To save the bags was her only thought
As she bent to the whistle of angry lead
That followed the flash and the sharp report;
But, ‘Oh, you cowards!’ was all she said.
Fast through the storm of leaden hail
Kitty rode on with the Greytown mail.
Safe? Ah, no! for a tiny stream
On Postboy’s coat left its crimson mark.
She still rode on; but ’twas in a dream,
Through lands where shadows fell drear and dark:
Like a wounded sea-bird before the gale
Fled Kitty McCrae with the Greytown mail.
And ever the crimson life-stream drips—
For every hoof-stroke a drop of blood—
From feeble fingers the bridle slips
As down the Warrigal Flat they scud;
And just where the Redbank workings lie
She reels and falls with a feeble cry.
The old horse slackened his racing pace
When he found the saddle his only load,
And laid his nose to the pretty face
White upturned in the dusty road;
Like a gathered rose in the heat of day,
So drooped and faded Kitty McCrae.
