Where floods had muddied waters once so clear
And left the giant tussocks tangled tightly in a mass,
The trooper still kept drawing on his rear.
The Murrumbidgee’s icy stream was widened out by flood:
They swam it at the willow-shaded ford:
As they passed the station buildings his long spurs were red with blood;
Sweetbriar’s heaving flanks were deeply scored.
Her stride grew more uneven, though she answered every call:
No jockey rode a better race than Jack
As he eased her up the hills and pressed her onward down the fall,
Round the sidlings of the Billylingra track.
They left O’Rourke’s behind them, where it fronts the big bald hill—
At the Flat Rock Jack was riding all he knew—
With all the dash and judgment of the famed Monaro skill,
Yet he couldn’t keep the trooper out of view:
He spied his tiny homestead as Bill Fraser gained apace
And loudly warned the fugitive to yield,
Who turned half round but saw no sign of pity in his face
As they swept across the cultivation field:
