"The Ride from the Wreck," "How we beat the Favourite," and the "Sick Stockrider." As the latter is considered the finest of Gordon's compositions we make no apology for quoting it here:—
"Hold hard, Ned! lift me down once more, and lay me in the shade.
Old man, you've had your work cut out to guide
Both horses, and to hold me in the saddle when I swayed
All through the hot, slow, sleepy, silent ride.
The dawn at 'Moorabinda' was a mist rack dull and dense,
The sunrise was a sullen sluggish lamp;
I was dozing in the gateway at Arbuthnot's boundary fence,
I was dreaming on the Limestone cattle camp.
We crossed the creek at Carricksford, and sharply through the haze.
Quite suddenly the sun shot flaming forth;
To southward lay 'Katâwa' with the sandpeaks all ablaze
And the flushed fields of Glen Lomond lay to north.
Now westward winds the bridle path that leads to Lindisfarm,
And yonder looms the double-headed Bluff;
From the far side of the first hill, when the skies are clear and calm.
You can see Sylvester's woolshed fair enough.
Five miles we used to call it from our homestead to the place
Where the big tree spans the roadway like an arch;
'Twas here we ran the dingo down that gave us such a chase
Eight years ago—or was it nine?—last March.
'Twas merry in the glowing morn among the gleaming grass
To wander as we've wandered many a mile,
And blow the cool tobacco cloud, and watch the white wreaths pass.
Sitting loosely in the saddle all the while.
'Twas merry 'mid the blackwoods, when we spied the station roofs,
To wheel the wild scrub cattle at the yard,
With a running fire of stockwhips and a fiery run of hoofs;
O! the hardest day was never then too hard!
Aye! we had a glorious gallop after 'Starlight' and his gang,
When they bolted from Sylvester's on the flat;
How the sun-dried reed-beds crackled, ho^ the flint-strewn ranges rang
To the strokes of 'Mountaineer' and 'Acrobat!'
Hard behind them in the timber, harder still across the heath,
Close beside them through the tea-tree scrub we dashed;
