Who emerged in the shade of the low muzzle-wood.
Once more did the Lord of the Hills strike a line
Up the side of the range, and once more he looked back:
So close were they now he could see the sun shine
In the bold grey eyes flashing of young Charlie Mac.
He saw little Empress stretched out like a hound
On the trail of its quarry, the pick of the pack,
With ne’er-tiring stride; and his heart gave a bound
As he saw the lithe stockwhip of young Charlie Mac
Showing snaky and black on the neck of the mare,
In three hanging coils, with a turn round the wrist;
And he heartily wished himself back in his lair
’Mid the tall tussocks beaded with chill morning mist;
While he fancied the straight mountain ash trees, the gums
And the wattles, all mocked him and whispered, ‘You lack
The speed to avert cruel capture that comes
To the warrigal fancied by young Charlie Mac;
For he’ll yard you, and rope you, and then you’ll be stuck
In the crush, while his saddle is girthed to your back;
Then out in the open, and there you may buck
Till you break your bold heart, but you’ll never throw Mac!’
The Lord of the Hills at the thought felt a sweat
Break over the smooth summer gloss of his hide:
