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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=403158" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Who's Riding Old Harlequin Now?</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">They are mustering cattle on Brigalow Vale<br> Where the stock-horses whinny and stamp,<br>And where long Andy Ferguson, you may go bail,<br> Is yet boss on a cutting-out camp.<br>Half the duffers I met would not know a fat steer<br> From a blessed old Alderney cow.<br>Whilst they're mustering there I am wondering here -<br> Who is riding brown Harlequin now?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Are the pikers as wild and the scrubs just as dense<br> In the brigalow country as when<br>There was never a homestead and never a fence<br> Between Brigalow Vale and The Glen?<br>Do they yard the big micks 'neath the light of the moon?<br> Do the yard-wings re-echo the row<br>Of stockwhips and hoof-beats? And what sort of coon<br> Is there riding old Harlequin now?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There was buckjumping blood in the brown gelding's veins,<br> But, lean-headed, with iron-like pins,<br>Of Pyrrhus and Panic he'd plentiful strains,<br> All their virtues, and some of their sins.<br>'Twas the pity, some said, that so shapely a colt<br> Fate should with such temper endow;<br>He would kick and would strike, he would buck and would bolt -<br> Ah! who's riding brown Harlequin now?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A demon to handle! a devil to ride!<br> Small wonder the surcingle burst;<br>You'd have thought that he'd buck himself out of his hide<br> On the morning we saddled him first.<br>I can mind how he cow-kicked the spur on my boot,<br> And though that's long ago, still I vow<br>If they're wheeling a piker no new-chum galoot<br> Is a-riding old Harlequin now!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I remember the boss - how he chuckled and laughed<br> When they yarded the brown colt for me:<br>&quot;He'll be steady enough when we finish the graft<br> And have cleaned up the scrubs of Glen Leigh!'<br>I am wondering today if the brown horse yet live,<br> For the fellow who broke him, I trow,<br>A long lease of soul-ease would willingly give<br> To be riding brown Harlequin now!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Do you think you can hold him?' old Ferguson said -<br> He was mounted on Homet, the grey;<br>I think Harlequin heard him - he shook his lean head,<br> And he needed no holding that day.<br>Not a prick from a spur, nor a sting from a whip<br> As he raced among deadwood and bough<br>While I sat fairly quiet and just let him rip -<br> But who's riding old Harlequin now?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I could hear 'em a-crashing the gidgee in front<br> As the Bryan colt streaked to the lead<br>Whilst the boss and the niggers were out of the hunt.<br> For their horses lacked Harlequin's speed;<br>The pikers were yarded and skies growing dim<br> When old Fergie was fain to allow:<br>'The colt's track through the scrub was a knocker' to him -<br> But who's riding brown Harlequin now?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">From starlight to starlight - all day in between<br> The foam-flakes might fly from his bit,<br>But whatever the pace of the day's work had been,<br> The brown gelding was eager and fit.<br>On the packhorse's back they are fixing a load<br> Where the path climbs the hill's gloomy brow;<br>They are mustering bullocks to send on the road,<br> But - who's riding old Harlequin now?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Harry+%27Breaker%27+Harbord+Morant">Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant</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=403158" data-title="Who's Riding Old Harlequin Now? de Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant" data-description="They are mustering cattle on Brigalow Vale
 Where the stock-horses whinny and stamp,
And where long Andy Ferguson, you may go bail,
 Is yet boss on a cutting-out camp.
Half the duffers I met would not know a fat steer
 From a blessed old Alderney ..."></div>
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