sort that won't say die

There was courage in his 

quick impatient tread;

And he bore the badge of gameness in 

his bright and fiery eye,

And the proud and lofty

 carriage of his head.

But still so slight and weedy, 

one would doubt his power to stay,

And the old man said,

 "That horse will never do

For a long and tiring gallop—

lad, you'd better stop away,

Those hills are far too rough

 for such as you."

So he waited, sad and wistful—

only Clancy stood his friend

"I think we ought to let him come," 

he said;

"I warrant he'll be with us when 

he's wanted at the end,

For both his horse and he are

 mountain bred.

"He hails from Snowy River, 

up by Kosciusko's side,

Where the hills are twice as steep

 and twice as rough;

Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from 

the flint stones every stride,

The man that holds his own

 is good enough.

And the Snowy River riders on the 

mountains make their home,

Where the river runs those giant 

hills between;

And the old man gave his orders,

 "Boys, go at them from the jump,

No use to try for fancy riding now.

And, Clancy, you must wheel them,

 try and wheel them to the right.

Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,

For never yet was rider that could

 keep the mob in sight,

With the stockwhip, as he met

 them face to face.

And off into the mountain scrub they flew.

Then fast the horsemen followed, 

where the gorges deep and black

Resounded to the thunder of their tread,

And the stockwhips woke the echoes, 

and they fiercely answered back

From cliffs and crags that 

beetled overhead.

And upward, ever upward, 

the wild horses held their way,

Where mountain ash and 

kurrajong grew wide;

It well might make the boldest 

hold their breath;

The wild hop scrub grew thickly,

 and the hidden ground was full

Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.

But the man from Snowy River 

let the pony have his head,

And he swung his stockwhip round 

and gave a cheer,

And he raced him down the mountain 

like a torrent down its bed,

While the others stood and watched

 in very fear.

He sent the flint-stones flying, but the 

pony kept his feet,

He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,

And the man from Snowy River never

 shifted in his seat

It was grand to see that mountain

 horseman ride.

At the bottom of that terrible descent.

Till they halted cowed and beaten;

 then he turned their heads for home,

And alone and unassisted brought them back.

To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,

The Man from Snowy River is 

a household word today,

And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.