ON THE RANGE
On Nungar the mists of the morning hung low;
The beetle-browed hills brooded silent and black,
Not yet warmed to life by the sun’s loving glow,
As through the tall tussocks rode young Charlie Mac.
What cared he for mists at the dawning of day?
What cared he that over the valley stern Jack,
The Monarch of Frost, held his pitiless sway?
A bold mountaineer born and bred was young Mac—
A galloping son of a galloping sire—
Stiffest fence, roughest ground, never took him aback;
With his father’s cool judgment, his dash, and his fire,
The pick of Monaro rode young Charlie Mac.
And the pick of the stable the mare he bestrode—
Arab-grey, built to stay, lithe of limb, deep of chest;
Who seemed to be happy to bear such a load
As she tossed the soft forelock that curled on her crest.
They crossed Nungar Creek where its span is but short;
