At its head, where together spring two mountain rills,
When a mob of wild horses made off with a snort—
‘By thunder!’ quoth Mac, ‘there’s the Lord of the Hills!’
Decoyed from her paddock, a Murray-bred mare
Had fled to the hills with a warrigal band;
A pretty bay foal had been born to her there,
Whose veins held the very best blood in the land—
‘The Lord of the Hills,’ as the bold mountain men
Whose courage and skill he was wont to defy
Had named him: they yarded him once; but since then
He held to the saying, ‘Once bitten, twice shy.’
The scrubber, thus suddenly roused from his lair,
Made straight for the timber, with fear in his heart.
As Charlie rose up in his stirrups, the mare
Sprang forward—no need to tell Empress to start:
She lay to the chase just as soon as she felt
Her rider’s skilled touch, light, yet firm, on the rein.
Stride for stride, lengthened wide, for the green timber belt—
The fastest half-mile ever done on the plain—
They reached the low sallee before he could wheel
The warrigal mob: up they dashed with a stir
Of low branches and undergrowth—Charlie could feel
His mare catch her breath on the side of the spur
That steeply slopes up till it meets the bald cone.
