The stampede
There’s a homeless wind on the plain tonight.
And the sound of the drovers bell .
As the blacks and the greys with the Browns and the bays feed in the moonlight spell.
The eerie clink of the hobble chains
Comes clear on the crystal air.
As the cattle tramp out wide of the camp and stare at the fire there.
The peg-dogs Crouch as they watch and wait to keep the mob at bay
As an old dog lies with drowsy eyes and dreams of a distant day
And I dream too, of another night many years ago when a nervous mob with hearts athrob was pacing to and fro.
As I sat alone by the fire-side watching the moon appear
An owl swept by with a piercing cry and the cattle swung off in fear.
As I call to my mates and spring for my horse I saw the first fence fall as the frenzied feet of the cattle beat. No hope of stopping all
The air soon filled with a thundering roar of hoves on the powdering ground.
And the boss cried out “it’s a desperate ride but we’ve got to turn them around”.
We caught them up in the timbers edge after following them through the trees. I tighten my grip on reins and whip and press closer with my knees.
Their heaving backs like ocean waves rolled in the moonlight glow as the weak were spent they fell and went under the hooves below.
The boss and Mike, farther on than me, were swinging on to lead,
when I heard a scream, and the living stream flowed over one fallen steed.
The boss stopped his horse and rushed to Mike and lifted the trampled head. Then called to me.” Dont stop to see. I fear mike is dead.”
We chase them down to the treeless plain.
As whips rang out in command. As they jostled and bawled and stumbled and sprawled then started again alarmed.
But we held them in as their longhorns clashed, as they staggered then swung about.
and they puffed and sighed and propped and shied. But we held them with whip and shout.
We buried Mike in the town next day, good stockman he had been but rather sly with a shifty eye. If you know just what I mean.
A week went by we were droving still one man and one horse less when a car drew up with two strangers spry, spruce in their city dress.
They asked for Mike and the boss replied that the man they sought was dead. “we wanted him for a murder grim”. the old man then said.
“You’re a week too late” the boss remarked for sentence has been passed. And the cattle trod with the wrath of God on a dreadful night that’s past.
There’s a homeless wind on the plain tonight and the ring of the drover’s bell and I hear as before The stampede roar the night that Michael Fell.
Jean Graham
This poem belongs to my daughter in law Lauren Vagg’s grandmother.
She was born on the Plains. Lived her early years at “Pine Park” Jerilderie
Published this poem in a collection with her Mother Elizabeth called Verse of the Riverina in 1975
She married a Thomas from Lake Cargelligo =. She has since deceased. She spent some time with my wife teaching her her poetry skills. She did this to help her with her brain damage. I was so impressed with this work “stampede” .
CargelligoWetlands 