Marcus Ten Low: ‘The Dead Man from Snowy River’

The Dead Man from Snowy River after A.B. “Banjo” Paterson There was clamor at the station, for the word had passed around That the colt from Old Regret had slipped away, And had joined his native horses—he’d escaped without a sound, To free himself from humans in dismay.

All those snide and snobbish riders from the stations everywhere Ate beef and ham, the cruellest of grub; Preparing to recapture that poor horse in truth or dare, Firm believing that the beast would take the rub. There was Harrison, a gambler who fluked windfalls all at once, A balding man with stray hairs white as snow; But few could ride beside him when his nerve took the offence, He dared go whenever horse would just say no. And Clancy of the Overflow came down to break his mare, He called himself a horseman in his pride; And any horse would shirk him while shaken into despair— Droving on flooded plains, he learned to ride.



A sentient lass was there, by which a stripling held her head; She was something of a creature with sad eyes, And a touch of mental madness—mostly with this, thoroughbred— And such as are, for many, undersize. But she was hard and wiry—just the sort that won’t say die— There was dignity in her impatient tread; And she bore the man ungainfully in her tempestuous eye, And the lope and bitter beauty of her head. And being so slight and weedy, the men questioned of her stay, And the old man said, “That horse will never do For a long and tiring gallop—mate, you’d better stop away, Those hills are far too rough for such as you.

But fools will go where smarter, wiser men will dare not tread, And each will meet their own specific ends.” So he waited, like he should—then foolish Clancy, in his stead, Said, “P’haps we ought to let him come, my friends— “This man’s from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko’s side, Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough, Where a horse’s legs stride dangerously on the far and wide, And the man that holds his own holds not enough. And the Snowy River riders often manage to get home, Where the crevices split giant hills between— I have seen full many horsemen felled since I commenced to roam, But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen.

” So, in saying, he went. Eventually they found the clump Of horses racing off toward the snow, And the old man barked his order, “Boys, go at them from the jump, No use to try for fancy riding now. And, Clancy, you can wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.

Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills; For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight, If once they gain the shelter of those hills.” So Clancy rode to wheel them—he was racing on the wing Where the most impetuous riders take their place, And he raced his stockhorse past them, and he made the ranges sting With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face. Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreadful lash, But they saw that snowcapped mountain full in view, And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash, And then off into the mountain dew they flew.

Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black Resounded to the thunder of their tread, And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back From cliffs and crags that teetered overhead. And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way, Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide; And the old man muttered fiercely, “We may bid the mob good day, No man can hold them down the other side.” When they reached the mountain’s summit, even Clancy took a pull— It well might make the boldest hold their breath; The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.

But the man from Snowy River let the pony have her head, And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a yell, And he raced her down the mountain like a torrent down its bed, While the others stood and watched him into hell. He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept her feet, She cleared the fallen timber in her stride, And the man from Snowy River barely shifted in his seat— It was mad to see that mountain horseman ride. Through the stringybarks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground, Back up the hill at a racing pace he went; And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound, At the highest of that terrible ascent.

He was right among the horses with them nestled on the hill, And the watchers in the valley standing mute Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still, As he raced across a clearing in pursuit. Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met In the ranges—but a final glimpse reveals On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet, With the man from Snowy River at their heels. And he ran them single-handed till their sides were flanked with snow; He followed like a bloodhound on their track, And then when all seemed like they had but nowhere else to go, In fury that small horse shook hard her back— And tossed the man from off his saddle into a ravine, And reared up on her legs in that sun’s gleam, And the Man from Snowy River could no longer then be seen— He’d fallen from great height into the stream.

And all the horses split their ways and trotted down the glen, And Clancy and the others came up next, And stared in horror when they saw what happened there and then— The blood that flowed into the stream—perplexed. The rough man’s blood and bones mixed, broken, smashed into a heap— His blood flowed deep, the sad men held their heads: The rest departed back along these red-stained paths, but steep And still so rocky, where the dusk gloom spreads. The horses that remained with man saw something great today: Salvation in the form of mad desires, For freedom rang in this adventure and its wild foray, The horses, born of what nature transpires.

Let man beware their dignity and strength, despite wherever The cruelties of man could hold their sway; For the horses of that mountainside will never just say never, But fight to get away, and see the day. And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise Their torn and rugged battlements on high, Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze At midnight in the cold and frosty sky, And where around the Overflow the reed beds sweep and sway To the breezes, and the vast plains tempt our eyes— The man from Snowy River lies dead in that place today, And survivors tell the tale of his demise. Marcus Ten Low.