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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=343998" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>In the Stable</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">What! you don't like him; well, maybe -- we all have our fancies, of course: <br>Brumby to look at, you reckon? Well, no; he's a thoroughbred horse; <br>Sired by a son of old Panic -- look at his ears and his head -- <br>Lop-eared and Roman-nosed, ain't he? -- well, that's how the Panics are bred. <br>Gluttonous, ugly and lazy, rough as a tipcart to ride, <br>Yet if you offered a sovereign apiece for the hairs on his hide <br>That wouldn't buy him, nor twice that; while I've a pound to the good, <br>This here old stager stays by me and lives like a thoroughbred should; <br>Hunt him away from his bedding, and sit yourself down by the wall, <br>Till you hear how the old fellow saved me from Gilbert, O'Meally and Hall. <br> * </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Gilbert and Hall and O'Meally, back in the bushranging days, <br>Made themselves kings of the district -- ruled it in old-fashioned ways -- <br>Robbing the coach and the escort, stealing our horses at night, <br>Calling sometimes at the homesteads and giving the women a fright: <br>Came to the station one morning (and why they did this no one knows) <br>Took a brood mare from the paddock--wanting some fun, I suppose -- <br>Fastened a bucket beneath her, hung by a strap around her flank, <br>Then turned her loose in the timber back of the seven-mile tank. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Go? She went mad! She went tearing and screaming with fear through the trees, <br>While the curst bucket beneath her was banging her flanks and her knees. <br>Bucking and racing and screaming she ran to the back of the run, <br>Killed herself there in a gully; by God, but they paid for their fun! <br>Paid for it dear, for the black-boys found tracks, and the bucket, and all, <br>And I swore that I'd live to get even with Gilbert, O'Meally and Hall. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Day after day then I chased them -- 'course they had friends on the sly, <br>Friends who were willing to sell them to those who were willing to buy. <br>Early one morning we found them in camp at the Cockatoo Farm; <br>One of us shot at O'Meally and wounded him under the arm: <br>Ran them for miles in the ranges, till Hall, with his horse fairly beat, <br>Took to the rocks and we lost him -- the others made good their retreat. <br>It was war to the knife then, I tell you, and once, on the door of my shed, <br>They nailed up a notice that offered a hundred reward for my head! <br>Then we heard they were gone from the district; they stuck up a coach in the West, <br>And I rode by myself in the paddocks, just taking a bit of a rest, <br>Riding this colt as a youngster -- awkward, half-broken and shy, <br>He wheeled round one day on a sudden; I looked, but I couldn't see why -- <br>But I soon found out why, for before me the hillside rose up like a wall, <br>And there on the top with their rifles were Gilbert, O'Meally and Hall! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Twas a good three-mile run to the homestead -- bad going, with plenty of trees -- <br>So I gathered the youngster together, and gripped at his ribs with my knees. <br>'Twas a mighty poor chance to escape them! It puts a man's nerve to the test <br>On a half-broken colt to be hunted by the best mounted men in the West. <br>But the half-broken colt was a racehorse! He lay down to work with a will. <br>Flashed through the scrub like a clean-skin-by heavens, we flew down the hill! <br>Over a twenty-foot gully he swept with the spring of a deer, <br>And they fired as we jumped, but they missed me -- a bullet sang close to my ear -- <br>And the jump gained us ground, for they shirked it: but I saw as we raced through the gap <br>That the rails at the homestead were fastened -- I was caught like a rat in a trap. <br>Fenced with barbed wire was the paddock -- barbed wire that would cut like a knife -- <br>How was a youngster to clear it that never had jumped in his life? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Bang went a rifle behind me -- the colt gave a spring, he was hit; <br>Straight at the sliprails I rode him -- I felt him take hold of the bit; <br>Never a foot to the right or the left did he swerve in his stride, <br>Awkward and frightened, but honest, the sort it's a pleasure to ride! <br>Straight at the rails, where they'd fastened barbed wire on the top of the post, <br>Rose like a stag and went over, with hardly a scratch at the most; <br>Into the homestead I darted, and snatched down my gun from the wall, <br>And I tell you I made them step lively, Gilbert, O'Meally and Hail. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yes! There's the mark of the bullet -- he's got it inside of him yet, <br>Mixed up somehow with his victuals; but, bless you, he don't seem to fret! <br>Gluttonous, ugly, and lazy -- eats anything he can bite; <br>Now, let us shut up the stable, and bid the old fellow good night. <br>Ah! we can't breed 'em, the son that were bred when we old uns were young.... <br>Yes, as I said, these bushrangers, none of 'em lived to be hung. <br>Gilbert was shot by the troopers, Hall was betrayed by his friend, <br>Campbell disposed of O'Meally, bringing the lot to an end. <br>But you can talk about riding -- I've ridden a lot in the past -- <br>Wait till there's rifles behind you, you'll know what it means to go fast! <br>I've steeplechased, raced, and &quot;run horses&quot;, but I think the most dashing of all <br>Was the ride when that old fellow saved me from Gilbert, O'Meally and Hall!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Andrew+Barton+Paterson">Andrew Barton Paterson</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=343998" data-title="In the Stable de Andrew Barton Paterson" data-description="What! you don't like him; well, maybe -- we all have our fancies, of course: 
Brumby to look at, you reckon? Well, no; he's a thoroughbred horse; 
Sired by a son of old Panic -- look at his ears and his head -- 
Lop-eared and Roman-nosed, ain't he..."></div>
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