Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A BUSH LEGEND, by MARIE E. J. PITT


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A BUSH LEGEND, by                    
First Line: Back in the heart of the gippsland hills
Last Line: Listens and makes no sign.
Subject(s): Death; Gold Mines & Miners; Legends; Dead, The


BACK in the heart of the Gippsland Hills
They turn from the track when the day dies down
To a thin, red streak; and a storm-fiend shrills
Like a perishing soul o'er the dark hill's crown.
For a rider goes by when the night-shades fall
And the owls and the mopokes call.

A rider goes by and a night-wind comes,
And the steadiest horse that ever was reined
Will snort at the sound in the gaunt grey gums,
And fidget and fret like a tiger chained,
And the stoutest bushman would shudder to ride
By the shadowy horseman's side.

"Whisky Bill" from the Dargo side,
On an outlaw mare they call The Elf,
Swore he would ride by the stranger's side
If the brown horse carried the devil himself,
The outlaw runs in the ranges still—
Six feet of earth hold Bill.

And several others, just at first,
Ere the terrible fame of the rider grew,
Swore they would hustle him off or burst,
But they boast no more as they used to do,
Only turn from the track with a prayer to Fate
For the stranger that rideth late.

And this is the tale that the teamsters tell,
From Tarwa down to the Frenchman's Forge,
And they'd chink their bits at the gates of Hell

Ere they'd camp for a night at the Turnback Gorge,
Where the big brown horse with the silent tread
Creeps like a ship of the dead.

Long years ago there came to the creek
The sound of toil, a discordant sound
Of stampers back by the Shepherd's Peak,
And strangers rocked in the rich red ground,
And Jack and Mick (those were all their names)
Had hit on two lucky claims.

And once, it chanced, when the year was old,
They saddled their horses and yelled with glee,
The wattles were touched with September's gold,
As they tracked to the pub for their monthly spree.
Two thirstier spirits ne'er left the scrub
To soak at a wayside pub.

And once, it chanced when the year was old,
Through glad green aisles where the drowsy bees
Droned in the wealth of September's gold,
Like the slumbrous echo of southern seas,
By the old creek workings, by heaps of loam,
A riderless horse came home.

That was all, and the news went round
(Many and strange are the tales they tell);
They searched each inch of the worked-out ground
But the sullen old bush keeps a secret well;
Mick came back from the shanty spree,
And all alone rode he.

Where was the law? What can it prove
When it comes to a brawl in a wayside pub?
The constables worked in a town-bred groove,
And sent their reports to the grey old Sub.,
And after a while it was hidden away,
Not proven—till Judgment Day.

But ever since then they turn from the track,
Ere the last faint flicker of day dies down,
And Night, like a vampire, sits large and black,
Where the last beam died on the dark hill's crown.
And the night-wind shrieks like a ghost of remorse
Through the empty watercourse.

And up in the bend of the wayback stream
That goes by the title of Hermit's Creek,
Plying his dish in a waking dream
A waif of humanity called "The Freak"
Hears now and then of their tales malign,
Listens and makes no sign.





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