Leaving the slope of O’Connor’s Hill,
They merrily scattered the drops of dew
In the spanning of many a tiny rill
Whose bubbling waters were hid from view:
In quick-beat time to the curlew’s wail
Rode Kitty McCrae, with the Greytown mail.
Sidling the Range by a narrow path
Where towering mountain-ash trees grow,
And a slip meant more than an icy bath
In the tumbling waters that foamed below;
Through the white fog filling each silent vale
Rode Kitty McCrae with the Greytown mail.
The forest shadows became less dense:
They fairly flew down the river fall:
When out from the shade of an old brush-fence
Stepped three armed men with a sudden call.
Sharp and stern came the well-known hail:
‘Stand! for we want the Greytown mail!’
Postboy swerved with a mighty bound
As an outlaw clung to his bridle rein:
A hoof-stroke flattened him to the ground
With a curse that was half a cry of pain;
While Kitty, trembling and rather pale,
Rode for life and the Greytown mail.
