I tought nobby's comments brilliant, so while I bin in amongst the leaves once again for a few hours, I came up with some mods to one of Oz's epics. Mind you anyone can be a poet when someone else has done the hard work, in this case the someone else was a war correspondent of the boer war and the man in charge of all OZ remounts of the WW1. a superb horseman- for those interested the original can easily be found by googling his name. a sad ending and I hope not the end of the stars portrayed, i'm enjoying their company.
THERE was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
That an old sea horse had gone to heaven, broke its main stay,
And lay upon the pad a sad and sorry sight - it was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted drivers from the stations near and far
Had mustered to the bar fridge overnight,
For the bush drivers love hard flying where the wild hard flying are,
And the choppers snuff the battle with delight.
There was Nickalapos, who made his pile when old ‘76 won the cup,
The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could fly beside him when his blood was fairly up—
He would go wherever machine and man could go.
And Broussard and Kenyon came down to lend a hand,
Some say no better drivers ever held the sticks;
For no machine could throw throw them while they still could stand,
They learnt to fly in the shadow of Hannah, the best of the chix
And one was there, a sassy stripling on a small and flighty beast,
She was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of English pony—three parts thoroughbred at least—
And such as are by mountain drivers prized.
She was a whirlwind of desire—would never need a gig.
There was courage in her quick impatient tread;
A challenge of gameness and a lovely, long lithe leg,
On this mare this sassy boy, would need to keep his head.
Imabell and dandy came down to join the play with glee,
mounted on his fancy, a thoroughbred, a fast and racy mare.
Bellfest too was there, he’d seen hard riding in the Territ-tree.
Those hills are far too rough for such as you to Dare.”
Said topend who was there to be the babbling brook —
though some said at boiling water was the limit of his trade;
No doubt a bubbling stew he’ll perchance to cook,
and the ghosts and feats of old to rattle with the blades.
Kiwi Ned turned up to catch those awkward camera shots.
The young colts all champing at the bit will be reined by Heliport,
who stands beside old Shytorque as an old and timely stot,
Blender toured over with a doubler, all frisky and full of sport.
Jackson Dave brought his kit to build a bit of rotary wit,
Eacott was looking for something to fire up his light;
I have seen full many drivers since I first commenced to flit,
But nowhere yet such drivers have I seen ere so bright
Old Arm Outhe Winder and his mad mate Who Flung Dung,
Swung their whips, swore on their way down from the Cape,
‘than the Curry Merry Muster this was much more bloody fun’,
And the old man gave his orders, we’ll hit em at the nape;
No use for fancy flying, on the edge or any silly spills,
For never yet was a driver that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those Bishop Bonner hills.’
So Sassy flew to wheel them—he was flying on the wing
Where the best and boldest drivers take their place,
And he raced his good-mare past them, and he made the heavens ring
With the stockwhip, as he met those ghosts face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.
When they reached the mountain’s summit, even Flameout took a pull,
All the musterers, those western ringers, they too held their breath,
The clouds tumbled thickly and were full of hidden rocks,
Of groping trees and lightening, any slip was death.
But that Sas, son of uncle Sam, let his pony have full throttle,
And he whirled her head around and gave a mighty cheer,
And he raced her down the turbulence like a torrent down its bed,
While the others hovered and watched in very fear.
On a dim and distant horizon the wild ghosts racing yet,
With the Sas and mighty Whirls still at their heels.
And down at any station bar, where all good drivers get
with stories far and fetched, some of grief and feel,
Where the air is clear as crystal, the angels swoop and sway
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
The man who caught that old sea horse is a by-word of to-day,
And the drivers tell, of the ghost drivers in the sky