'Twixt the Wings of the Yard
(Banjo Paterson
thought this was one of Barcroft’s first class works)
Hear the
loud swell of it, mighty pell mell of it,
Thousands of voices all blent
into one:
See “hell for leather” now trooping together, now
Down the long slope of the range
at a run,
Dust in the wake of ‘em: see the wild break of ‘em,
Spear-horned and curly, red,
spotted and starred:
See the lads bringing ‘em, blocking ‘em, ringing ‘em.
Fetching ‘em up to the
wings of the yard.
Mark that
red leader now: what a fine bleeder now,
Twelve hundred at least if he
weighs half a pound,
None go ahead of him. Mark the
proud tread of him,
See how he bellows and paws at
the ground.
Watch the mad rush of ‘em, raging and crush of ‘em.
See when they struck how the
corner post jarred.
What a mad chasing and wheeling and racing and
Turbulent talk ‘twixt the
wings of the yard.
Harry and
Teddy, there! let them go steady
there!
Some of you youngsters will
surely get pinned.
What am I saying? I’ve had
my last day in
The saddle: I might as well talk
to the wind.
Why should I grieve at all? soon I must leave it all -
Leave it for ever; and yet it
seems hard
That I should be lingering here ‘stead of fingering
Handle of whip ‘twixt the
wings of the yard.
Hear the
loud crack of the whips on the back of the
Obstinate weaners who will not go
in -
Sharp fusilade of it till, half afraid of it,
Echo herself shuts her ears at
the din.
They’ll say when it’s over now that I’m in clover now -
Happy old pensioner, yet it seems
hard,
E’en on the brink of the grave, when I think of the
Times out of mind that I rode to
that yard.
Hark to
the row at the rails, there’s a cow at the
Charge: how she laughs all their
lashes to scorn.
Mark how she ran ag’in little Tom Flannagan.
Lucky for him that it
wasn’t her horn:
He’d make no joke of it had he a poke of it.
There she comes back! but
he’s put on his guard,
Greenhide descending now, sharp reports blending now,
Flogging her back up the wings of
the yard.
The
breeze brings their bellowing, soft’ning it, mellowing,
Till it sounds like a spent giant
in pain -
Steals up the valley on, sounding a rally on
Sonorous hills that return it
again.
Useless my whining now, useless repining now,
‘Twon’t make me any
less battered and scarred;
Though I’ve grown grey at it - oh, for a day at it,
Oh, for an hour ‘twixt the
wings of the yard.
Oh, how I
yearn for those times, how I burn for those
Days when my weapons, the whip
and the spur,
The double reigned bridle, were not hanging idle,
But I’m old, and as useless
as Stupmy - that cur;
No good for heeling now, he has a feeling now
Not unlike mine - that it’s
woefully hard
We should be lying here, groaning and sighing here
Watching the cattle come up to
the yard.
Life has
no salt in it. See how I halt in
it -
I, who once rode with the first
of the flight -
Watching and waiting now, feebly debating now
Whether the close will bring
darkness or light;
Half my time pondering, back through life wandering,
Groaning to see how life has been
marred -
Seeing the blots in it, all the bad spots in it,
Mustering, bringing past sins to
the yard.
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Shall I
be able to show a clean waybill to
God, when he rounds up and drafts
off his own -
When, at the mustering, millions of clustering
Souls come to judgement before
the white throne?
Is the Lord’s hand on me?
Have I his brand on me?
When I go up will the passage be
barred?
Am I a chosen one? must the gates close on me?
Shall I be left ‘twixt the
wings of the yard?
