Loadstar 128 40/q40.d81/t.snowy river

Text File | 2022-08-28 | 13KB | 255 lines

              T H E   M A N   F R O M   S N O W Y   R I V E R

                        A Tribute by Gordon Turrall
              and the Rochedale State School, Fifth Year Class

            geoPaint picture of Banjo Paterson by Gordon Turrall

               Bio of Andrew Barton "Banjo" Paterson from the
               Rochedale School's Fifth Year Class' web site


 FENDER'S PREMUMBLE: Peter Hunt, a geophile from downunder, sent me some
disks a few years back with some excellent Geos artwork and programs
written by fellow Geos fans from Australia, particularly Gordon Turrall of
Warriewood, New South Wales. I forgot all about the disks until recently
and was very pleasantly surprised to find a classic poem, The Man From
Snowy River, and a geoPaint portrait of the poet, Andrew Barton "Banjo"
Paterson. The poem was in four geoPaint documents totalling around 200
blocks so I retyped it into normal PETASCII text for this article. Then I
searched the web for information about Paterson -- I couldn't find him in
an encyclopedia -- and found a very good web page by some Australian 5th-
year students. For various reasons, I packed the geoPaint portrait with
WRAPTOR V3 so you will need to run WRAPTOR V3 (a 64-mode program on Side
Two of the 1541 version of this issue) and unpack "banjo.wr3" into a 32-
block USR file, ready to be viewed with geoPaint or Geoviewer. This is some
good stuff, and Gordon, Banjo, Peter and everyone from downunder should be
quite proud. Now I want to go out and rent the video, The Man From Snowy
River. Paterson's poem makes you feel as if you are right in the middle of
turbulent action that probably nevers happens in today's civilized world.
In my opinion, Banjo Paterson and his North American counterpart, Robert
Service, wrote REAL poetry, the kind you don't see much of anymore...and
that's too bad. Take it away, Banjo!


                          THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER

                  by Andrew Barton "Banjo" Paterson, 1899

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 man and horse 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 wist-ful -- only Clancy stood by 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 flintstones 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;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen."

So he went; they found the horses by the big mimosa clump,
They raced away towards the mountain's brow,
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,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills."

So Clancy rode to wheel them -- he was racing on the wing
Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stock-horse then, and made the ranges ring
With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
They halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.

Then fast 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;
And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good day,
No man can hold them down the other side."

When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull --
It might well 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 his seat --
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound
At the bottom of that terrible descent.

He was right among the horses as they climbed the farther hill,
And the watchers on the mountain, standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely; he was right among them still,
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
In the ranges -- But a final glimpse reveals,
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,
With the man from Snowy River at their heels.

And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam;
He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted, cowed and beaten; then he turned their heads for home,
And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
For never yet was mountain horse a cur.

And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around the Overflow the reed-beds sweep and sway
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.

                                  The End


 ANDREW BARTON "BANJO" PATERSON
 ------------------------------

    The following bio of Andrew Barton Paterson is taken from Rochedale
State School Year 5's A. B. Paterson web site, maintained and created by
Glenda Crew.

    Andrew Barton Paterson was born on 17 February, 1864, at Narambla in
New South Wales. When he was five, his family moved to Illalong, where he
went to Binalong Primary, a bush school. In 1874 his parents sent him to
Gladesville to live with his grandmother, where he finished