My sincere apolligies to Andrew Barton ‘Banjo’ Paterson
The Man from over the River THERE was movement at the starting gates, for the word had passed around
That the bolts from old red Regret had rusted away,
And had joined the wild bush hashers — it was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the paddock overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush bashers are,
And the Zooki’s snuff the battle with delight.
There was Bill, who made his pile when his new Mrs beat him up,
The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up—
He would go wherever bike or beer could go.
And Oldfart of the Brisbane crew came down to lend a hand,
No better rider ever held the bars;
For never bike could throw him while the shock absorbers would stand,
He learnt to ride while perving on sheep in some far off foreign land.
And one was there, a stripling on a small and yellow beast,
He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of RM ponies—three parts TM at least—
And such as are by Zooki riders prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry—just the sort that won’t say die—
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.
But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
And the old man said, “That bike will never do
For a long and tiring lap—lad, you’d better stop away,
Those berms are far too rough for such as you.”
So he waited sad and wistful—only oldfart stood his friend —
“I think we ought to let him ride,” he said;
“I warrant he’ll be with us when he’s wanted at the end,
For both his bike and he are Queensland bred.
“He hails from Brisneyland, up by the Dayboro’s side,
Where the swamps are twice as deep and tracks twice as rough,
Where a Zooki’s rims strike firelight from the two strokes every stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Dayboro riders on the mountains make their home,
Where the Brisbane river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many riders since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such riders have I seen.”
So he went — they found the bikes by the big petrol pump —
They raced away towards the mountain’s brow,
And the old man gave his orders, ‘Boys, go at them from the jump,
No use to try for nancy honda riding now.
And, Oldfart, you must 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 Oldfart rode to wheel them—he was racing on the wing
Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his Zooki past them, and he made the ranges ring
With the flaggy, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the right wrist,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the roost with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.
Then fast the zooki riders followed, where the gorges deep and black
Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the chambers woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
From mud and roost that flew overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild boys held their way,
Where both berms and mountain girls 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 oldfart 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 mud holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from over the River let the TM have its head,
And he swung the twist grip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced it down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.
He sent the flint stones flying, but the TM kept its feet,
He cleared the fallen riders in his stride,
And the man from over the River never shifted in his seat—
It was grand to see that Zooki rider ride.
Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the brake lever till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.
He was right among the riders as they climbed the further hill,
And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the throttle fiercely, he was right among them still,
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, when he dropped a bloody gear, but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild boys racing yet,
With the man from over the River at their heels.
And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.
He followed like a bloodhound on the track,
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,
And alone and unassisted led them back.
But his hardy TM Zooki could scarcely raise a trot,
It was mud from arse to breakfast time from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
For never yet was Suzuki a cur.
And down by Dayboro mountain, 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 valves sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from over the River is a household word to-day,
And the Zooki riders tell the story of his ride.
