Poem - John O’Brien

Ownerless

By John O’Brien

He comes when the gullies are wrapped in the gloaming

And limelights are trained on the tops of the gums,

To stand at the sliprails, awaiting the homing

Of one who marched off to the beat of the drums.

 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The gums are a-shoot and the wattles a-cluster,

The cattle are roaming the ranges astray;

But why are they late with the hunt and the muster?

And why is the black horse unsaddled to-day?

Hard by at the station the training commences,

In circles they're schooling the hacks for the shows;

The high-mettled hunters are sent at the fences,

And satins and dapples the brushes disclose.

Sound-winded and fit and quite ready is Darkie,

Impatient to strip for the sprint and the flight;

But what can be keeping the rider in khaki?

And why does the silence hang heavy to-night?

Ah, surely he'll come, when the waiting is ended,

To fly the stiff fences and take him in hand,

Blue-ribboned once more, and three-quarters extended,

Hard-held for the cheers from the fence and the stand.

Still there on the cross-beam the saddle hangs idle,

The cobweb around the loose stirrup is spun;

The rust's on the spurs, and the dust on the bridle,

And gathering mould on the badges he won.

We'll take the old horse to the paddocks tomorrow,

Where grasses are waving breast-high on the plain;

And there with the clean-skins we'll turn him in sorrow

And muster him never, ah, never, again.

The bush bird will sing when the shadows are creeping

A sweet plaintive note, soft and clear as a bell's

Oh, would it might ring where the bush boy is sleeping,

And colour his dreams by the far Dardanelles.