Jack Corrigan

"It's my shout this time, boys, so come along and
                 breast the bar,
And kindly mention what you're going to take;
I don't feel extra thirsty, so I'll sample that
“three-star”-
Now, lad! come, look alive, for goodness sake."
So spake he, as he raised the brimming glass towards
                 the light;
So spake “Long Jack,” the boldest mountaineer
Who ever down from Nungar raced a “brumby” mob
                 in flight,
Or laid a stockwhip on a stubborn steer.
From Jindabyne to Providence along the Eucumbene
The kindest-hearted fellow to be found;
And when he crossed the saddle not a horse was ever
                 seen
That could make Jack quit his hold to seek the
                 ground.
The women smiled with pleasure, the children laughed
                 aloud,
The very dogs came barking at his feet,
While outside the “Squatter's Arms” the men came
                 forward in a crowd
To welcome Jack when he rode up the street.

But though the boldest horseman who by midnight
                 or by day
E'er held a mob of cattle on a camp,
There were squatters on Monaro, who had yet been
                 known to say
That Jack was an unmitigated scamp.
And true it is Jack Corrigan possessed a serious fault
Which caused his gentle, blue-eyed wife much grief,
And many were the bitter tears she mingled with the
                 salt
With which she cured their neighbours' tend'rest beef.
And often would she tearful take her smiling spouse
                 to task,
Who'd answer, as her pretty face he kissed,
That a beast lost all identity when pickled in the
                 cask,
And a bullock more or less would ne'er be missed.

But now as Jack stood all prepared to toss his
                 nobbler down,
A softly-murmured whisper met his ear -
"I just saw Trooper Fraser get a warrant up the town,
He's after you, old man: you'd better clear!"
Jack never thanked the donor of this excellent advice,
As the glass fell through his fingers with a crash.
With a bound across the footpath, he was mounted
                 in a trice
And speeding down the roadway like a flash,
While Trooper William Fraser wore a very gloomy face,
As he watched his prey go flying down the road.
But he settled in the saddle and prepared to give him
                 chase,
As Jack struck out a line for his abode.

On the road toward the Show Ground, then, there
                 hung a big swing-gate,
Jack's filly cleared its bars in glorious style,
But he held her well together, for he knew the
                 trooper's weight
Would give him distance in each mile;
For Jack rode twelve stone fully, while Bill Fraser
                 rode but nine,
Sweetbriar's strength must surely soon be spent,
Being grass-fed, while the trooper's chestnut horse
                 could always dine
Off oats and barley to his heart's content.
And all aloud Jack cursed the day he'd ever killed a
                 beast
Or branded calf he couldn't call his own,
While the hoof-strokes on the road beat out a song
                 that never ceased
To echo in his ears with mocking tone.

"Three years in gaol, in gaol three years," the
                 jeering echoes sang;
The granite boulders caught the wild refrain.
"A broken life, a weeping wife," 'twas thus the
                 rhythm rang,
"And a baby boy you'll never see again" –

He groaned, and then, to dull the sound, spoke
                 loudly to the mare,
And bade her never slacken in her speed.
"For God's sake take me home, lass, with a little
                 time to spare;
Five minutes, at the most, is all I need -
Just time to catch old Dandy, where he's munching
                 second growth
Of hay; just time to leap upon his back,
And then the smartest trap who ever swore a
                 lying oath
Could never foot me down the River track."

Sweetbriar pricked her ears, and shook a foam flake
                 from her bit,
As she heard his words, and doubtless caught their
                 sense,
And the rotten granite pebbles rattled round her as
                 she lit
On the homeward side the Rosedale bound'ry fence –

As they scrambled round by Locker's-Hill, Jack
                 Corrigan looked round,
And as he looked was filled with stern delight,
For he saw the baldfaced chest