It was cold this morning early as I rose up to begin,
And a southerly was blowing as I ran horses in ;
All the boughs were wet and chilly with the rain of yesternight,
But the nags were in the paddock, and I warded them alright.
I have got old Toprail saddled, but we have some time to wait ;
For the blacksoil roads are heavy, and the Brolga coach is late.
Here she comes, now (How the blacksoil clings to those big wheels of her's),
Heavy-laden, with the driver and the mails and passengers
From the north, Four straining horses, weary from the heavy trip
Twenty miles, and mostly blacksoil—under-neath a tireless whip.
But they've got the big mails, sorted, out to us the bags are passed ;
Two-horse coach off to Wonga, and I find myself, at last
With the mailbag's strapped, before me on the saddle to the "d's,"
So the time has come to travel, and the well-worn rein's I seize.
Then a canter from the township (first, maybe, a farewell "nip")
To the little punt-and over, and we're off upon our trip.
Two o'clock !- it should be, nine-and fully fifty miles' to go ;
Curse the dismal blacksoil tracks the make the coaches travel slow
But the journey must be covered, many an anxious one awaits
For the letters and the papers at the boxes. and the gates.
Fretful musing and complaining will not help one's work along,
And, no doubt, it's best to whistle or to muster up a song ;
But the icy wind keeps blowing from the bleak. and sodden plain,
sometimes "aided and abetted" by a passing shower of rain;
And it's hard.'to. be contented, try your hardest though you may,
When the nag you ride's leg weary, and you're doubtful if he'll "stay."
But the, old horse hangs out gamely-seems as though he'll battle through,
And we're making decent headway, though we lost some time, it's true,
Through that cup of tea at Bridge's and another at McPhaill's,
But those acts of kindness cheer one on his journey with the mails ;
They are like stars in his darkness and cannot help but dwell,
While the old horse seems to freshen up with every little spell.
Thirty miles are covered nicely, but the night is very near,
And the heavy clouds that gather in the Heaven make you fear ;
For July nights , are not warm ones-they will chill you thro' and thro'
Making you fool far from happy when you've twenty miles to do.
Thirty miles you've ; covered nicely just ahead is Goodnight Creek,
And, bad luck, it's raining heavy, tho' the bed was dry last week !
Where's the crossing-last year's crossing-is it by, that; loaning tree ?
Hanged, if I can quite remember, place seems somewhat strange to me !
But, somewhere we have to cross it, I unstrap the precious load,
Lighter grown through mails delivered here and there, along the road.
Strap the bags across my shoulders, curse the sullen, muddy streak,
Speak, to Toprail, urge him forward, and he splashes in the creek.
There's a stumble and a struggle as he strikes a covered log,
But once more he feels for footing with the sureness of a dog.
Death-cold is the muddy water, every, step it rises fast,
Till it flows across the saddle, and the old hours swims at Iast.
Just a stroke or two he's swimming, then he touches mud again,
Struggles through the boggy drift and up the bank on to the plain.
Once, again , we're plodding onwards; dripping wet, my nag and I
But we tried, and we succeeded, and we kept-the mailbags dry !
Then the darkness, shrouds the landscape-inky black, no moon to-night ;
Surly clouds prevent the stars from sending us, their welcome light;
But the black horse can be trusted, so I let him have his head,
And he dodges thro' the boxtrees gnarled and twisted, rung and dead.
Well he knows the road before him, knows , the gates and sliprails too,
All the turn-off tracks and short-cuts where the cockies let you through.
So the miles grow few and fewer, till Mallana comes in sight,
And, a flood of lamplight shows you they are "waiting up" to-night."
Good old Toprail whinnies softly as: he gets you there at last,
And your troubles straightway vanish when you know your journey's past !
There are hearty words of welcome when they, meet you at the door,
And there's whips of compensation for the troubles you endure :
Fifty miles is "just a canter" if your nag is fit and well—
There is dancing when you're early, and there's Sunday for a spell.
And in spite of winter weather, if you're vigorous and hale,
There are worse games in the bushland far than "carrying the mail."
N.S.W. RIVERINA.
Notes
From the NSW Newspaper The Worker 21 Dec 1905 p. 3.