Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE DEATH OF PETER CLARK, by HUBERT H. PARRY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE DEATH OF PETER CLARK, by                    
First Line: The sun was blazing fiercely on the cracked and dusty plain
Last Line: And horses groan and labour, as the teamster rides beside.
Alternate Author Name(s): Barwon
Subject(s): Crime & Criminals; Death; Travel; Dead, The; Journeys; Trips


THE sun was blazing fiercely on the cracked and dusty plain
As Peter Clark the drover rode toward his home again.
For weeks he'd been a-droving, where the golden sunsets glow,
Behind the lowing cattle of a trail-herd moving slow.

With stockwhip ringing loudly as the breaking steer he wheeled
And curses shouted fiercely at the yapping dogs that heeled,
He'd taken cattle safely from his Lower Hunter home,
To where the Namoi River waters fields of reddened loam.

He rode with one companion, just a lad of fifteen years;
A gamer little stockman never cracked a whip at steers;
For when the herd was fractious or it broke in wild stampede
He'd ride to wheel the leaders and the danger never heed.
The lad could sit an outlaw, till the "sky was underneath",
Whose eyes would roll and whiten as it bared the wicked teeth.
While saddle-girths were creaking with the sudden reefs and strains,
He'd sink the spur-rowels deeply as he loosed the foam-flecked reins.

The drovers rode in silence to the distant range of blue,
Where rise the giant Murrulla and the towering Tinagroo
In solitary grandeur, mighty monarchs of the range
That reign, their might unchallenged, o'er a kingdom wild and strange.
Like sentinels that guard the plains their rugged summits rise
Against the dim horizon, as in challenge to the skies;
And o'er the mighty gorges with a misty mantle hung
The soaring eagle circles o'er her unmolested young.

As on the drovers travelled through the lazy afternoon
The youngster's heart was happy and he gaily hummed a tune;
But Clark was grim and silent, as the horse he loved to ride
Moved on toward the ranges with a long and springy stride;
For early in the morning when they paused their mounts to change,
A squad of mounted troopers coming back from Warland's Range
Had said that dreaded Wilson, just a day or two before,
Had swooped and robbed the mail-coach of the golden freight it bore.

They warned the elder drover, but his laugh was cold and strange,
For well he knew, that evening, they must camp on Warland's Range.
As, winding up, the roadway passed where range and foothill met,
The drover knew they'd reach the spot just as the sun was set;
But loudly had he boasted that they'd camp on yonder hill:
No man in all the country could his heart with terror fill.
He'd camp in spite of Wilson, when the evening sun was low
And o'er the gloomy ranges cast its last departing glow.

The troopers had not argued, for they knew the drover well,
And knew he'd never waver at a devil straight from hell—
As tough and game a fighter as the country ever knew,
He'd fought on every stock-route from the coast to the Barcoo,

And never man could stop him when across the overland
He rode behind the cattle with that burnt and hardy band,
When drovers had to battle for the starving stock to pass
And squatters fought to keep them from the brown and dying grass.

They reached the camp as darkness cast her shadows o'er the ground
And soon the weary horses grazed contented close around.
The drovers by the fireside sat and drank their billy tea,
While round about the hobble-chains were clinking cheerily.
They talked of home and people, as the gentle evening breeze
Would waft the smoke in spirals through the branches of the trees,
Till, tired, they sought the solace of the peaceful land of sleep,
And never dreamed that danger through the silent night would creep.

But through the inky darkness came a sharp and stern command;
The drovers from their blankets were compelled to rise and stand—
Each man to face the shadow with his hands above his head;
One move, the man informed them, and he'd riddle them with lead.
But Clark was calm and silent, as the outlaw came in sight;
His thoughts were fast revolving, for he meant to rush and fight;
And as the dreaded Wilson sought the plucky drover's gold,
He sprang with arms extended seeking for a fatal hold.

A gunshot stabbed the darkness with a crimson jet of flame,
The wounded drover staggered, but he came on just the same,
And closed upon the outlaw with a grip of tempered steel;
His blood was flowing freely, but the wound he did not feel.
He strained and wrestled fiercely, as he fought to gain a holt
Upon the arm of Wilson and the hand that held the "Colt".
But in the deadly struggle, fate must play a leading part—
The gun, again exploding, shot the drover through the heart.

The drover fell, but falling, threw his powerful arms around
The body of the outlaw, as they crashed upon the ground;
And thus the plucky drover drew a last and fleeting breath,
With Wilson locked unconscious in the mighty grip of death.
The youngster, dumb with terror, as the two had fought and strained,
Had watched the battle, helpless, but his mind he now regained;
And rushing to his saddle for a length of green-hide rope
He bound the two together where they lay upon the slope,

Then, mounting quickly, galloped through the darkness of the night
To tell the mounted troopers of the drover's fatal fight.
With hoof-beats ringing loudly as the spur at every stride
Left blood from flank to shoulder on the sweating horse's side,

He brought the racing troopers, till the light of breaking day
Revealed the bloody camp-site, where in death the drover lay,
Wrapped sound in sleep eternal with his days of droving o'er,
Still tightly locked with Wilson, who would scourge the range no more.

And o'er the saddened country spread the tidings far and wide;
The mountain breezes mourning through the wattle blossom sighed;
But on the Lower Hunter, where the swaying willows sweep,
A someone's heart was bleeding for a drover wrapped in sleep.
Through Wingen, Scone and Blanford spread the story of the death,
And far away to westward, where the summer's scorching breath
The dying herbage withers, where the rolling plains are wide,
And horses groan and labour, as the teamster rides beside.





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