CONROY'S GAP
This was the way of it, don't you know—
Ryan was wanted' for stealing sheep,
And never a trooper, high or low,
Could find him—catch a weasel asleep!
Till Trooper Scott, from the Stockman's Ford—
A bushman, too, as I've heard them tell—
Chanced to find him drunk as a lord
Round at the Shadow of Death Hotel.
D' you know the place ? It's a wayside inn,
A low grog-shanty—a bushman trap,
Hiding away in its shame and sin
Under the shelter of Conroy's Gap—
Under the shade of that frowning range,
The roughest crowd that ever drew breath—
Thieves and rowdies, uncouth and strange,
Were mustered round at the Shadow of Death.
